Dear People Who Are Not From Rhode Island,
Sorry. This one's not so interesting.
Love,
Anna
Dear Rhode Islanders,
I know we just had a frost last night and it seems like everything'll soon be dead and stay that way for ever. Well, it's only partly true. There's a way to preserve at least the illusion that life goes on, even into February and March. I just found out that Farm Fresh Rhode Island is running a winter farmers' market. Just what the lazy eco-geek in me has been pining for! An easy year-round way to eat more locally, with no canning, no weeding, no starting seeds, no wrapping each potato in newspaper! So we can buy eggs, meat, produce (greenhoused or coldframed or stored), and the obligatory locally produced arts and craps, I mean crafts (hey, I'm allowed).
Here's the lowdown:
Saturdays 12-3 pm
December-May
AS220
115 Empire St
Providence
Love,
Anna
PS I'm usually more circumspect about my anonymity, but I figure the chance to browbeat my local readership into some sustainable eating makes outing myself as a citizen of Rhode Island worth it. Just don't expect any embarrassing videos. There's only so much I'm willing to do for the environment.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Book Report; Pepper Pucks
This summer, I read Barbara Kingsolver's engaging and hilarious Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and I'm all fired up about local food. If in the future you want to convince me of something, I suggest you have a strategy meeting with Ms. Kingsolver first. Future persuaders, joke about turkey sex. Be both humble and eloquent. Somehow, she makes it look easy.
So, persuaded, I* got almost all our vegetables and a good amount of meat from a CSA at the farmers' market this summer. But since I live in the North, this week is the end of all that, and we expect the tundra to freeze by Wednesday. So, in anticipation of this wholly predictable event, have I spent the last month canning and freezing and drying and pickling? I have not. I have spent the last month traveling, enjoying some unexpected professional upheaval, reading, and messing around on the internet (hello, internet!). I also cleaned the bathroom sink once. I've just been so... busy!
Really, I'm just too lazy to can things this fall, I don't think I'll ever be convinced to buy a dehydrator, and my freezer is already full of... oh, who knows. But I can check off Preserved The Harvest For Winter thanks to this token effort:
Pepper Pucks
12 jalapenos (de-seeded and un-ribified if they're spicier than you want)
2 heads garlic, peeled
3 T oil
Put the peppers and garlic in the food processor and demolish them. Add oil. Drop the resulting paste onto a wax-papered cookie sheet by generous tablespoons-full. Freeze until solid, and then huck them into a freezer bag. It'll make something in the neighborhood of 12 generous tablespoons, so each wad will have one jalapeno and a couple cloves of garlic in it.
If you cook or shop differently than I do, I bet you could tweak these ingredients with good results. I settled on the garlic/jalapeno combination because it'll be flexible (thai, mexican or indian) and because I had local organic garlic and my dad's jalapenos, which are neither local nor organic, but the farmer sharing half your DNA trumps all that. Blood is thicker than petroleum. Or something.
Since this isn't a Real Recipe from a Real Book, I have not yet tested my theory and used one of these pucks, but I figure you can just throw one into a warm pan where it will thaw quickly, and you can proceed with your curry or chili or stir fry from there. If anything dramatic happens, you know I won't be able to resist writing about it here.
*Actually, my dear Vegetable Procurement Agent got all the vegetables and meat, because he needs the car on Tuesdays anyway.
So, persuaded, I* got almost all our vegetables and a good amount of meat from a CSA at the farmers' market this summer. But since I live in the North, this week is the end of all that, and we expect the tundra to freeze by Wednesday. So, in anticipation of this wholly predictable event, have I spent the last month canning and freezing and drying and pickling? I have not. I have spent the last month traveling, enjoying some unexpected professional upheaval, reading, and messing around on the internet (hello, internet!). I also cleaned the bathroom sink once. I've just been so... busy!
Really, I'm just too lazy to can things this fall, I don't think I'll ever be convinced to buy a dehydrator, and my freezer is already full of... oh, who knows. But I can check off Preserved The Harvest For Winter thanks to this token effort:
Pepper Pucks
12 jalapenos (de-seeded and un-ribified if they're spicier than you want)
2 heads garlic, peeled
3 T oil
Put the peppers and garlic in the food processor and demolish them. Add oil. Drop the resulting paste onto a wax-papered cookie sheet by generous tablespoons-full. Freeze until solid, and then huck them into a freezer bag. It'll make something in the neighborhood of 12 generous tablespoons, so each wad will have one jalapeno and a couple cloves of garlic in it.
If you cook or shop differently than I do, I bet you could tweak these ingredients with good results. I settled on the garlic/jalapeno combination because it'll be flexible (thai, mexican or indian) and because I had local organic garlic and my dad's jalapenos, which are neither local nor organic, but the farmer sharing half your DNA trumps all that. Blood is thicker than petroleum. Or something.
Since this isn't a Real Recipe from a Real Book, I have not yet tested my theory and used one of these pucks, but I figure you can just throw one into a warm pan where it will thaw quickly, and you can proceed with your curry or chili or stir fry from there. If anything dramatic happens, you know I won't be able to resist writing about it here.
*Actually, my dear Vegetable Procurement Agent got all the vegetables and meat, because he needs the car on Tuesdays anyway.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Soup is enough.
These days it feels like I have a front-row seat at The Grief and Pain Show. I've watched friends lose loved ones, have loved ones all tubed-up in the ICU, and stand by and watch as loved ones suffer. For now, I'm observing from my inside my bubble of good fortune, surrounded by gifts and lucky coincidences and what seems like the heavens just smiling down benevolently all the time. It makes me feel like I'm being taunted with my friends' pain. Providence (or fate or luck or whatever you might call it) is telling me, "See? One slip of the knife and all this is gone. See what can happen to the kind, good people all around you? Don't get too comfortable, sweetheart." Providence can be a real bitch.
And as an accompaniment to all this life and death, I'm re-reading one of my favorite books, More Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin. I haven't read it in fifteen years, and I hadn't realized until now how influential her essays were when I was learning to cook. Her best recipes get the maximum amount of love and joy into a meal with the least tedium and busywork possible. It feels like I'm reading what I myself would write given more skill, more experience, and a New York Jewish background. But as I re-read and re-discover her book, my enjoyment is colored, knowing that she died suddenly while she was working on it. She was 48, she had a young daughter, and she had a massive heart attack. Another elbow to the ribs from Providence: "See? Any moment."
I am not a proponent of the "everything happens for a reason" and " you get what you give" schools of thought, because when you get right down to it, that says to someone in pain one of two offensive things, maybe both. "You must somehow deserve this" or, "Your pain will bring someone else joy, and it's worth it." I know that I don't deserve my good fortune any more than my friends deserve their pain. Bad things happen to good people. All we can do about it is care for our friends when they get the short end, and let ourselves be cared for when it's us. In the meantime, you can choose every day whether or not to be a jerk, and while choosing not to be a jerk doesn't get you a get-out-of-pain-free card, or a seat at the Eternal Table, it makes your life nicer. It makes everyone's lives nicer. That's all we have, and it's more than enough.
So my strategy is to plant grass, make soup, work hard, and let my close-by grieving friends tell jokes about death and misery. And I'll laugh at their jokes and invite them to take a break from saintly stoicism to be selfish and petty for a bit and then I'll encourage them to order the grilled cheese. For the far-off friends, all I can do is send a note, think of them, wear the bracelet, and know it'll be my turn in the dark soon enough.
So, if you have a moment, reflect on my friends and their loved ones who either are in pain, or have been released from pain. And then go about your day and do your best to avoid being a jerk. It's easier some days than others.
Ann's sister
Ethel's husband
Ann's niece
Lesley's husband
Maggie's child
Pat's husband
Bev's son
Carter's mother
And as an accompaniment to all this life and death, I'm re-reading one of my favorite books, More Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin. I haven't read it in fifteen years, and I hadn't realized until now how influential her essays were when I was learning to cook. Her best recipes get the maximum amount of love and joy into a meal with the least tedium and busywork possible. It feels like I'm reading what I myself would write given more skill, more experience, and a New York Jewish background. But as I re-read and re-discover her book, my enjoyment is colored, knowing that she died suddenly while she was working on it. She was 48, she had a young daughter, and she had a massive heart attack. Another elbow to the ribs from Providence: "See? Any moment."
I am not a proponent of the "everything happens for a reason" and " you get what you give" schools of thought, because when you get right down to it, that says to someone in pain one of two offensive things, maybe both. "You must somehow deserve this" or, "Your pain will bring someone else joy, and it's worth it." I know that I don't deserve my good fortune any more than my friends deserve their pain. Bad things happen to good people. All we can do about it is care for our friends when they get the short end, and let ourselves be cared for when it's us. In the meantime, you can choose every day whether or not to be a jerk, and while choosing not to be a jerk doesn't get you a get-out-of-pain-free card, or a seat at the Eternal Table, it makes your life nicer. It makes everyone's lives nicer. That's all we have, and it's more than enough.
So my strategy is to plant grass, make soup, work hard, and let my close-by grieving friends tell jokes about death and misery. And I'll laugh at their jokes and invite them to take a break from saintly stoicism to be selfish and petty for a bit and then I'll encourage them to order the grilled cheese. For the far-off friends, all I can do is send a note, think of them, wear the bracelet, and know it'll be my turn in the dark soon enough.
So, if you have a moment, reflect on my friends and their loved ones who either are in pain, or have been released from pain. And then go about your day and do your best to avoid being a jerk. It's easier some days than others.
Ann's sister
Ethel's husband
Ann's niece
Lesley's husband
Maggie's child
Pat's husband
Bev's son
Carter's mother
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Best Breakfast
For my birthday yesterday, my mother sent me two loaves of my favorite bread. I love this bread so much, I've been known to pet and cuddle it a bit before getting out the serrated knife. My sweetheart got me some Egg Pants. There is a certain kind of warmth that comes from feeling that those that love you also really get you. I had that warm feeling in spades this morning over buttered toast, soft boiled eggs and tea. And since soft-boiled eggs are one of those things you need measurements for, here they are, for the next time you or I need some drippy yellow love for breakfast:
Soft-Boiled Eggs
four eggs (two for you, two for me)
water
Boil 8 cups of water in a three quart saucepan. Add four eggs straight from the fridge to the boiling water (gently). Set the timer for five minutes. Regulate the temperature so that the water boils genteelly. No ruckus. After five minutes, take them out and rinse them under cool water. Pat dry and eat, thinking of your great-grandmother, who taught you how to take the lids off.
Egg Update:
Today, a day late in October when I have a lot on my mind, I asked my blog to remind me of the way to make soft boiled eggs, and I proceeded to take many distracted, unintentional liberties with this recipe. The water wasn't quite at a rollicking boil when I put the eggs in, I forgot to monitor the subsequent boil to prevent ruckus, I skipped the cool water bath, and there were sad results. One of the four developed a gruesome rupture and sprouted a bulbous white beard. All of them, upon opening, were discovered to have whites that were tough and rubbery right next to the shell and underdone to the point of wobbly translucency further inside. The moral? Only make soft-boiled eggs if you are in a state to stand lovingly by and focus your full attention on their development. Or, failing that, just try to follow directions.
Soft-Boiled Eggs
four eggs (two for you, two for me)
water
Boil 8 cups of water in a three quart saucepan. Add four eggs straight from the fridge to the boiling water (gently). Set the timer for five minutes. Regulate the temperature so that the water boils genteelly. No ruckus. After five minutes, take them out and rinse them under cool water. Pat dry and eat, thinking of your great-grandmother, who taught you how to take the lids off.
