Yesterday I took my first foray into crock pot cooking. I received a triple threat crockery apparatus for Christmas and have been looking for an excuse to try it out. Casual entertaining seemed to be the ticket. I prepared apricot shredded pork in two of the containers and a polenta-style corn casserole in the third. I'm happy to say the food was a hit with our friends who raved over the shredded pork and gobbled up all the side dishes. (We had potato salad, coleslaw, and edamame dip with chips to round out the meal.)
The best thing about the whole endeavor was the aroma. The house was permeated with the scent of slowly cooking pork roast with onions caramelizing among spices and apricot preserves. After inhaling this tantalizing scent all day, I had to have a bite or two before everyone arrived. After shredding the roast and returning it to the thickened sauce, I stirred the pots in anticipation. As you may recall, I am locked in an ongoing struggle over eating meat. But this smelled so heavenly I gave in, and I was not disappointed. The roast was tender and juicy. The sauce had just the right amount of sweetness and spice. I think I could have eaten the entire dish, but friends were coming, so two bites was my limit.
The polenta-style corn casserole was a hit. Even my husband, who isn't always fond of this type of dish, liked it. It was, however, a little bland for me. The recipe had green chilies and cheese, but still didn't have a bite or a real personality. I did like the texture, though. The cornmeal made it thick and hearty while the kernels of corn made it more chewable on the palette. The recipe suggests chilling it overnight and serving it re-heated or at room temperature, and I think it was actually better when we had it leftover today. I will probably make this dish again, but use it as a base for something spicy. If not, it could be doctored with some interesting ingredients to kick it up a notch. I'm thinking some chipotle sauce and chopped tomatoes. It might also be good with a little sweetness added to balance out something spicier. For example, I think it would be good to use apple juice instead of vegetable broth, and toss in some dried apples for texture.
All in all, I had a good experience with crock pot cooking. It was easy and the food was piping hot and delicious. I would like to use the pots to make evening meals easier, but I'm not sure about leaving them on all day when no one is home. I know that's what they're for, but the paranoid part of brain would spend the day worrying the house was burning down. In addition, mornings are hectic around here, and I don't foresee time to put together dinner before making breakfast. One answer may be to allow the dishes to cook overnight and put them in the fridge to be reheated at dinner time. I'll let you know how that works out.
[The recipes "Shredded Apricot Pork Sandwiches" and "Polenta-Style Corn Casserole" were taken from the Rival Crock Pot Recipe Card Collection, copyright 2007 by Publications International, Ltd.]
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Cooking is a Contact Sport
Am I the only one who thinks that hazardous duty pay should come with an apron? Over the past week I have peeled, sliced, and parboiled myself during dinner preparations.
It all started on Tuesday when I was using my lovely new vegetable peeler. I bought the kind I've seen in chef's hands on Food Network. It is stainless steel with a wide blade and contoured handle that allows the operator to take a large swathe of peel with each stroke. I have used and enjoyed my new gadget in safety several times. But, my luck ran out on a slippery potato, and the peeler took a large swathe of my fingernail instead.
When I finally managed to pry my finger out of my mouth to look at it - only because my husband insisted I couldn't suck on it forever as he put on his tennis shoes to take me for stiches - we discovered the damage felt worse than it looked. While a doctor's visit was averted, the throbbing lasted until Friday.
My next mishap was directly related to the first. In an effort to protect the extremely tender fingertip from Tuesday's incident, I was holding onto a bell pepper with only a couple of fingers - bad idea, since the pepper slipped (there's that word again) and my knife sliced a phalange instead. To the mouth it flew - an automatic reaction - followed by running water and a bandage. At least we have the flesh-colored kind these days. Once, when our son was six or seven, I managed to run a knife across the tops of several fingers at once. Much to my chagrin, the only plastic bandages in the house were bright yellow and featured pictures of Cookie Monster. At least the character was someone familiar with the hazards of food.