Egg Update:
Today, a day late in October when I have a lot on my mind, I asked my blog to remind me of the way to make soft boiled eggs, and I proceeded to take many distracted, unintentional liberties with this recipe. The water wasn't quite at a rollicking boil when I put the eggs in, I forgot to monitor the subsequent boil to prevent ruckus, I skipped the cool water bath, and there were sad results. One of the four developed a gruesome rupture and sprouted a bulbous white beard. All of them, upon opening, were discovered to have whites that were tough and rubbery right next to the shell and underdone to the point of wobbly translucency further inside. The moral? Only make soft-boiled eggs if you are in a state to stand lovingly by and focus your full attention on their development. Or, failing that, just try to follow directions.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
FAQ
Q: Can you add week old gazpacho to chili? It seems compatible, except for the cucumbers. And the vinegar. And the bread. And the anchovies.
A: You can, if you dump in a little extra cumin to give the chili a fighting chance. It will smell peculiar for the first 20 minutes, but then the gazpacho will finally surrender and the chili will emerge victorious. No one will be able to tell unless they hunt for bits of cucumber rind. And if they're hunting for bits of cucumber rind in their chili, you have a tough crowd and my sympathy.
Q: If you spit a cherry pit into the ocean in the vicinity of some ducks, will they race over and nibble it enthusiastically before rejecting it?
A: Yes.
Q: Will they repeat the racing, nibbling, and rejection for a second pit?
A: Yes.
Q: How many cherry pits will they race to, nibble, and spit out before they learn?
A. This question was not settled in this limited experiment. Something above seventeen.
Q: Isn't spitting cherry pits into the ocean littering? Aren't you wrecking the planet?
A: Yes.
Q: Does wading in to pick up a plastic deli container, a water bottle, and four cigarette butts make up for spitting seventeen cherry pits into the ocean?
A. Yes. Now put a cork in it.
A: You can, if you dump in a little extra cumin to give the chili a fighting chance. It will smell peculiar for the first 20 minutes, but then the gazpacho will finally surrender and the chili will emerge victorious. No one will be able to tell unless they hunt for bits of cucumber rind. And if they're hunting for bits of cucumber rind in their chili, you have a tough crowd and my sympathy.
Q: If you spit a cherry pit into the ocean in the vicinity of some ducks, will they race over and nibble it enthusiastically before rejecting it?
A: Yes.
Q: Will they repeat the racing, nibbling, and rejection for a second pit?
A: Yes.
Q: How many cherry pits will they race to, nibble, and spit out before they learn?
A. This question was not settled in this limited experiment. Something above seventeen.
Q: Isn't spitting cherry pits into the ocean littering? Aren't you wrecking the planet?
A: Yes.
Q: Does wading in to pick up a plastic deli container, a water bottle, and four cigarette butts make up for spitting seventeen cherry pits into the ocean?
A. Yes. Now put a cork in it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Jam, at Least, Seems Low-Risk
Two yuppie types wander into a Russian grocery. The clerk is a swarthy blonde, who is buxom enough for two young women and dour enough for three old men. The yuppies pile their selections on the counter: some pickles, a cold six pack of something, and a loaf of bread that would make an excellent blunt object (after bludgeoning someone with it, you could eat your weapon, although you might require a lot of accomplices for that).
WOMAN: You know what this is?
YUPPIES: Non-alcoholic beer?
WOMAN: No, no! No alcohol! Not beer!
YUPPIES: Oh. ...Um, okay?
----
If the formidable clerk had been interested in full disclosure, the conversation would have gone more like this:
WOMAN: You know what this is?
YUPPIES: Non-alcoholic beer?
WOMAN: No, no! No alcohol! Not beer! Not non-alcoholic beer! Terrible, foul swill! Taste like a combination of stale lager, diet sprite, and cigarettes! Not for drinking! For killing slugs! Slugs not know any better!
YUPPIES: Oh. ...Um, okay?
----
Not having the benefit of that full disclosure, we tasted the not-beer when we got home, spit it promptly into the sink, and poured out the rest of the bottle. Then we moved the other five from the fridge to the gardening-supplies cupboard, to wait for a slug invasion.
The pickles were just okay, but the bread was excellent. Dense, sweet, earthy, chewy. After some trial and error, we discovered that it was made to be sliced an eighth of an inch thick, toasted, and topped with an eighth of an inch of cream cheese, a wodge of smoked mackerel, and some thin shards of onion. Mmmmm.
Now, six weeks later, we have finally eaten our way through the whole loaf (it kept beautifully sliced and frozen), and we have to go get more. But before we do, I feel the need to devise some kind of strategy for discovering the hidden delights of the Russian market with a minimum of spittings-out into the sink. Between the lack of English on the packages, the lack of English spoken by the management, and our lack of familiarity with the look of the stuff, shopping there feels more like gambling than marketing.
We could be systematic about it and buy the most expensive item in each category, with the reasoning that since this is a store for immigrants, the cheapest stuff is probably imported just for those who were weaned on it and have a bone-deep craving for it, no matter how nasty (kind of like how I feel about grits). And the more expensive stuff might only be worth importing if it's really delicious, and would therefore have a broad appeal.
Or we could pick the prettiest label in each category. Or the ugliest. Or the one with the least English on it. Or the most. Or we could choose three categories (pickles, jam, cheese), apply all of those selection criteria to each one (cheapest, priciest, prettiest, ugliest, russiannest, most englishy), see which criterion correlated with quality more often, and then apply that criterion to the rest of the categories in the shop. This last strategy would be a good opportunity for some chart-making, which is always a plus.
Or I suppose we could just embrace the uncertainty of the experience. Instead of comparing the financial risk of shopping at the Russian market to shopping at the regular market, we could compare it to the cost of a weekend in Vegas, which could get us an awful lot of preserved fish, homemade cheese and tinned fruit, not to mention the adrenaline that comes with a game of chance. It would just be harder to explain.
RELATIVE/NEIGHBOR: Going on any trips this summer?
YUPPIES: Yeah! The Russian market down the street! Want some Mechanically Separated Pork? Or some Wafers For Torte? Maybe a bite of Korean-Style Carrots?
RELATIVE/NEIGHBOR: Oh. ...Um, okay?
WOMAN: You know what this is?
YUPPIES: Non-alcoholic beer?
WOMAN: No, no! No alcohol! Not beer!
YUPPIES: Oh. ...Um, okay?
----
If the formidable clerk had been interested in full disclosure, the conversation would have gone more like this:
WOMAN: You know what this is?
YUPPIES: Non-alcoholic beer?
WOMAN: No, no! No alcohol! Not beer! Not non-alcoholic beer! Terrible, foul swill! Taste like a combination of stale lager, diet sprite, and cigarettes! Not for drinking! For killing slugs! Slugs not know any better!
YUPPIES: Oh. ...Um, okay?
----
Not having the benefit of that full disclosure, we tasted the not-beer when we got home, spit it promptly into the sink, and poured out the rest of the bottle. Then we moved the other five from the fridge to the gardening-supplies cupboard, to wait for a slug invasion.
The pickles were just okay, but the bread was excellent. Dense, sweet, earthy, chewy. After some trial and error, we discovered that it was made to be sliced an eighth of an inch thick, toasted, and topped with an eighth of an inch of cream cheese, a wodge of smoked mackerel, and some thin shards of onion. Mmmmm.
Now, six weeks later, we have finally eaten our way through the whole loaf (it kept beautifully sliced and frozen), and we have to go get more. But before we do, I feel the need to devise some kind of strategy for discovering the hidden delights of the Russian market with a minimum of spittings-out into the sink. Between the lack of English on the packages, the lack of English spoken by the management, and our lack of familiarity with the look of the stuff, shopping there feels more like gambling than marketing.
We could be systematic about it and buy the most expensive item in each category, with the reasoning that since this is a store for immigrants, the cheapest stuff is probably imported just for those who were weaned on it and have a bone-deep craving for it, no matter how nasty (kind of like how I feel about grits). And the more expensive stuff might only be worth importing if it's really delicious, and would therefore have a broad appeal.
Or we could pick the prettiest label in each category. Or the ugliest. Or the one with the least English on it. Or the most. Or we could choose three categories (pickles, jam, cheese), apply all of those selection criteria to each one (cheapest, priciest, prettiest, ugliest, russiannest, most englishy), see which criterion correlated with quality more often, and then apply that criterion to the rest of the categories in the shop. This last strategy would be a good opportunity for some chart-making, which is always a plus.
Or I suppose we could just embrace the uncertainty of the experience. Instead of comparing the financial risk of shopping at the Russian market to shopping at the regular market, we could compare it to the cost of a weekend in Vegas, which could get us an awful lot of preserved fish, homemade cheese and tinned fruit, not to mention the adrenaline that comes with a game of chance. It would just be harder to explain.
RELATIVE/NEIGHBOR: Going on any trips this summer?
YUPPIES: Yeah! The Russian market down the street! Want some Mechanically Separated Pork? Or some Wafers For Torte? Maybe a bite of Korean-Style Carrots?
RELATIVE/NEIGHBOR: Oh. ...Um, okay?
Infinite Iced Coffee
I don't like to waste food and I don't have a very long attention span. This endearing/enervating combination of traits results in my having a habit of leaving multiple drinks half-drunk around the house as part of my trail of general detritus, a habit that my family finds somewhat annoying. But I have finally discovered a rationale for this behavior: I HAVE to, it's in a recipe. And now, it's in a recipe on the internet.
The Never Ending Iced Coffee
1. Notice that your refreshing iced coffee has become a tepid melted coffee. Try to do this before it has developed a sketchy-looking film on top.
2. Pour it into an ice tray. Freeze it.
3. The next day, make an iced coffee, using the cubes you froze the day before. Add milk and sugar to taste.
4. Drink most, but not all, of your delicious iced coffee.
Repeat.
Once you've done this for a few days in a row, the water from the original ice cubes will be all but gone from the mixture, and your ice cubes will have the exact ratio of milk, sugar, and coffee that you prefer. Fancy coffee places do sometimes use coffee ice cubes, which is a nice touch, but where can you get custom-mixed pre-flavored ice cubes? Now, nowhere! Soon, your house!
And just try not to think about the theoretical potential for trace amounts of truly ancient milk. It's probably a healthy challenge to your immune system. Or something.
The Never Ending Iced Coffee
1. Notice that your refreshing iced coffee has become a tepid melted coffee. Try to do this before it has developed a sketchy-looking film on top.
2. Pour it into an ice tray. Freeze it.
3. The next day, make an iced coffee, using the cubes you froze the day before. Add milk and sugar to taste.
4. Drink most, but not all, of your delicious iced coffee.
Repeat.
Once you've done this for a few days in a row, the water from the original ice cubes will be all but gone from the mixture, and your ice cubes will have the exact ratio of milk, sugar, and coffee that you prefer. Fancy coffee places do sometimes use coffee ice cubes, which is a nice touch, but where can you get custom-mixed pre-flavored ice cubes? Now, nowhere! Soon, your house!
And just try not to think about the theoretical potential for trace amounts of truly ancient milk. It's probably a healthy challenge to your immune system. Or something.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
And now we have a roommate.
Reading on the couch last night, I heard the scrabbling scuffle in the ceiling that never really bothered me when I was a renter. My attitude then? "Vermin. Whatever. They stay on their side of the drywall and don't stink up the joint, I try to return the favor, and everyone gets along great." Now, my attitude as a homeowner is equal parts, "The wiring! The ancient, decrepit, fragile wiring! Don't! Chew! It!" and, "Great, yet another project for us to attempt, botch, and then hire an expensive, unreliable man named Eddie to fix." So, I decided to just keep reading, calling upon the skills that earned me the title Cleopatra (you know, Queen of Denial) as a homework-avoidant high schooler.
But not even my advanced abilities were enough for the next development. I went upstairs, got in bed, read some more, and eventually realized that the little noises my brain was doing its best to lalalalalalala out of existence were no longer on the other side of anything, but rather, coming from a little lump over near the radiator. A dark brown lump, maybe black, with appendages. My brain then took the following trip very quickly: "Mouse? Too ...lumpy. Rat? Too small. What could it... oh. Oh! Aah! Eeeaaaaaaah!!" The bat took flight and started swooping around the room, and I screamed like a little girl. And being rather a big girl now, I admit to being disappointed by my reaction. So I composed myself, took a deep breath, pulled the covers up over my nose, and watched it flap around while I waited for it to land somewhere, and formulated my strategy. When it landed on the closet door, I jumped up, grabbed my glasses and my book, slid out the door, closed it behind me, and went to bed in the guest room, resuming my book where I had left off. Then I got up again and wedged a towel into the gap under the bedroom door. I've heard that rodents* are very flexible, and have exceptional limbo skills. Then I went to bed for real, mentally preparing for a morning confrontation with what would hopefully be a sleepier bat and a more wakeful me.
This morning, in the cold light of day, I realized that I should have left my book behind and taken some clothes out of the room instead. I was on one side of the door, hardly dressed for Battle of the Flying Rodent*, and my adversary was (presumably) on the other side of the door, trying on all my clothes, peeing in my shoes and laughing. Luckily, I'm not a very prompt mender, so in I was able to find some pants that need hemming and a shirt that needs buttons in the mending heap. But I didn't feel quite girded enough until I added a woolly hat, some big work gloves, and a pair of rain boots. I was quite willing to trade some dexterity for some armor.
After closing all the other doors, I opened the bedroom door quietly and stuck my head in. No immediate sign of my leathery friend. Looking around, I realized that my closet door was open, my underwear drawer was open, and there were the usual number of piles of things strewn around the place. Apparently, I had left a thoughtfully diverse assortment of hiding places for the little guy. Closing the bedroom door behind me (with a little internal scream, "Other side of the door, bonehead! You should be on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR!"), I gingerly stepped over to my closet, regretting for the first time that I own so many black, drapey clothes. And all that black underwear! Clearly now a bad idea. If only I took after my grandmother more and had a wardrobe full of white and gold and sequins, that little interloper would have no where to hide. So I left the closet, opened the bedroom windows, opened the screens, and started some very timid poking around. Not behind the mirror. Not clinging to the curtains. Not immediately visible in the closet or the underwear. And then I just lost my nerve. I really, really did not want to be the one to startle a bat awake. Maybe this one would be a morning person, and would be friendly and composed when I found it, but I wasn't sticking around to make sure. I delicately retrieved some underwear (shaking it out and inspecting it for far longer than necessary) a couple shirts and some pants, and turned to address the room, "The windows are open. Please wake up and leave now. Okay? Great. Thank you in advance for your cooperation." And I scarpered. I stuffed the towel back under the door, and started planning how to tell the man of the house that the bedroom is no longer our own when he gets home from his business trip in half an hour. Perhaps I'll just ask him to read my blog.
*Edited to add: I had a feeling I might be wrong, and sure enough, bats aren't rodents. Battle of the Flying Primate-Like Furball just doesn't have the same ring, though. I'm leaving it in.
Afternoon Update:
1:46 pm
So the man of the house got home, heard my tale of woe and plea for backup, and asked me if I hadn't already volunteered for the position of Manager of Flying Creatures. Oh, right. That. I enlisted cheerfully one afternoon a few years ago when I found a drowned mouse in the dishpan, and suggested that he take care of the running (or formerly-running) things and I deal with the flying ones. This was when I thought (for no good reason) that with two successful bat-wrangling situations behind me, I was unlikely to encounter a third. Crap.
So I re-armed (gloves, hat) and enhanced (shoebox, piece of cardboard) my gear, and re-entered the room. Some tips, if you find ever find yourself in this situation:
1. Shoes are easy to look into to verify vacancy. Boots are harder. If you're pretty sure you're only dealing with one potential guest, just see if the right one weighs about the same as the left and if it does, move on.
2. Try not to let the detachable (and detached) leather collar of an overcoat scare you. It is not a bat, and you don't want to have to change your pants.
3. Pawing through your a closet with gloves on, not knowing what you might find, makes you feel like a cop on a TV show. This is a valuably thick-skinned mentality to adapt during the procedure. Distance yourself as far as possible from the persona of the girl in the horror movie who goes down to the basement to see what that noise was.
4. If you don't find anything, leave the bedroom door closed and the windows open. Hope that if the bat hasn't left yet, he will soon.
5. Yearn for closure and definite bat removal, thinking of the Dread Waterbug Incident. From a comment I left on someone's post about waterbug close encounters a few years ago, here's how that went:
deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle
~~~~~~~flashback screen~~~~~~~~
My skin crawls, and my Waterbug Incident is brought right back out of my repressed memories file. I'm on my parents' couch, on the phone to my husband. No safer scenario, right? A massive waterbug appears on my ankle and zooms right up my pantleg, like it has really urgent business up there. I immediately lose all sense of reason, hurl the phone across the room, tear my pants off and hurl them across the room, and swat frantically at my legs and butt, hopping up and down in what I hope is a bug-dislodging sort of way. I don't see the bug on me, but I don't see it anywhere else either, and this is alarming. And then my mom comes in and I explain to her why I'm half naked, jumping and flailing around in her living room. She accepts my explanation with the right amount of sympathetic exclamation, and then says hold still, and advances toward me, hand raised. I've been around enough to recognize the "you've got a bug on your neck" stance when I see it, and I brace myself. She whacks at me, I jump around, whack myself, and tear off my shirt. The bug, again, is seemingly not on me, but also not to be found anywhere else. I quiver with horror and revulsion for awhile, then pick up the phone, explain to my horrified husband what all that shrieking was about, take a marathon shower, and burn my clothes.
deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle
~~~~~~~flashback screen~~~~~~~~
So the bat thing doesn't actually seem so bad, now that I have a little perspective. At least bats have more sense than bugs, and won't likely crawl up my pants leg. But I might get a set of footie pajamas just in case.
But not even my advanced abilities were enough for the next development. I went upstairs, got in bed, read some more, and eventually realized that the little noises my brain was doing its best to lalalalalalala out of existence were no longer on the other side of anything, but rather, coming from a little lump over near the radiator. A dark brown lump, maybe black, with appendages. My brain then took the following trip very quickly: "Mouse? Too ...lumpy. Rat? Too small. What could it... oh. Oh! Aah! Eeeaaaaaaah!!" The bat took flight and started swooping around the room, and I screamed like a little girl. And being rather a big girl now, I admit to being disappointed by my reaction. So I composed myself, took a deep breath, pulled the covers up over my nose, and watched it flap around while I waited for it to land somewhere, and formulated my strategy. When it landed on the closet door, I jumped up, grabbed my glasses and my book, slid out the door, closed it behind me, and went to bed in the guest room, resuming my book where I had left off. Then I got up again and wedged a towel into the gap under the bedroom door. I've heard that rodents* are very flexible, and have exceptional limbo skills. Then I went to bed for real, mentally preparing for a morning confrontation with what would hopefully be a sleepier bat and a more wakeful me.
This morning, in the cold light of day, I realized that I should have left my book behind and taken some clothes out of the room instead. I was on one side of the door, hardly dressed for Battle of the Flying Rodent*, and my adversary was (presumably) on the other side of the door, trying on all my clothes, peeing in my shoes and laughing. Luckily, I'm not a very prompt mender, so in I was able to find some pants that need hemming and a shirt that needs buttons in the mending heap. But I didn't feel quite girded enough until I added a woolly hat, some big work gloves, and a pair of rain boots. I was quite willing to trade some dexterity for some armor.
After closing all the other doors, I opened the bedroom door quietly and stuck my head in. No immediate sign of my leathery friend. Looking around, I realized that my closet door was open, my underwear drawer was open, and there were the usual number of piles of things strewn around the place. Apparently, I had left a thoughtfully diverse assortment of hiding places for the little guy. Closing the bedroom door behind me (with a little internal scream, "Other side of the door, bonehead! You should be on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR!"), I gingerly stepped over to my closet, regretting for the first time that I own so many black, drapey clothes. And all that black underwear! Clearly now a bad idea. If only I took after my grandmother more and had a wardrobe full of white and gold and sequins, that little interloper would have no where to hide. So I left the closet, opened the bedroom windows, opened the screens, and started some very timid poking around. Not behind the mirror. Not clinging to the curtains. Not immediately visible in the closet or the underwear. And then I just lost my nerve. I really, really did not want to be the one to startle a bat awake. Maybe this one would be a morning person, and would be friendly and composed when I found it, but I wasn't sticking around to make sure. I delicately retrieved some underwear (shaking it out and inspecting it for far longer than necessary) a couple shirts and some pants, and turned to address the room, "The windows are open. Please wake up and leave now. Okay? Great. Thank you in advance for your cooperation." And I scarpered. I stuffed the towel back under the door, and started planning how to tell the man of the house that the bedroom is no longer our own when he gets home from his business trip in half an hour. Perhaps I'll just ask him to read my blog.
*Edited to add: I had a feeling I might be wrong, and sure enough, bats aren't rodents. Battle of the Flying Primate-Like Furball just doesn't have the same ring, though. I'm leaving it in.
Afternoon Update:
1:46 pm
So the man of the house got home, heard my tale of woe and plea for backup, and asked me if I hadn't already volunteered for the position of Manager of Flying Creatures. Oh, right. That. I enlisted cheerfully one afternoon a few years ago when I found a drowned mouse in the dishpan, and suggested that he take care of the running (or formerly-running) things and I deal with the flying ones. This was when I thought (for no good reason) that with two successful bat-wrangling situations behind me, I was unlikely to encounter a third. Crap.
So I re-armed (gloves, hat) and enhanced (shoebox, piece of cardboard) my gear, and re-entered the room. Some tips, if you find ever find yourself in this situation:
1. Shoes are easy to look into to verify vacancy. Boots are harder. If you're pretty sure you're only dealing with one potential guest, just see if the right one weighs about the same as the left and if it does, move on.
2. Try not to let the detachable (and detached) leather collar of an overcoat scare you. It is not a bat, and you don't want to have to change your pants.
3. Pawing through your a closet with gloves on, not knowing what you might find, makes you feel like a cop on a TV show. This is a valuably thick-skinned mentality to adapt during the procedure. Distance yourself as far as possible from the persona of the girl in the horror movie who goes down to the basement to see what that noise was.
4. If you don't find anything, leave the bedroom door closed and the windows open. Hope that if the bat hasn't left yet, he will soon.