Today ended my painful three's-a-charm streak. As I poured a pan of fork-tender potatoes into one of my new, nifty keen, collapsible colanders the water went awry and parboiled several knuckles. Since the hurt was too large to fit in my mouth, I was forced to examine it right away. Nothing major, but certainly a stinging nuisance.
Sometimes I think I am the clutziest person to roam a countertop, but that can't be true. If cooking is so dangerous why do it? Precisely for the danger, I think. We are all daredevils to some extent - closet Evel Knievels who long for the adrenaline rush that comes with taking a chance. Cooking is really no different. There are so many variables to contend with, so many sharp implements and hot surfaces to avoid. Cooks play at "Iron Chef" pitting themselves (and their tender fingers, hands, and wrists) against an imaginary clock, and sometimes they lose. Unfortunately, that often means slicing and dicing more than carrots and onions. For this reason, cooking should be considered a high risk activity for which combat pay is granted in the form of a tax cut. After all, the money for all those bandages and occasional trips to the ER is stimulating the economy. Why, it's a person's patriotic duty to take a few chances and cook at home!
It all started on Tuesday when I was using my lovely new vegetable peeler. I bought the kind I've seen in chef's hands on Food Network. It is stainless steel with a wide blade and contoured handle that allows the operator to take a large swathe of peel with each stroke. I have used and enjoyed my new gadget in safety several times. But, my luck ran out on a slippery potato, and the peeler took a large swathe of my fingernail instead.
When I finally managed to pry my finger out of my mouth to look at it - only because my husband insisted I couldn't suck on it forever as he put on his tennis shoes to take me for stiches - we discovered the damage felt worse than it looked. While a doctor's visit was averted, the throbbing lasted until Friday.
My next mishap was directly related to the first. In an effort to protect the extremely tender fingertip from Tuesday's incident, I was holding onto a bell pepper with only a couple of fingers - bad idea, since the pepper slipped (there's that word again) and my knife sliced a phalange instead. To the mouth it flew - an automatic reaction - followed by running water and a bandage. At least we have the flesh-colored kind these days. Once, when our son was six or seven, I managed to run a knife across the tops of several fingers at once. Much to my chagrin, the only plastic bandages in the house were bright yellow and featured pictures of Cookie Monster. At least the character was someone familiar with the hazards of food.
Today ended my painful three's-a-charm streak. As I poured a pan of fork-tender potatoes into one of my new, nifty keen, collapsible colanders the water went awry and parboiled several knuckles. Since the hurt was too large to fit in my mouth, I was forced to examine it right away. Nothing major, but certainly a stinging nuisance.
Sometimes I think I am the clutziest person to roam a countertop, but that can't be true. If cooking is so dangerous why do it? Precisely for the danger, I think. We are all daredevils to some extent - closet Evel Knievels who long for the adrenaline rush that comes with taking a chance. Cooking is really no different. There are so many variables to contend with, so many sharp implements and hot surfaces to avoid. Cooks play at "Iron Chef" pitting themselves (and their tender fingers, hands, and wrists) against an imaginary clock, and sometimes they lose. Unfortunately, that often means slicing and dicing more than carrots and onions. For this reason, cooking should be considered a high risk activity for which combat pay is granted in the form of a tax cut. After all, the money for all those bandages and occasional trips to the ER is stimulating the economy. Why, it's a person's patriotic duty to take a few chances and cook at home!
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Zen of Housework
Sometimes I actually enjoy cleaning the house, especially when I'm doing it all alone. This may sound odd since no one is around to help, but over the years I've found several reasons to clean an empty house, beyond the obvious one of there not being anyone around to mess it up immediately.
First - and perhaps most important though admittedly random - being home alone allows for a spontaneous reenactment of the "Old Time Rock and Roll" scene in Risky Business. As an adult coming of age in the eighties and a long-time Seger fan, I find this a most tempting prospect.
Next is the idea that at any moment I can put down the cleaning rag and walk away. No one is home to ask if I'm finished or to stroll through the bathroom noting vanity items tossed on the chair anxiously awaiting their regular spritz, wipe, and replacement action. I admit, I seldom (o.k. never) stop in the middle of a room, but I can if no one is home to know.