5. Yearn for closure and definite bat removal, thinking of the Dread Waterbug Incident. From a comment I left on someone's post about waterbug close encounters a few years ago, here's how that went:
deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle
~~~~~~~flashback screen~~~~~~~~
My skin crawls, and my Waterbug Incident is brought right back out of my repressed memories file. I'm on my parents' couch, on the phone to my husband. No safer scenario, right? A massive waterbug appears on my ankle and zooms right up my pantleg, like it has really urgent business up there. I immediately lose all sense of reason, hurl the phone across the room, tear my pants off and hurl them across the room, and swat frantically at my legs and butt, hopping up and down in what I hope is a bug-dislodging sort of way. I don't see the bug on me, but I don't see it anywhere else either, and this is alarming. And then my mom comes in and I explain to her why I'm half naked, jumping and flailing around in her living room. She accepts my explanation with the right amount of sympathetic exclamation, and then says hold still, and advances toward me, hand raised. I've been around enough to recognize the "you've got a bug on your neck" stance when I see it, and I brace myself. She whacks at me, I jump around, whack myself, and tear off my shirt. The bug, again, is seemingly not on me, but also not to be found anywhere else. I quiver with horror and revulsion for awhile, then pick up the phone, explain to my horrified husband what all that shrieking was about, take a marathon shower, and burn my clothes.
deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle
~~~~~~~flashback screen~~~~~~~~
So the bat thing doesn't actually seem so bad, now that I have a little perspective. At least bats have more sense than bugs, and won't likely crawl up my pants leg. But I might get a set of footie pajamas just in case.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Overdue Thanks
[My kindergarten teacher is retiring this month, and her colleagues asked former students to contribute their memories to a book for her. I sent in the following, and am killing two birds with one stone by also posting it here. Just be grateful I don't do the same thing with my grocery lists. I have changed her name below to protect her from the internet, which as you know is always going after retiring kindergarten teachers.]
The trouble with preschool is that no one respects you. It’s true that they’re all very kind and they let you dunk your graham crackers in apple juice, but they also crouch down on their haunches and talk to you in sweet sing-songy voices that make it clear you are not to be taken seriously. This bothered me. I was just as serious-minded as the next human being, and it was irritating that they didn’t acknowledge that. I suppose it’s possible that my fat cheeks and fluffy hair and the way I couldn’t bring myself to stop chasing that red-headed boy could have distracted them, so I really can’t blame them for their lack of perception, but I knew I was ready for the big time. The big K. Kindergarten.
Thank goodness for Mrs Rush.
I have never moved to New York and started a job at a prestigious ad agency, but that’s as close as I can come to describing how I felt starting kindergarten. Mrs Rush was a kind, glamorous leader, dispensing wisdom and sharing the secrets of the Grown Up World: Show and Tell. The Sand Table. Mucilage. Paste. All wonders, and all a part of the new, sophisticated world of Kindergarten. I remember telling my mother about mucilage one day after school, and being astonished that she already knew all about it. But she wasn’t in kindergarten! How could she be privy to the sacred mysteries? Now, did I know then that my mother had been a kindergarten teacher herself before my brother and I were born? Yes, I did. Did that sway my conviction that only Mrs Rush could know about such impressive things? No, it did not.
Mrs Rush gave us challenging and engaging projects, and we earnestly did our best. As we shared our accomplishments with her and each other, she was proud of each of us, every time. I admit that I still feel a surprising amount of personal pride when I remember the tinfoil boat I made to sail in the Water Table. One might even wonder if my entire career (industrial designer, artist, potter) can be traced back to that first satisfying moment when I looked up from sinking ships, sloshing water, blue plastic, and the herd of fellow five-year-old engineers and said to myself, “I have made something, and it is good.”
For me, kindergarten was a splendid combination of industry, loving kindness, and respect. Mrs Rush never spoke to us as if we were children, or at least that’s how it felt at the time. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize she must be one of the few people who know how to speak to children not as if they’re messy and/or adorable half-persons, but truly as if they’re children. As if they’re the willful, perceptive, curious creatures that children are, that we all are, when you really pay attention. So, from my inner five-year-old and my outer thirty-one-year-old: Thank you, Mrs Rush; Mrs Lencester; May. Thank you for paying attention. You are a fantastic teacher. Happy retirement.
The trouble with preschool is that no one respects you. It’s true that they’re all very kind and they let you dunk your graham crackers in apple juice, but they also crouch down on their haunches and talk to you in sweet sing-songy voices that make it clear you are not to be taken seriously. This bothered me. I was just as serious-minded as the next human being, and it was irritating that they didn’t acknowledge that. I suppose it’s possible that my fat cheeks and fluffy hair and the way I couldn’t bring myself to stop chasing that red-headed boy could have distracted them, so I really can’t blame them for their lack of perception, but I knew I was ready for the big time. The big K. Kindergarten.
Thank goodness for Mrs Rush.
I have never moved to New York and started a job at a prestigious ad agency, but that’s as close as I can come to describing how I felt starting kindergarten. Mrs Rush was a kind, glamorous leader, dispensing wisdom and sharing the secrets of the Grown Up World: Show and Tell. The Sand Table. Mucilage. Paste. All wonders, and all a part of the new, sophisticated world of Kindergarten. I remember telling my mother about mucilage one day after school, and being astonished that she already knew all about it. But she wasn’t in kindergarten! How could she be privy to the sacred mysteries? Now, did I know then that my mother had been a kindergarten teacher herself before my brother and I were born? Yes, I did. Did that sway my conviction that only Mrs Rush could know about such impressive things? No, it did not.
Mrs Rush gave us challenging and engaging projects, and we earnestly did our best. As we shared our accomplishments with her and each other, she was proud of each of us, every time. I admit that I still feel a surprising amount of personal pride when I remember the tinfoil boat I made to sail in the Water Table. One might even wonder if my entire career (industrial designer, artist, potter) can be traced back to that first satisfying moment when I looked up from sinking ships, sloshing water, blue plastic, and the herd of fellow five-year-old engineers and said to myself, “I have made something, and it is good.”
For me, kindergarten was a splendid combination of industry, loving kindness, and respect. Mrs Rush never spoke to us as if we were children, or at least that’s how it felt at the time. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize she must be one of the few people who know how to speak to children not as if they’re messy and/or adorable half-persons, but truly as if they’re children. As if they’re the willful, perceptive, curious creatures that children are, that we all are, when you really pay attention. So, from my inner five-year-old and my outer thirty-one-year-old: Thank you, Mrs Rush; Mrs Lencester; May. Thank you for paying attention. You are a fantastic teacher. Happy retirement.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
No, really. I'm totally serious.
Those of you who know me in real life should have a seat. Or, if you must stand, try to stand on a resilient surface. Lava fields? No. Rope bridges across South American ravines? Please get all the way across before reading further. Hardwood floor? Edge towards a carpet, or at least a substantial pet. Everyone ready? Good.
I have joined a soccer team.
I haven't actually set foot on a field yet, but I've invested enough money that there's no chickening out now. Did you know that shin guards are now a high tech item? Did you realize that these advances in technology mean that the good people of City Sports can soak you for a good forty five bucks before you walk out even minimally outfitted? Apparently, you have to wear special socks over the sophisticated shin (and ankle!) guards, and oh yes, a pair of shorts. Cut off jeans are apparently not recommended.
This all started yesterday, when I was inspecting a strange bug in my front yard. A neighbor was walking by, and I asked if she was familiar with the little thing, and whether I should greet it with a chipper "Hello little fellow!" a vengeful "Die! Die!" or a detached, enlightened "Enjoy your meal, I'll buy you some more plants next week." She didn't know, I didn't know, and so the conversation moved swiftly on to, "Would you like to join a women's soccer team?" And bless my soul, I said yes. I should add that I gathered the following details before I said yes: All the players are over 30, half the women had never played soccer before this, and everyone stops playing when someone falls down. She told me I should definitely get some shin guards, and maybe some cleats if I got serious about it, but that as far as she was concerned, the cleats mostly just make you feel tough. Which is not a function that should be dismissed in an over-30, women's only, neighborhood soccer team. I have not yet bought cleats. Perhaps a shot of tequila? Cheaper, and possibly just as effective. I will pass a couple of bars on the walk from my house to the field. We'll see.
So yesterday I said yes, today I bought my gear, and my first game is tomorrow. I'm a bit nervous, and starting to wonder what in the world I can be thinking.
The whole process is reminding me very clearly of the spring of 1985 or -6. My brother was getting ready to go to Little League registration, and my parents asked if I'd like to sign up for baseball too. I had never considered it, but what went through my head at that moment was, "It's not as if they'll take one look at me and say no way. It's not like picking teams in Gym. If I say I want to sign up, they'll have to take me! And I bet all kinds of not-very-athletic kids sign up for Little League. I can't be the only one. I could actually do this." And then I started imaging how cool it would be when it turned out I was really good at baseball, and how I'd look all sporty in my uniform, and there would probably be cute boys on the team who'd be impressed and grateful when I led our team to an undefeated season. I was ten-year-old bookworm, and tended to live in the world of my imagination a little more than was strictly healthy. Luckily, once we arrived at the middle school cafeteria for registration, the small part of my brain that still had a grasp on reality looked around. The place was filled with wiry, coordinated boys of all ages, and a few formidable girls, all intent on the serious business of filling out forms, waiting in lines, and looking very, very athletic. My brother fit right in. He walked into the crowd and disappeared in the sea of tan limbs, scuffed with activity and action. I, on the other hand, if I remember my 10-year-old vibe correctly, was probably quite pale from being inside all the time, wearing a pink and white jumper with red leather shoes that buckled,* and sniffling into a kleenex with my interminable seasonal allergies (so thoroughly seasonal, they included all the seasons). The reality-grasping part of my brain registered all this, got the attention of the rest of me, and I realized that my chances of a triumphant, against-all-odds summer filled with baseball victories were probably not very good, and I told my parents I had changed my mind about baseball. Just as they had nonchalantly accepted it when I had told them I wanted to sign up for baseball, they listened without a blink when I changed my mind.
If I were more in tune with feminist conventional wisdom, I would now lament that I allowed cultural expectations and gender norms to affect my choices and prevent the beginning of an illustrious athletic career. Well, I'm sure our patriarchal society oppressed me in all kind of tragic ways, but this is not one of them. I would have hated baseball. There was no chatting! No reading! No making ...things out of ...stuff. And not even anything to snack on until after the whole thing was over. And it was dirty, sweaty, so! boring!, and occasionally required one to think and run at the same time. None of that added up to a good time when I was ten.
Now, however, facing soccer, I have no romantic delusions about how terrific I'll be. I know what I can realistically expect from myself (no skill, little endurance, bad jokes, good attitude) and what I can expect from my teammates (camaraderie, earnest effort, some skill, good humor), and it's starting to sound like fun.
I'll keep you posted on how long I stick it out. Although, both having bought the gear and now told the internet all about it, I don't see this ending with another swift, graceful departure from team sports. I'm bracing myself for a sweaty summer full of indignity, minor injuries, and excellent blogging material.
*You think I'm exaggerating? I am not. I loved that jumper (my mother made it), and I wore those shoes so often, I wore right through the soles and then asked for another pair just like them.
Post-Game Show:
So, I was, ah, awful. I had to quit playing before my lungs rebelled and sought work outside my body, I turned the color of the other teams' pinnies (red! bright, sweaty red!), and I almost scored a goal for the other team. All in all, it was fantastic. It was exhilarating and satisfying and, well, fun. I'm totally going back.
I have joined a soccer team.
I haven't actually set foot on a field yet, but I've invested enough money that there's no chickening out now. Did you know that shin guards are now a high tech item? Did you realize that these advances in technology mean that the good people of City Sports can soak you for a good forty five bucks before you walk out even minimally outfitted? Apparently, you have to wear special socks over the sophisticated shin (and ankle!) guards, and oh yes, a pair of shorts. Cut off jeans are apparently not recommended.
This all started yesterday, when I was inspecting a strange bug in my front yard. A neighbor was walking by, and I asked if she was familiar with the little thing, and whether I should greet it with a chipper "Hello little fellow!" a vengeful "Die! Die!" or a detached, enlightened "Enjoy your meal, I'll buy you some more plants next week." She didn't know, I didn't know, and so the conversation moved swiftly on to, "Would you like to join a women's soccer team?" And bless my soul, I said yes. I should add that I gathered the following details before I said yes: All the players are over 30, half the women had never played soccer before this, and everyone stops playing when someone falls down. She told me I should definitely get some shin guards, and maybe some cleats if I got serious about it, but that as far as she was concerned, the cleats mostly just make you feel tough. Which is not a function that should be dismissed in an over-30, women's only, neighborhood soccer team. I have not yet bought cleats. Perhaps a shot of tequila? Cheaper, and possibly just as effective. I will pass a couple of bars on the walk from my house to the field. We'll see.
So yesterday I said yes, today I bought my gear, and my first game is tomorrow. I'm a bit nervous, and starting to wonder what in the world I can be thinking.
The whole process is reminding me very clearly of the spring of 1985 or -6. My brother was getting ready to go to Little League registration, and my parents asked if I'd like to sign up for baseball too. I had never considered it, but what went through my head at that moment was, "It's not as if they'll take one look at me and say no way. It's not like picking teams in Gym. If I say I want to sign up, they'll have to take me! And I bet all kinds of not-very-athletic kids sign up for Little League. I can't be the only one. I could actually do this." And then I started imaging how cool it would be when it turned out I was really good at baseball, and how I'd look all sporty in my uniform, and there would probably be cute boys on the team who'd be impressed and grateful when I led our team to an undefeated season. I was ten-year-old bookworm, and tended to live in the world of my imagination a little more than was strictly healthy. Luckily, once we arrived at the middle school cafeteria for registration, the small part of my brain that still had a grasp on reality looked around. The place was filled with wiry, coordinated boys of all ages, and a few formidable girls, all intent on the serious business of filling out forms, waiting in lines, and looking very, very athletic. My brother fit right in. He walked into the crowd and disappeared in the sea of tan limbs, scuffed with activity and action. I, on the other hand, if I remember my 10-year-old vibe correctly, was probably quite pale from being inside all the time, wearing a pink and white jumper with red leather shoes that buckled,* and sniffling into a kleenex with my interminable seasonal allergies (so thoroughly seasonal, they included all the seasons). The reality-grasping part of my brain registered all this, got the attention of the rest of me, and I realized that my chances of a triumphant, against-all-odds summer filled with baseball victories were probably not very good, and I told my parents I had changed my mind about baseball. Just as they had nonchalantly accepted it when I had told them I wanted to sign up for baseball, they listened without a blink when I changed my mind.
If I were more in tune with feminist conventional wisdom, I would now lament that I allowed cultural expectations and gender norms to affect my choices and prevent the beginning of an illustrious athletic career. Well, I'm sure our patriarchal society oppressed me in all kind of tragic ways, but this is not one of them. I would have hated baseball. There was no chatting! No reading! No making ...things out of ...stuff. And not even anything to snack on until after the whole thing was over. And it was dirty, sweaty, so! boring!, and occasionally required one to think and run at the same time. None of that added up to a good time when I was ten.
Now, however, facing soccer, I have no romantic delusions about how terrific I'll be. I know what I can realistically expect from myself (no skill, little endurance, bad jokes, good attitude) and what I can expect from my teammates (camaraderie, earnest effort, some skill, good humor), and it's starting to sound like fun.
I'll keep you posted on how long I stick it out. Although, both having bought the gear and now told the internet all about it, I don't see this ending with another swift, graceful departure from team sports. I'm bracing myself for a sweaty summer full of indignity, minor injuries, and excellent blogging material.
*You think I'm exaggerating? I am not. I loved that jumper (my mother made it), and I wore those shoes so often, I wore right through the soles and then asked for another pair just like them.
Post-Game Show:
So, I was, ah, awful. I had to quit playing before my lungs rebelled and sought work outside my body, I turned the color of the other teams' pinnies (red! bright, sweaty red!), and I almost scored a goal for the other team. All in all, it was fantastic. It was exhilarating and satisfying and, well, fun. I'm totally going back.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Bulghur for Boneheads
Bulghur wheat varies so much, it's practically recipe-proof. You never know quite how what you have in your kitchen relates to what the writer of the recipe had in their kitchen. There's bulghur, there's the (sometimes) different cracked wheat, there are fine, medium, and coarse grinds of both, and there are both red and white varieties. It can be spelled bulghur, bulgur, bulgar, burghul, burghal, birghil, etc, etc, which makes it hard to google recipes. Add to all that the fact that one man's medium grind is another man's fine, and you have an unpredictably and eccentrically named group of ingredients. Cooking one kind of bulghur with a recipe meant for a different kind can lead to bad results. Well-made bulghur can be fluffy and tasty and nutty. Poorly-made bulghur can be soggy and pasty, or tough and hard to chew.
So, to help with this situation, here is a very specific recipe that makes surprisingly delicious bulghur. For best results, follow the instructions precisely. You can never tell what will make the difference between transcendent food of the gods and demoralizing slop. Precision is essential.
1. Have your mother buy a 24-oz bag of Goya Brand Enriched Coarse Bulgar Wheat/ Kiepe-Ble Grueso Enriquecido in a New England seaside town. Instruct her to remove half of the bulghur/ bulgur/ bulgar, and dispose of it as she chooses. It's best if she makes tabbouleh/ tabouli/ tabbooli and takes it on a picnic.
2. Take the uncooked remainder on a 77-mile drive in a five-year old car. Do not stop to pee.
3. Store the bulghur in a cool, dark place for three months.
4. In a twenty-five year old saucepan that has been packed and moved at least 11 times, combine one cup of bulghur, one and three-quarters cups water, and a teaspoon of salt.*
5. Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat. Let it boil, covered, for two minutes. Turn off the heat and let it sit, covered, for twenty minutes. During this time, be overcome with curiosity twice, and quickly lift the lid for a peek. The second time, poke it gently with a fork. Feel slightly guilty.
6. Toss the bulghur with a fork, and then mix in two tablespoons of olive oil.*
7. Eat while warm, or let cool and use in a salad.
If you must, you can try adapting this recipe to your local bulghur brand, just remember: Soggy is bad. Tough is bad. Salt and oil are good!
*This is delicious, but it's not exactly fat-free or low-sodium, (although it's still a lot better for you than a bag of Doritos and a Mr Pibb). If you have salt-sensitive hypertension, bless your heart, you can leave out all the salt. If you're, um... allergic to fat, leave out all the oil. If you're just a moderate kind of person and these amounts seems crazy, halve the salt and oil. It will probably still be pretty good. But if you leave out all the salt and all the oil, and don't have a compelling medical reason to do so, you deserve exactly what you get. The nicest thing you'll be able to say about it is, "My, it tastes so... healthy!"
So, to help with this situation, here is a very specific recipe that makes surprisingly delicious bulghur. For best results, follow the instructions precisely. You can never tell what will make the difference between transcendent food of the gods and demoralizing slop. Precision is essential.
1. Have your mother buy a 24-oz bag of Goya Brand Enriched Coarse Bulgar Wheat/ Kiepe-Ble Grueso Enriquecido in a New England seaside town. Instruct her to remove half of the bulghur/ bulgur/ bulgar, and dispose of it as she chooses. It's best if she makes tabbouleh/ tabouli/ tabbooli and takes it on a picnic.
2. Take the uncooked remainder on a 77-mile drive in a five-year old car. Do not stop to pee.
3. Store the bulghur in a cool, dark place for three months.
4. In a twenty-five year old saucepan that has been packed and moved at least 11 times, combine one cup of bulghur, one and three-quarters cups water, and a teaspoon of salt.*
5. Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat. Let it boil, covered, for two minutes. Turn off the heat and let it sit, covered, for twenty minutes. During this time, be overcome with curiosity twice, and quickly lift the lid for a peek. The second time, poke it gently with a fork. Feel slightly guilty.
6. Toss the bulghur with a fork, and then mix in two tablespoons of olive oil.*
7. Eat while warm, or let cool and use in a salad.
If you must, you can try adapting this recipe to your local bulghur brand, just remember: Soggy is bad. Tough is bad. Salt and oil are good!
*This is delicious, but it's not exactly fat-free or low-sodium, (although it's still a lot better for you than a bag of Doritos and a Mr Pibb). If you have salt-sensitive hypertension, bless your heart, you can leave out all the salt. If you're, um... allergic to fat, leave out all the oil. If you're just a moderate kind of person and these amounts seems crazy, halve the salt and oil. It will probably still be pretty good. But if you leave out all the salt and all the oil, and don't have a compelling medical reason to do so, you deserve exactly what you get. The nicest thing you'll be able to say about it is, "My, it tastes so... healthy!"
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Fried Cheese
[I wrote this last fall, when apples were in season and I wasn't on a diet. This kind of food is perhaps why I am on a diet today. Hmmm.]
How can you go wrong? Everything is better with cheese (except, perhaps, heart disease, a jiggly belly, and digestive clarity), and everything is better fried (except ditto). Frying soaks your food in delicious, satisfying fat, and gives you crispy, crunchy brown bits. Cheese is also full of delicious fat, although it's a strange substance when you think about it. I try to forget that it's the mammary secretions of a big smelly animal, left to spoil until solid and moldy.* It's just so tasty!
Cheese: yum. Fried: yum. So, again, how can you go wrong? Here's how:
Being about to leave on a trip, you have carefully planned to run out of food today, so you won't come home to a fridge full of chilled organic garbage. Unfortunately, this means there's not much to eat. There is one perfect apple left in the crisper, and a few tablespoons of grated pecorino romano (I know, better to grate it yourself, thank you, I'm lazy). Cheese and apples being the world's most perfect snack, there must be some potential there. However, alternating spoonfuls of cold grated cheese with slices of perfect Honeycrisp does not do justice to the apple's perfection, or to the whole idea of a restorative snack. And besides, haven't you read about some little Italian delicacy that involves frying grated parmigiano? Doesn't it yield lacy little crisp cheese wafers? Doesn't that sound charming? Wouldn't they be nice with cold apple slices?
And so to the internet. Type, search, click, read, repeat. Thanks to The Google Cookbook, you seem to have learned something today. And so, back to the kitchen. Sprinkle a little pile of cheese into a hot, well-seasoned cast iron pan and fry for a few minutes. Attempt to flip with a spatula. Switch from spatula to spackling knife and try again. Switch from "cooking the cheese" to "trying to save the frying pan from the landfill." End up with a clean frying pan and a hard, greasy, burnt little cheese turd (like a cheese curd, but much, much worse). Full of misplaced, naive optimism, take a small nibble. Suddenly, instantly, you're full! And you never want cheese again! And you notice that the house in now bathed in Greasy Fried Cheesefunk!
But you will not be beaten. You think that there must be a way to make better fried cheese than that greasy little puck. And there is. Here's how:
You dig out the non-stick, probably-carcinogenic, made-from-puppies frying pan. Heat thoroughly over low heat. Add a little fat, just for the sake of overkill. Sprinkle a tablespoon of cheese in a thin circle, about three inches in diameter. Don't aim for a thick layer of cheese-- little gaps are okay. When you start to see browned areas where the cheese is thin, gently lift with a spatula. It will be surprisingly cohesive, and yet totally non adhesive. Thank the puppies, I guess. Flip, and cook another minute or so. Set aside, and cook the next one (or several, if you have a big pan).
If you wanted to eat some more cheese, which you don't, these would probably taste delicious and be crispy and wonderful and the prettiest thing to come out of the kitchen since you got all dressed up for Thanksgiving. Remember this for later, in case you ever recover your taste for cheese.
Put the cheese wafers in the fridge. They'll probably keep until you get back.
Eat the apple with some peanut butter. Feel better. Go on your trip with a light heart and a full belly.
*So I left out some of the subtleties of the cheese-maker's art, but you must admit it's pretty close to the truth.