But the best reason to clean when no one else is around is silence. Sure the washer bings out its little tune at timed intervals and the vacuum cleaner roars to life, but the rest of the task is the epitome of serenity. I can hear the clock ticking in my husband's study as I dust in the living room. This faint persistent heartbeat seems to belong to the house itself, and when all is quiet I am somehow more than a resident here.
Often when I'm alone I hear music. Of course many people hum tunes and breathlessly mouth the words to their favorite songs when it's quiet, but that's not what I mean. I mean I hear a radio (for lack of a better description) playing faintly just at the edge of my auditory reach. Sometimes there are voices which I can never understand, but there is always music. Often it sounds like classic, golden-age country with the likes of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline. It has that lonesome, smoky, honkey-tonk sound that vanished long before I was born. When I was younger, this radio in my head spooked me. I would creep from room to room looking for interlopers, hoping not to find any. These days I find the sounds echoing in my home and in my head comforting. I feel connected, as if my grandfather is playing records and hanging out in the basement. This only happens, though, when I'm alone and the house is silent.
Furthermore, after a day of cleaning by myself I am better company. Perhaps the silence makes me more appreciative of my son's talkativeness and constant guitar playing. Perhaps being alone smoothes out the wrinkles in my head and leaves me feeling as pressed and presentable as the clean laundry. Perhaps after the many hours I spend grading seemingly endless stacks of essays (often to no avail since students tend to make the same mistakes over and over), the immediate satisfaction of having a clean house is enough to make my heart leap joyfully in my chest. It doesn't matter which combination of these factors begets the end result. It only matters that I have experienced my Zen state, and am a better person for it.
First - and perhaps most important though admittedly random - being home alone allows for a spontaneous reenactment of the "Old Time Rock and Roll" scene in Risky Business. As an adult coming of age in the eighties and a long-time Seger fan, I find this a most tempting prospect.
Next is the idea that at any moment I can put down the cleaning rag and walk away. No one is home to ask if I'm finished or to stroll through the bathroom noting vanity items tossed on the chair anxiously awaiting their regular spritz, wipe, and replacement action. I admit, I seldom (o.k. never) stop in the middle of a room, but I can if no one is home to know.
But the best reason to clean when no one else is around is silence. Sure the washer bings out its little tune at timed intervals and the vacuum cleaner roars to life, but the rest of the task is the epitome of serenity. I can hear the clock ticking in my husband's study as I dust in the living room. This faint persistent heartbeat seems to belong to the house itself, and when all is quiet I am somehow more than a resident here.
Often when I'm alone I hear music. Of course many people hum tunes and breathlessly mouth the words to their favorite songs when it's quiet, but that's not what I mean. I mean I hear a radio (for lack of a better description) playing faintly just at the edge of my auditory reach. Sometimes there are voices which I can never understand, but there is always music. Often it sounds like classic, golden-age country with the likes of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline. It has that lonesome, smoky, honkey-tonk sound that vanished long before I was born. When I was younger, this radio in my head spooked me. I would creep from room to room looking for interlopers, hoping not to find any. These days I find the sounds echoing in my home and in my head comforting. I feel connected, as if my grandfather is playing records and hanging out in the basement. This only happens, though, when I'm alone and the house is silent.
Furthermore, after a day of cleaning by myself I am better company. Perhaps the silence makes me more appreciative of my son's talkativeness and constant guitar playing. Perhaps being alone smoothes out the wrinkles in my head and leaves me feeling as pressed and presentable as the clean laundry. Perhaps after the many hours I spend grading seemingly endless stacks of essays (often to no avail since students tend to make the same mistakes over and over), the immediate satisfaction of having a clean house is enough to make my heart leap joyfully in my chest. It doesn't matter which combination of these factors begets the end result. It only matters that I have experienced my Zen state, and am a better person for it.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Murdering Snacktime
What's the attraction of snacks? At our house, the crunchy, salty, sweet, creamy, cool, spicy flavors of chips, nuts, chocolates, ice cream, sour cream, and salsa fill the evening hours. Whew! That's a whole lot of munching going on.