How can you go wrong? Everything is better with cheese (except, perhaps, heart disease, a jiggly belly, and digestive clarity), and everything is better fried (except ditto). Frying soaks your food in delicious, satisfying fat, and gives you crispy, crunchy brown bits. Cheese is also full of delicious fat, although it's a strange substance when you think about it. I try to forget that it's the mammary secretions of a big smelly animal, left to spoil until solid and moldy.* It's just so tasty!
Cheese: yum. Fried: yum. So, again, how can you go wrong? Here's how:
Being about to leave on a trip, you have carefully planned to run out of food today, so you won't come home to a fridge full of chilled organic garbage. Unfortunately, this means there's not much to eat. There is one perfect apple left in the crisper, and a few tablespoons of grated pecorino romano (I know, better to grate it yourself, thank you, I'm lazy). Cheese and apples being the world's most perfect snack, there must be some potential there. However, alternating spoonfuls of cold grated cheese with slices of perfect Honeycrisp does not do justice to the apple's perfection, or to the whole idea of a restorative snack. And besides, haven't you read about some little Italian delicacy that involves frying grated parmigiano? Doesn't it yield lacy little crisp cheese wafers? Doesn't that sound charming? Wouldn't they be nice with cold apple slices?
And so to the internet. Type, search, click, read, repeat. Thanks to The Google Cookbook, you seem to have learned something today. And so, back to the kitchen. Sprinkle a little pile of cheese into a hot, well-seasoned cast iron pan and fry for a few minutes. Attempt to flip with a spatula. Switch from spatula to spackling knife and try again. Switch from "cooking the cheese" to "trying to save the frying pan from the landfill." End up with a clean frying pan and a hard, greasy, burnt little cheese turd (like a cheese curd, but much, much worse). Full of misplaced, naive optimism, take a small nibble. Suddenly, instantly, you're full! And you never want cheese again! And you notice that the house in now bathed in Greasy Fried Cheesefunk!
But you will not be beaten. You think that there must be a way to make better fried cheese than that greasy little puck. And there is. Here's how:
You dig out the non-stick, probably-carcinogenic, made-from-puppies frying pan. Heat thoroughly over low heat. Add a little fat, just for the sake of overkill. Sprinkle a tablespoon of cheese in a thin circle, about three inches in diameter. Don't aim for a thick layer of cheese-- little gaps are okay. When you start to see browned areas where the cheese is thin, gently lift with a spatula. It will be surprisingly cohesive, and yet totally non adhesive. Thank the puppies, I guess. Flip, and cook another minute or so. Set aside, and cook the next one (or several, if you have a big pan).
If you wanted to eat some more cheese, which you don't, these would probably taste delicious and be crispy and wonderful and the prettiest thing to come out of the kitchen since you got all dressed up for Thanksgiving. Remember this for later, in case you ever recover your taste for cheese.
Put the cheese wafers in the fridge. They'll probably keep until you get back.
Eat the apple with some peanut butter. Feel better. Go on your trip with a light heart and a full belly.
*So I left out some of the subtleties of the cheese-maker's art, but you must admit it's pretty close to the truth.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Further Adventures of Fiber and Fish Fat: Part Two
And lunch yesterday was also fine, fine, superfine. If I'd known how tasty it was going to be, I would have measured things for you. I have so many lists floating around my computer of precisely measured ingredients that ended up as various mediocre dishes not worth writing home about, it's kind of nice to have it go the other way for once. But I'm sure you can figure it out, and if I make it again soon, I'll come back and edit in some specifics.
canned red salmon, drained and broken up
leftover steamed asparagus, cut into bite-sized pieces
mixed greens
grape tomatoes, cut in half
honey
mustard
rice vinegar
salt
pepper
olive oil
whole wheat tortillas
Make a dressing with that second group of ingredients, and toss it with that first group. Warm the tortillas, make wraps and eat them. Or, if you have an anti-wrap bias, call it a "salad burrito" and eat that. If you have a truly deep and abiding anti- wrap-like-constructions-of-any-kind bias, eat the salad and the warm tortilla separately, and try not to think about the vegetable/flatbread assemblage that's being constructed by your traitorous stomach as you eat.
canned red salmon, drained and broken up
leftover steamed asparagus, cut into bite-sized pieces
mixed greens
grape tomatoes, cut in half
honey
mustard
rice vinegar
salt
pepper
olive oil
whole wheat tortillas
Make a dressing with that second group of ingredients, and toss it with that first group. Warm the tortillas, make wraps and eat them. Or, if you have an anti-wrap bias, call it a "salad burrito" and eat that. If you have a truly deep and abiding anti- wrap-like-constructions-of-any-kind bias, eat the salad and the warm tortilla separately, and try not to think about the vegetable/flatbread assemblage that's being constructed by your traitorous stomach as you eat.
The Further Adventures of Fiber and Fish Fat: Part One
Dinner was healthy, but delicious! And fast. And pretty. It only fails in one area: this, dear reader, is a budget-buster. Salmon and arugula are not friends to the frugal, but we can't have everything. Serves two.
5 ounces arugula, chopped (if it's big) and washed (regardless)
2 salmon filets, lightly oiled, salted, and peppered
4.42 ounces whole wheat pasta*
4 cloves garlic, chopped
olive oil
salt
pepper
lemon wedges
Do the cooking show thing, where everything is clean and chopped and ready, because this is a fast dinner with lots of last-minuting. Put a pot of water on to boil for the pasta, and turn on the broiler.
Then make sure the table is set and line up your family in Get Set position with plates in hand, because everything else happens very quickly.
Put the pasta in to cook and stick the salmon under the broiler. In a large pan, saute the garlic in olive oil until it's starting to look a little toasty. When the pasta is only mostly done, drain it and toss it into the hot garlic-and-oil pan (add a splash of water if things look dry or sticky in there). When the salmon is almost done, dump the arugula in with the pasta. Let it wilt a bit, and toss it all around so the olive oil and garlic get distributed. Serve the broiled salmon filets next to the arugula pasta. If you like black pepper, go nuts. Ditto lemon.
*or, a third of a box of pasta that contains, for some impenetrable reason,** 13.25 ounces.
**what do you mean, "metric"?
5 ounces arugula, chopped (if it's big) and washed (regardless)
2 salmon filets, lightly oiled, salted, and peppered
4.42 ounces whole wheat pasta*
4 cloves garlic, chopped
olive oil
salt
pepper
lemon wedges
Do the cooking show thing, where everything is clean and chopped and ready, because this is a fast dinner with lots of last-minuting. Put a pot of water on to boil for the pasta, and turn on the broiler.
Then make sure the table is set and line up your family in Get Set position with plates in hand, because everything else happens very quickly.
Put the pasta in to cook and stick the salmon under the broiler. In a large pan, saute the garlic in olive oil until it's starting to look a little toasty. When the pasta is only mostly done, drain it and toss it into the hot garlic-and-oil pan (add a splash of water if things look dry or sticky in there). When the salmon is almost done, dump the arugula in with the pasta. Let it wilt a bit, and toss it all around so the olive oil and garlic get distributed. Serve the broiled salmon filets next to the arugula pasta. If you like black pepper, go nuts. Ditto lemon.
*or, a third of a box of pasta that contains, for some impenetrable reason,** 13.25 ounces.
**what do you mean, "metric"?
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Deconstructed Fish Taco of Steadfast Resolve in The Face of White Bread
Two people that I love are getting married this June, and they have sweetly asked me to be in the wedding. Good and good, right? Yes. Yes! I could not be happier for them. I could, however, be happier for me (hey, it's my blog).
My petty problem? I have this picture in my head of the wedding video: the camera pans past four radiant young things in honeydew green and then pauses thoughtfully on what can only be described as a bridesmatron. A short, lumpy bridesmatron. Sigh. I realize I should get over this, and I promise to come to my senses soon. In the meantime, I'm on a diet. I figured short and relatively elderly are beyond my control, so I'm controlling the remaining variable, and I've put myself on a diet-and-exercise regimen. I began with gusto a couple weeks ago, and chewed my way through a lot of fiber and hardly anything white (good old flour, sugar, and lard, how I miss thee). I got some new jogging shoes, and went for some nice long, um, walks in them (hey, I'm working up to it). All in all, it's going well. But today, I hit the wall. Salad, usually something I enjoy, has come up in the rotation one too many times. I can't pretend to be excited by carrots any more. But I'm not yet at the point where I'll give up completely and swan dive into a cheeseburger and fries. I've still got some willpower left, and I'll have even more if I can eat something that reminds me that food can be a pleasant part of life. So I decided to make something both very healthy and super-delicious, so that I could enjoy myself without slipping into the "Oh, screw it" mentality of the Diet Quitter, which for me is usually signalled by white bread and dairy fat. So, healthy fats, ahoy! How about some salmon? And also an avocado? And also some olive oil? Guess what? This is Delicious.
Salmon filets, one per person, whatever size you prefer
one 14 oz can of black beans
one small clove garlic, minced
two teaspoons lemony olive oil
1/4 teaspoon sweet paprika
zest of one lemon, minced
1/2 tsp cumin seeds, toasted
one pint grape tomatoes, halved
one avocado
one small onion, chopped
lemon juice
salt
whole wheat tortillas
Most of the bean dishes I make are mushy and call for a little added salt, so bean-rinsing usually seems superfluous. It's just salt and water, and who am I to say that my salt and water are any better than the bean factory's salt and water? And if I think their salt and water might be sketchy, then why am I eating their beans? For this recipe, though, it's nice if the beans are pretty. So dump them into a mixing bowl, cover with water, swish, drain, and repeat until the water runs clear. Heat the beans in a covered bowl in the microwave, and then mix with lemony olive oil, minced zest, minced garlic, paprika, and cumin seeds. Let it sit so the warm beans can absorb all the goodness while you make everything else.
Make a salsa* with the onion, tomatoes, and avocado. Dress it with lemon juice and salt.
Warm the tortillas.
Cook the salmon however you want. I pan-seared it, but broiling, poaching, baking, and even microwaving would all do the job.
Serves three.
*This dish does lend itself to obsessive arrangement, so if you're in that kind of mood, feel free to slice the avocado thinly and fan it out on the plate, and drizzle oil and pile beans and tomatoes and make little slivers of onions into a funny hairdo on top of the fish and generally go nuts. I just made heaps, and it was still attractive.
My petty problem? I have this picture in my head of the wedding video: the camera pans past four radiant young things in honeydew green and then pauses thoughtfully on what can only be described as a bridesmatron. A short, lumpy bridesmatron. Sigh. I realize I should get over this, and I promise to come to my senses soon. In the meantime, I'm on a diet. I figured short and relatively elderly are beyond my control, so I'm controlling the remaining variable, and I've put myself on a diet-and-exercise regimen. I began with gusto a couple weeks ago, and chewed my way through a lot of fiber and hardly anything white (good old flour, sugar, and lard, how I miss thee). I got some new jogging shoes, and went for some nice long, um, walks in them (hey, I'm working up to it). All in all, it's going well. But today, I hit the wall. Salad, usually something I enjoy, has come up in the rotation one too many times. I can't pretend to be excited by carrots any more. But I'm not yet at the point where I'll give up completely and swan dive into a cheeseburger and fries. I've still got some willpower left, and I'll have even more if I can eat something that reminds me that food can be a pleasant part of life. So I decided to make something both very healthy and super-delicious, so that I could enjoy myself without slipping into the "Oh, screw it" mentality of the Diet Quitter, which for me is usually signalled by white bread and dairy fat. So, healthy fats, ahoy! How about some salmon? And also an avocado? And also some olive oil? Guess what? This is Delicious.
Salmon filets, one per person, whatever size you prefer
one 14 oz can of black beans
one small clove garlic, minced
two teaspoons lemony olive oil
1/4 teaspoon sweet paprika
zest of one lemon, minced
1/2 tsp cumin seeds, toasted
one pint grape tomatoes, halved
one avocado
one small onion, chopped
lemon juice
salt
whole wheat tortillas
Most of the bean dishes I make are mushy and call for a little added salt, so bean-rinsing usually seems superfluous. It's just salt and water, and who am I to say that my salt and water are any better than the bean factory's salt and water? And if I think their salt and water might be sketchy, then why am I eating their beans? For this recipe, though, it's nice if the beans are pretty. So dump them into a mixing bowl, cover with water, swish, drain, and repeat until the water runs clear. Heat the beans in a covered bowl in the microwave, and then mix with lemony olive oil, minced zest, minced garlic, paprika, and cumin seeds. Let it sit so the warm beans can absorb all the goodness while you make everything else.
Make a salsa* with the onion, tomatoes, and avocado. Dress it with lemon juice and salt.
Warm the tortillas.
Cook the salmon however you want. I pan-seared it, but broiling, poaching, baking, and even microwaving would all do the job.
Serves three.
*This dish does lend itself to obsessive arrangement, so if you're in that kind of mood, feel free to slice the avocado thinly and fan it out on the plate, and drizzle oil and pile beans and tomatoes and make little slivers of onions into a funny hairdo on top of the fish and generally go nuts. I just made heaps, and it was still attractive.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Trial and Error, Chicken Style
There comes a time when it seems like there are only three dinners, there have only ever been three dinners, and there will continue to be only three dinners until the day dinners cease to be necessary. In the Northeast, this time is usually early spring, when everything is at its deadest, nothing looks like it will ever be green again, and people respond to a cheery, "Happy Spring!" with either a hollow laugh or just a straightforward left hook. Cold weather is no longer invigorating and exciting. It is no longer an incentive to put on a bright, cozy sweater and curl up with a cup of cocoa by the flickering television. Dark evenings are no longer an excuse to light candles and look sexier than you do under fluorescents. The coldness is just cold, the darkness is just dark, and dinners are just boring.
Last month some time, when grocery day rolled around, the fridge still had a good number of potential dinners in it. If it had been time for duct tape and plastic sheeting, a month's worth of meals could have been squeezed out of the kitchen, with only a few days on the Pickles and Chocolate Diet. Where did all this extra food come from? Could it be thanks to a high level of wifely ingenuity? Does the little woman know how to make one chicken into seven dinners? She does not. The little woman had been saying, "I don't know--let's just go out" all week.
So in the interests of not spending all the mortgage money at the Indian place, we browsed for new recipes that might make life seem like living again. And we came up with Chicken with Rice. Why do we not make this already? We like chicken, we like rice, this only has four ingredients, so it must be simple, so let's make it. Broiled Chicken? Ditto.
The broiled chicken involved so much mincing and stuffing and flipping and timing and basting that it would be less work to make risotto. Not to mention the leaking ziplock salmonella-bomb of brining chicken parts that was involved. But it sure was delicious! Not easy, not quick, pretty gross to put together, but delicious!
The chicken with rice was even more work. Skinning raw chicken parts sounds easy and worth it, right? If you're a former half-assed vegetarian with little intimate experience with chicken corpses, it's neither. If I had been that chicken, I would have been glad my skin was so firmly attached to my ankles, but I'm not, so I wasn't. The combination of tenacious chicken skin, greasy hands and a sharp paring knife seemed too likely to end badly, so I gave up the knife, left it to brute force, and there ensued a lot of tugging and sweating and cursing before the damn things were skinless. The recipe went on to breezily declare several things that turned out to be unlikely if not impossible, and we eventually ended up with overdone chicken and rice that I was sure was a warm, teeming mass of bacteria. I could have made my own version of mediocre chicken and rice in half the time.
Like many educational experiences, these were no fun but they do seem likely to lead to a better future. I learned:
-Brining chicken parts for an hour makes them about 200% more delicious. It's almost not worth having chicken if you don't brine it.
-Brining chicken in a plastic bag makes for an efficient brine/chicken relationship, but the bag should be at least 50% bigger than the stuff in it. Or you could just use a rigid container that the chicken fits into snugly.
-If you're brining in a bag, don't re-use a venerable old plastic bag that's had a hard life, even if it still looks reasonably perky. It probably has a couple of little holes in it, and will make a sweet little salmonella fountain in your fridge.
-If you slice the zest off a lemon in a haphazard fashion (minimize pith but don't agonize about it) and throw the resulting eight or nine yellow strips in with some braising chicken, you'll be so happy. The strips end up soft and delicious and give the chicken a subtle lemon flavor.
-If you want to sadden your companion, who has a low tolerance for lemoniness, deglaze the broiling pan with nothing but lemon juice and pour the resulting sauce all over chicken that would have otherwise tasted just fine. Lemon juice does not "cook away" like alcohol supposedly does (yeah, I know—duh).
-Paying a little extra for pre-peeled chicken is so, so worth it.
-The two sliced onions were the best part of Chicken With Rice. Next time—three.
So, if I apply the lessons learned, keeping the delicious and discarding the tedious and/or misguided, we're left with two modified recipes:
Elemental Broiled Chicken
Chicken thighs or legs, skin and bone intact.
water
salt
sugar
Brine chicken parts for one hour in a mixture of 1 quart of water, 3/4 cup of salt and 3/4 cup of sugar (the sugar helps it brown). Arrange your oven racks like this: one right under the broiler, one near the bottom. Turn on the broiler and let the oven heat up. Put the chicken ugly-side up on a rimmed cookie sheet or broiling pan (a cookie sheet makes for optimal goo-retrieval when it's sauce time). Cook for 15 minutes on the low rack, then flip to the pretty side and cook 15 more minutes, still on the low rack. Move the chicken to the top rack, and broil until the skin browns—about a minute. Set the cooked chicken aside on a serving plate and deglaze the pan with wine or water. Pour those pan juices over the chicken.
Elemental Chicken and Rice
Skinless bone-in legs or thighs (as many as will fit in a loosely-spaced single layer in your biggest covered frying pan)
1.5 cups rice
3 cups broth or water
Rind of one lemon
3 onions
2 tablespoons olive oil
Brine the chicken parts for an hour in a mixture of 1 quart water and 3/4 cup of salt. Slice the onions into rings. Heat the olive oil in your big frying pan (the one that has a lid that fits it), and let the onions cook for 10 minutes in the oil, until they're soft and have brown bits here and there. While they're cooking, heat up the water or broth—you'll want it to be boiling by the time the onions are done.
Dump the rice in with the onions and oil, stir it all up, and then pat it out flat. Lay the chicken pieces on the rice in a single layer, and scootch them down into the rice, so they touch the bottom of the pan. Scatter lemon rind strips over the chicken.
Pour the boiling water or broth over the chicken, cover the pan, and let it simmer for 20 minutes or until the chicken is done and the rice has absorbed all the liquid. If you don't brine the chicken, and you don't use salted chicken broth, you'll want to add salt to the liquid. I like a half teaspoon, which will be way too much for some and pitifully bland to others. I don't want to hear about it.
Last month some time, when grocery day rolled around, the fridge still had a good number of potential dinners in it. If it had been time for duct tape and plastic sheeting, a month's worth of meals could have been squeezed out of the kitchen, with only a few days on the Pickles and Chocolate Diet. Where did all this extra food come from? Could it be thanks to a high level of wifely ingenuity? Does the little woman know how to make one chicken into seven dinners? She does not. The little woman had been saying, "I don't know--let's just go out" all week.
So in the interests of not spending all the mortgage money at the Indian place, we browsed for new recipes that might make life seem like living again. And we came up with Chicken with Rice. Why do we not make this already? We like chicken, we like rice, this only has four ingredients, so it must be simple, so let's make it. Broiled Chicken? Ditto.
The broiled chicken involved so much mincing and stuffing and flipping and timing and basting that it would be less work to make risotto. Not to mention the leaking ziplock salmonella-bomb of brining chicken parts that was involved. But it sure was delicious! Not easy, not quick, pretty gross to put together, but delicious!
The chicken with rice was even more work. Skinning raw chicken parts sounds easy and worth it, right? If you're a former half-assed vegetarian with little intimate experience with chicken corpses, it's neither. If I had been that chicken, I would have been glad my skin was so firmly attached to my ankles, but I'm not, so I wasn't. The combination of tenacious chicken skin, greasy hands and a sharp paring knife seemed too likely to end badly, so I gave up the knife, left it to brute force, and there ensued a lot of tugging and sweating and cursing before the damn things were skinless. The recipe went on to breezily declare several things that turned out to be unlikely if not impossible, and we eventually ended up with overdone chicken and rice that I was sure was a warm, teeming mass of bacteria. I could have made my own version of mediocre chicken and rice in half the time.
Like many educational experiences, these were no fun but they do seem likely to lead to a better future. I learned:
-Brining chicken parts for an hour makes them about 200% more delicious. It's almost not worth having chicken if you don't brine it.
-Brining chicken in a plastic bag makes for an efficient brine/chicken relationship, but the bag should be at least 50% bigger than the stuff in it. Or you could just use a rigid container that the chicken fits into snugly.
-If you're brining in a bag, don't re-use a venerable old plastic bag that's had a hard life, even if it still looks reasonably perky. It probably has a couple of little holes in it, and will make a sweet little salmonella fountain in your fridge.
-If you slice the zest off a lemon in a haphazard fashion (minimize pith but don't agonize about it) and throw the resulting eight or nine yellow strips in with some braising chicken, you'll be so happy. The strips end up soft and delicious and give the chicken a subtle lemon flavor.
-If you want to sadden your companion, who has a low tolerance for lemoniness, deglaze the broiling pan with nothing but lemon juice and pour the resulting sauce all over chicken that would have otherwise tasted just fine. Lemon juice does not "cook away" like alcohol supposedly does (yeah, I know—duh).
-Paying a little extra for pre-peeled chicken is so, so worth it.
-The two sliced onions were the best part of Chicken With Rice. Next time—three.
So, if I apply the lessons learned, keeping the delicious and discarding the tedious and/or misguided, we're left with two modified recipes:
Elemental Broiled Chicken
Chicken thighs or legs, skin and bone intact.
water
salt
sugar
Brine chicken parts for one hour in a mixture of 1 quart of water, 3/4 cup of salt and 3/4 cup of sugar (the sugar helps it brown). Arrange your oven racks like this: one right under the broiler, one near the bottom. Turn on the broiler and let the oven heat up. Put the chicken ugly-side up on a rimmed cookie sheet or broiling pan (a cookie sheet makes for optimal goo-retrieval when it's sauce time). Cook for 15 minutes on the low rack, then flip to the pretty side and cook 15 more minutes, still on the low rack. Move the chicken to the top rack, and broil until the skin browns—about a minute. Set the cooked chicken aside on a serving plate and deglaze the pan with wine or water. Pour those pan juices over the chicken.
Elemental Chicken and Rice
Skinless bone-in legs or thighs (as many as will fit in a loosely-spaced single layer in your biggest covered frying pan)
1.5 cups rice
3 cups broth or water
Rind of one lemon
3 onions
2 tablespoons olive oil
Brine the chicken parts for an hour in a mixture of 1 quart water and 3/4 cup of salt. Slice the onions into rings. Heat the olive oil in your big frying pan (the one that has a lid that fits it), and let the onions cook for 10 minutes in the oil, until they're soft and have brown bits here and there. While they're cooking, heat up the water or broth—you'll want it to be boiling by the time the onions are done.