Unfortunately for my waistline, television time evokes snack time for me. Never mind that I had an excellent dinner. Never mind that it was only an hour to an hour-and-a-half ago that I consumed it. Never mind that we watch shows that are pretty non-conducive to snacks. Really, who wants to munch on guacamole while watching the fictional Dr. Brennan slog through slimy, sludge gathering decomposing body parts on Bones? I do. Who wants to slurp a bright red strawberry smoothie through two straws while watching the gang from CSI measure spatter patterns and blood puddles? I do. And, who wants to crunch on smokehouse almonds while listening to the profilers on Criminal Minds discuss how a serial killer removes his victims' fingernails? Well, I do...I do...I do.
I can't help myself. Scenes that would make me retch in real life are fascinating on television and never keep me from gnawing on an evening snack. Once, a forensic guy pulled some eyeballs out of a tub of muck just as I bit into the queen olive and cocktail onion at the bottom of my martini glass. Not only did this not seem particularly icky, I found the timing amusingly ironic.
So, am I a serial killer in disguise? As much as I enjoy wielding large knives, taking out my aggressions on bread dough, and beating eggs to foamy, frothy goodness, I don't think my family needs to sleep with loaded weapons under their pillows. I'll save my murderous mayhem for television snack time turning myself into a cereal killer armed with a spoon, stalking the vanilla-coated Cheerios and chocolate milk.
Unfortunately for my waistline, television time evokes snack time for me. Never mind that I had an excellent dinner. Never mind that it was only an hour to an hour-and-a-half ago that I consumed it. Never mind that we watch shows that are pretty non-conducive to snacks. Really, who wants to munch on guacamole while watching the fictional Dr. Brennan slog through slimy, sludge gathering decomposing body parts on Bones? I do. Who wants to slurp a bright red strawberry smoothie through two straws while watching the gang from CSI measure spatter patterns and blood puddles? I do. And, who wants to crunch on smokehouse almonds while listening to the profilers on Criminal Minds discuss how a serial killer removes his victims' fingernails? Well, I do...I do...I do.
I can't help myself. Scenes that would make me retch in real life are fascinating on television and never keep me from gnawing on an evening snack. Once, a forensic guy pulled some eyeballs out of a tub of muck just as I bit into the queen olive and cocktail onion at the bottom of my martini glass. Not only did this not seem particularly icky, I found the timing amusingly ironic.
So, am I a serial killer in disguise? As much as I enjoy wielding large knives, taking out my aggressions on bread dough, and beating eggs to foamy, frothy goodness, I don't think my family needs to sleep with loaded weapons under their pillows. I'll save my murderous mayhem for television snack time turning myself into a cereal killer armed with a spoon, stalking the vanilla-coated Cheerios and chocolate milk.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Meaning of Cheese
The end of one of those days usually means take-out or delivery at our house, but not tonight. Arriving late and feeling abused by the world in general and several colleagues in particular made me hungry for my pajamas and comfort food. Tonight's choice was grilled cheese, but not even that could be simple around here.
You see, none of us like our gooey melted goodness prepared the same way. My son, the purist, prefers cheddar (mild or sharp) oozing from two slices of well-browned and crusted potato bread. My husband, on the other hand, likes several kinds of cheese - usually cheddar, Swiss, and provolone - spilling from his (pumpernickel, marble, or Jewish) rye bread, which is sometimes hard to judge for doneness since the bread is darker to begin with. Meanwhile, I prefer more than just cheese - traditional toppings like lettuce, tomato, and mayo or something more interesting like sun-dried tomatoes, mushroom slices, and black olives - on my slices of 12-grain bread that are so crunchy they're like eating a handful of nuts and seeds.
I wonder what this says about each of us. Think back to those popular personality tests of high school and college - the ones that were supposed to give you insight into the type of person you are and what kind of work environment you might like. I'm thinking of the True Colors test that categorizes people based on color-coded questions. At the end, you are predominantly gold (the cold, super organized go-getter), green (the analytical science nerd), blue (the touchy-feely bleeding heart), orange (the next American Idol show off), or some combination thereof. Of course this is pretty superficial since people are different colors in different situations at different times, but given time to mull over the findings, a person might gain some insight, though I've never been surprised by my color assignations.
The first time I completed the questionnaire during an in-service about how to teach to different personality types, I came out strongly gold with only a little of each other color. This is no surprise since I was at work focused on learning and applying new ideas to my classroom. The second time through the questions, I was more relaxed because I'd already seen the presentation once before and my mind was wandering toward weekend plans of a family outing. Thus, my score was much higher in the blue range (aww...kitties, small children, picnics). The next time through I was at a different school trying to be sociable and entertaining, so I came up much more orange. Go figure.
So, as I think about these personality tests I wonder if someone should create one using food - a grilled cheese, for instance. What would the kind of bread, cheese, and toppings say about each of our personalities? Wouldn't it be much more fun to build a sandwich, jot down the toppings, and then eat it while discussing what it shows about how we learn, teach, and function? Let's see, my son would be measured as firmly traditional in his choices, functioning well in a highly-structured, predictable environment. My husband would be categorized as someone who likes variety, but doesn't stray too far from the path of his ancestors. Finally, I would be some wild bohemian who throws any kind of pagan ingredients on a safe sandwich base. The problem is these labels don't fit. My son is definitely not traditional, nor is he good with authority and structure. My husband is silly and unpredictable, to the contrary of his sandwich choice, and (while I have been accused of being a wild woman on occasion) I’m not generally a complete throw-caution-to-the-wind sort of person.
Oh well, it was a good idea that would have certainly livened up the next in-service meeting. On the other hand, perhaps it is just as valid as questions based on color. Hey, boss, want to have lunch?
You see, none of us like our gooey melted goodness prepared the same way. My son, the purist, prefers cheddar (mild or sharp) oozing from two slices of well-browned and crusted potato bread. My husband, on the other hand, likes several kinds of cheese - usually cheddar, Swiss, and provolone - spilling from his (pumpernickel, marble, or Jewish) rye bread, which is sometimes hard to judge for doneness since the bread is darker to begin with. Meanwhile, I prefer more than just cheese - traditional toppings like lettuce, tomato, and mayo or something more interesting like sun-dried tomatoes, mushroom slices, and black olives - on my slices of 12-grain bread that are so crunchy they're like eating a handful of nuts and seeds.
I wonder what this says about each of us. Think back to those popular personality tests of high school and college - the ones that were supposed to give you insight into the type of person you are and what kind of work environment you might like. I'm thinking of the True Colors test that categorizes people based on color-coded questions. At the end, you are predominantly gold (the cold, super organized go-getter), green (the analytical science nerd), blue (the touchy-feely bleeding heart), orange (the next American Idol show off), or some combination thereof. Of course this is pretty superficial since people are different colors in different situations at different times, but given time to mull over the findings, a person might gain some insight, though I've never been surprised by my color assignations.
The first time I completed the questionnaire during an in-service about how to teach to different personality types, I came out strongly gold with only a little of each other color. This is no surprise since I was at work focused on learning and applying new ideas to my classroom. The second time through the questions, I was more relaxed because I'd already seen the presentation once before and my mind was wandering toward weekend plans of a family outing. Thus, my score was much higher in the blue range (aww...kitties, small children, picnics). The next time through I was at a different school trying to be sociable and entertaining, so I came up much more orange. Go figure.
So, as I think about these personality tests I wonder if someone should create one using food - a grilled cheese, for instance. What would the kind of bread, cheese, and toppings say about each of our personalities? Wouldn't it be much more fun to build a sandwich, jot down the toppings, and then eat it while discussing what it shows about how we learn, teach, and function? Let's see, my son would be measured as firmly traditional in his choices, functioning well in a highly-structured, predictable environment. My husband would be categorized as someone who likes variety, but doesn't stray too far from the path of his ancestors. Finally, I would be some wild bohemian who throws any kind of pagan ingredients on a safe sandwich base. The problem is these labels don't fit. My son is definitely not traditional, nor is he good with authority and structure. My husband is silly and unpredictable, to the contrary of his sandwich choice, and (while I have been accused of being a wild woman on occasion) I’m not generally a complete throw-caution-to-the-wind sort of person.