Dump the rice in with the onions and oil, stir it all up, and then pat it out flat. Lay the chicken pieces on the rice in a single layer, and scootch them down into the rice, so they touch the bottom of the pan. Scatter lemon rind strips over the chicken.
Pour the boiling water or broth over the chicken, cover the pan, and let it simmer for 20 minutes or until the chicken is done and the rice has absorbed all the liquid. If you don't brine the chicken, and you don't use salted chicken broth, you'll want to add salt to the liquid. I like a half teaspoon, which will be way too much for some and pitifully bland to others. I don't want to hear about it.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Foodgineering
Breakfast burritos always seemed like weekend food to me--lots of ingredients, lots of prep, proper-plate-and-fork food. But a tight schedule, a sparse fridge, and a stomach that was about to leap out and forage for breakfast on its own led me to a discovery*. The breakfast burrito, stripped down, might just be the most efficient way to get from starving to fed without resorting to options that are bad for either morale, life expectancy, or the monthly budget.
I'm not usually a fan of eating on the run, but when breakfast is a choice between nothing, fast food, or something that can be made in ten minutes and eaten in the car, then I'd have to support that last option. So allow me to sell you on the breakfast burrito, Winker-style.
If you cook the eggs right, you need neither plate nor fork, and most people won't even need a napkin (I realize I'm a barbarian. If you're revolted, look away).
If you buy tasty eggs and high-quality tortillas, you don't need ANY OTHER INGREDIENTS, and it's totally edible. Almost... delicious.
So, here:
One whole wheat tortilla
One fancy, happy, free-range, organic egg with extra omega-whatsits
nothing else**
In a small non-stick skillet, heat the tortilla while you scramble the egg and feed the cat. Once the tortilla is puffing up a bit here and there, remove it and set it aside. Pour in the egg. If the pan is hot enough, it'll sizzle a bit when you pour it in. Don't stir it around, just let it cook into a flat disk. When the egg is mostly solid, but still damp on top, flip it over, let it cook for a few more seconds, then flop it out onto the tortilla. Roll it up. Eat it.
If you don't like using non-stick pans, use a bit of fat in a regular pan. Just roll the tortilla greasy-side-in, so you'll keep your fingers clean.
There! Warm, portable breakfast, no plate or utensils needed, contains protein, a bit of fiber, and just enough delicious carbohydrate that you won't feel demoralized. For extra credit, have an orange or some blueberries too, and feel really virtuous.
*Which, of course, is how it always happens. I should put myself in situations of desperate hunger and limited ingredients more often, just for the recipe development and blogging opportunities.
**Cheese and other culinary adhesives may be used sparingly. Other embellishments may be added, but are not recommended as they may interfere with the user-friendly design of the finished product.
Update: I timed it this morning, and from what-ever-shall-I have-for-breakfast to mmm-this-looks-good-[chomp], it was three minutes. THREE minutes, folks. No excuse to go breakfastless now.
I'm not usually a fan of eating on the run, but when breakfast is a choice between nothing, fast food, or something that can be made in ten minutes and eaten in the car, then I'd have to support that last option. So allow me to sell you on the breakfast burrito, Winker-style.
If you cook the eggs right, you need neither plate nor fork, and most people won't even need a napkin (I realize I'm a barbarian. If you're revolted, look away).
If you buy tasty eggs and high-quality tortillas, you don't need ANY OTHER INGREDIENTS, and it's totally edible. Almost... delicious.
So, here:
One whole wheat tortilla
One fancy, happy, free-range, organic egg with extra omega-whatsits
nothing else**
In a small non-stick skillet, heat the tortilla while you scramble the egg and feed the cat. Once the tortilla is puffing up a bit here and there, remove it and set it aside. Pour in the egg. If the pan is hot enough, it'll sizzle a bit when you pour it in. Don't stir it around, just let it cook into a flat disk. When the egg is mostly solid, but still damp on top, flip it over, let it cook for a few more seconds, then flop it out onto the tortilla. Roll it up. Eat it.
If you don't like using non-stick pans, use a bit of fat in a regular pan. Just roll the tortilla greasy-side-in, so you'll keep your fingers clean.
There! Warm, portable breakfast, no plate or utensils needed, contains protein, a bit of fiber, and just enough delicious carbohydrate that you won't feel demoralized. For extra credit, have an orange or some blueberries too, and feel really virtuous.
*Which, of course, is how it always happens. I should put myself in situations of desperate hunger and limited ingredients more often, just for the recipe development and blogging opportunities.
**Cheese and other culinary adhesives may be used sparingly. Other embellishments may be added, but are not recommended as they may interfere with the user-friendly design of the finished product.
Update: I timed it this morning, and from what-ever-shall-I have-for-breakfast to mmm-this-looks-good-[chomp], it was three minutes. THREE minutes, folks. No excuse to go breakfastless now.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Socks: Lessons Learned
Lesson One: Socks ought to be suitable for both the washer and the dryer. Forty little drip-dry socks can be the straw that breaks the camel's back for even the most cheerful and helpful Laundry Manager.* I know this through painful personal experience. It is only recently that my Laundry Manager has softened his stance after The Great Laundry Rebellion, and been lured back to the job, and even then only with promises of dryer-safe socks. Yes, they do seem to fade and shrink more quickly, but domestic harmony is pretty much worth it.
Lesson Two: Each member of the household should have only one kind of sock. For ultimate efficiency, see if you can get all the feet in your household into matching socks, or at least into as few Sock Teams as possible. You no longer have Pairs of Socks, you just have Socks. They exist in bulk, like orange lentils at the health food store. This makes washing, sorting, storing, and wearing socks a matter of almost zero annoyance. There's never a stash of odd, mateless socks lying listlessly in the drawer, waiting for their other halves to find their way back from the crawl space under the basement stairs so they can both get back into, ah, Sock-ulation (heh).
This Unified Sock Theory means, of course, that you must pick a style of sock that comes as close as possible to the Platonic Ideal Sock, and so will always be available when you need a few more. It would only lead to heartache if you were to choose brown and yellow striped socks with small purple flecks, because in addition to being terribly ugly, they would be difficult to find again, so you would have to commit to buying a whole lifetime's supply at once. I'm not sure that many brown and yellow striped socks with small purple flecks even exist. Much better to go with something basic that you can supplement as needed, and the style of Basic Sock you pick should be the one that's most useful to you: The White Tube? The Ribbed Black Cotton? The Navy Knee High? Pick something like that, and get a whole flock of them.
The result of this smart and efficient system is that your laundry process becomes streamlined and your socks become boring. Really, really boring. I didn't fully realize this until, in a moment of madness, I bought a pair of red socks. Later, as I was wearing them, I happened to catch a glimpse of my own ankle. I was tickled beyond all rationality to see that bit of red instead of the ubiquitous Black Rib. It put a spring in my step, and I might even have started whistling.
I draw two opposing conclusions from my experience. You may select the one that makes you feel most at home, and proceed accordingly:
1) Bulk Socks are an unnecessarily grim exercise.
2) Bulk Socks both streamline your laundry experience and give you the opportunity to experience delight in a place you never thought to look for it.
I, personally, find it worthwhile. I have a bottomless vat of black socks that match well enough for everyday purposes, and when I do get all overexcited and buy non-standard socks, I buy two matching pairs, so that I can lose three socks before I have a mateless one.
*Titles are good for morale--mine are Groundskeeper, Senior Dietician, and CEO of Textile Division. The Laundry Manager is also Head of Tech Support, DJ, and Director of Publications. We share the jobs of Library Acquisitions, Facilities Management, and Interior Architecture, and yet we still manage to live happily together.
Lesson Two: Each member of the household should have only one kind of sock. For ultimate efficiency, see if you can get all the feet in your household into matching socks, or at least into as few Sock Teams as possible. You no longer have Pairs of Socks, you just have Socks. They exist in bulk, like orange lentils at the health food store. This makes washing, sorting, storing, and wearing socks a matter of almost zero annoyance. There's never a stash of odd, mateless socks lying listlessly in the drawer, waiting for their other halves to find their way back from the crawl space under the basement stairs so they can both get back into, ah, Sock-ulation (heh).
This Unified Sock Theory means, of course, that you must pick a style of sock that comes as close as possible to the Platonic Ideal Sock, and so will always be available when you need a few more. It would only lead to heartache if you were to choose brown and yellow striped socks with small purple flecks, because in addition to being terribly ugly, they would be difficult to find again, so you would have to commit to buying a whole lifetime's supply at once. I'm not sure that many brown and yellow striped socks with small purple flecks even exist. Much better to go with something basic that you can supplement as needed, and the style of Basic Sock you pick should be the one that's most useful to you: The White Tube? The Ribbed Black Cotton? The Navy Knee High? Pick something like that, and get a whole flock of them.
The result of this smart and efficient system is that your laundry process becomes streamlined and your socks become boring. Really, really boring. I didn't fully realize this until, in a moment of madness, I bought a pair of red socks. Later, as I was wearing them, I happened to catch a glimpse of my own ankle. I was tickled beyond all rationality to see that bit of red instead of the ubiquitous Black Rib. It put a spring in my step, and I might even have started whistling.
I draw two opposing conclusions from my experience. You may select the one that makes you feel most at home, and proceed accordingly:
1) Bulk Socks are an unnecessarily grim exercise.
2) Bulk Socks both streamline your laundry experience and give you the opportunity to experience delight in a place you never thought to look for it.
I, personally, find it worthwhile. I have a bottomless vat of black socks that match well enough for everyday purposes, and when I do get all overexcited and buy non-standard socks, I buy two matching pairs, so that I can lose three socks before I have a mateless one.
*Titles are good for morale--mine are Groundskeeper, Senior Dietician, and CEO of Textile Division. The Laundry Manager is also Head of Tech Support, DJ, and Director of Publications. We share the jobs of Library Acquisitions, Facilities Management, and Interior Architecture, and yet we still manage to live happily together.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
I can't help myself.
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Thursday, March 22, 2007
Allow me to properly introduce my new friend.
I didn't withhold the details on purpose; I must have been a little tipsy on lambwiches. The rice stuff I was going on about is sold under the name "Rice and Shine" by the fine hippies at Arrowhead Mills. Please do not confuse it with "Rice 'N' Shine," which appears to be an over-priced diet food. Apparently, its claim to fame is that it contains "Risolubles™," which I can only guess are some kind of quick-dissolving hilarity aid.
I've made the stuff a few times since my first attempt, and I'm now devoted. It's an elegant, quick, delicious, cheap whole grain. Hoo. Ray. Its only failing is that I don't know what to call it. Brown rice "polenta" is clumsy. Rice cereal sounds like baby food or breakfast. Rice mush? No. Rice gruel? Rice grits? No and no. And none of the puns that keep popping into my head: rolenta... po-rice... grice... um... rits... I got nothing.
So, readers, chime in. What would you call it? And I know you're out there... I can see you through my computer (well, Google Analytics can see you, and I can't stop pestering Google Analytics to rat you out).
I've made the stuff a few times since my first attempt, and I'm now devoted. It's an elegant, quick, delicious, cheap whole grain. Hoo. Ray. Its only failing is that I don't know what to call it. Brown rice "polenta" is clumsy. Rice cereal sounds like baby food or breakfast. Rice mush? No. Rice gruel? Rice grits? No and no. And none of the puns that keep popping into my head: rolenta... po-rice... grice... um... rits... I got nothing.
So, readers, chime in. What would you call it? And I know you're out there... I can see you through my computer (well, Google Analytics can see you, and I can't stop pestering Google Analytics to rat you out).
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