Oh well, it was a good idea that would have certainly livened up the next in-service meeting. On the other hand, perhaps it is just as valid as questions based on color. Hey, boss, want to have lunch?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Home is Where the Table Is
I carry home with me no matter where I sleep. My Southern upbringing and drawl surface when I say, “Look what the cat dragged in,” to a late student; when I’m sitting in the spa sipping a martini and refer to my husband as “ya’ll,” or when I softly draw out the syllables of “uh-huh” instead of screaming “Go away!” to someone who has ticked me off. These elements of my deepest home, my roots, sprout new flowers daily.
In addition to this heritage aspect, I consider the place my family gathers for meals to be home. Over the years we have met at tables ranging from diner-like, square, Formica slabs with metal-legged, vinyl-cushioned chairs for four to formal, beveled-glass table tops resting on carved pillars above brocade-upholstered, bullion-trimmed parsons chairs seating eight. The table we have now is a heavy, wooden square large enough to accommodate family and friends together. It exudes the warmth of natural materials and solid, simple craftsmanship. This table – as is true for the many others my family has gathered round – symbolizes “home” to me.
After all, dining tables must be the ultimate representation of a family’s life. This is where my son does homework and my husband sets up his laptop. This is the place for hours-long games of Monopoly, Scattergories, and Sorry. This is where I spread out sewing projects and painting supplies. This is the place we fold laundry, piece together puzzles, doodle while talking on the phone, and repeatedly shoo the cats off of. The family dining table is so much more than a place to eat including desk, gift-wrapping station, and toy hospital. It is the one piece of end-all, be-all furniture in our household.
Funny, the last thing we actually do there is eat, but that’s important, too. The table is the site of birthday celebrations, six-course dinner parties, and steaming bowls of soup for ailing family members. Many of my best memories revolve around the dinner table – my father regaling us with stories of Catholic school, my mother talking about living in Sierra Blanca, my brother making cowboy hats and pistols from tin foil. These childhood memories give rise to thoughts of hosting Christmas dinner, of my son playing with a chocolate cupcake on his first birthday, of potluck suppers served amid raucous laughter. We have spilled wine, chicken soup, and tears across stain-release tablecloths and napkins, which is why wherever my loved ones gather for a meal or to play, to work, to talk, is home to me.
In addition to this heritage aspect, I consider the place my family gathers for meals to be home. Over the years we have met at tables ranging from diner-like, square, Formica slabs with metal-legged, vinyl-cushioned chairs for four to formal, beveled-glass table tops resting on carved pillars above brocade-upholstered, bullion-trimmed parsons chairs seating eight. The table we have now is a heavy, wooden square large enough to accommodate family and friends together. It exudes the warmth of natural materials and solid, simple craftsmanship. This table – as is true for the many others my family has gathered round – symbolizes “home” to me.
After all, dining tables must be the ultimate representation of a family’s life. This is where my son does homework and my husband sets up his laptop. This is the place for hours-long games of Monopoly, Scattergories, and Sorry. This is where I spread out sewing projects and painting supplies. This is the place we fold laundry, piece together puzzles, doodle while talking on the phone, and repeatedly shoo the cats off of. The family dining table is so much more than a place to eat including desk, gift-wrapping station, and toy hospital. It is the one piece of end-all, be-all furniture in our household.
Funny, the last thing we actually do there is eat, but that’s important, too. The table is the site of birthday celebrations, six-course dinner parties, and steaming bowls of soup for ailing family members. Many of my best memories revolve around the dinner table – my father regaling us with stories of Catholic school, my mother talking about living in Sierra Blanca, my brother making cowboy hats and pistols from tin foil. These childhood memories give rise to thoughts of hosting Christmas dinner, of my son playing with a chocolate cupcake on his first birthday, of potluck suppers served amid raucous laughter. We have spilled wine, chicken soup, and tears across stain-release tablecloths and napkins, which is why wherever my loved ones gather for a meal or to play, to work, to talk, is home to me.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Would You Like Frustration With That?
Why is it that some people like restaurant food more than home cooked fare? I don't mean people who would rather eat in a restaurant because they don't want to cook. I mean people who have nothing to do but enjoy the fruits of another's labor or be treated to dinner. Either way the person eating didn't have to cook, clean up, or pay. So why would that person prefer to eat out?
This question only tickles at the edge of my brain when my son picks at something I've made, yet would devour it if I had picked it up in a box as take out. For example, last night I was hankering for something Italian. I didn't want the plain old spaghetti dinner, so I dove into the fridge and emerged with an eggplant, yellow squash, zucchini, and mozzarella cheese. Considering the wholesome goodness of these basic ingredients, I can't see how anything made of them could be bad. So I cut the veggies into bite-sized pieces, dipped them in a bath of milk and beaten egg, and rolled them in a mixture of crushed corn flakes, Panko bread crumbs, salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning. Following this process I spread them across two cookie sheets and baked them at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. At the end of this period I created three layers of the crispy-coated tender vegetables with pasta sauce and mozzarella cheese, and baked that concoction at 350 for another 30 minutes. The result was a luscious, full-bodied meal in which the vegetables melded with their coating, the sauce, and cheese to create a beautiful casserole.
This dish was served up with some hot, buttered noodles. My son, a fan of Italian food who would have devoured this had it come with a price tag of 9.99 in an individual ramekin at Olive Garden, picked at a few bites, complained he wasn't hungry, and sat staring at his plate through dinner. Ostensibly, his stomach hurt, but over the years I have learned that is code for, "This isn't what I want to eat."
This trick has never gotten him anything, to be sure. Since he was a small child, my son has been given the same food my husband and I eat. If he didn't eat it, he was allowed to be hungry. This may sound cruel, but giving in to a child's whims on cuisine is just not in my repertoire. I refused then (and now) to make a pan of macaroni and cheese, slap together a sandwich, or offer a bowl of oatmeal when a perfectly acceptable dinner is on the table. So, I'm not really sure where my son learned to be finicky, but it does vex me.
Perhaps it is a control issue - he doesn't eat because he is peeved. Perhaps it is a teenager thing - he doesn't eat because he doesn't really know what he wants at any given moment. Perhaps it is a stress indicator - he doesn't eat because he's worried about school or friends. Whichever of the million possible explanations it truly is, I always have this nagging feeling that he doesn't eat it to spite me. In reality, that's an egocentric view since it presumes that I have that much control over his feelings - which I don't. (Have I mentioned he's nearly 15?)
Either way, last night was one of those evenings. After dinner he disappeared into the cavernous basement to play a video game. An hour later, he appeared in the kitchen digging through the cupboard in search of canned ravioli. When I pointed out that we had leftovers, he shrugged and apologized. "You know I still love you, Mom," he said. "I just want the ravioli." Go figure.
This question only tickles at the edge of my brain when my son picks at something I've made, yet would devour it if I had picked it up in a box as take out. For example, last night I was hankering for something Italian. I didn't want the plain old spaghetti dinner, so I dove into the fridge and emerged with an eggplant, yellow squash, zucchini, and mozzarella cheese. Considering the wholesome goodness of these basic ingredients, I can't see how anything made of them could be bad. So I cut the veggies into bite-sized pieces, dipped them in a bath of milk and beaten egg, and rolled them in a mixture of crushed corn flakes, Panko bread crumbs, salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning. Following this process I spread them across two cookie sheets and baked them at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. At the end of this period I created three layers of the crispy-coated tender vegetables with pasta sauce and mozzarella cheese, and baked that concoction at 350 for another 30 minutes. The result was a luscious, full-bodied meal in which the vegetables melded with their coating, the sauce, and cheese to create a beautiful casserole.
This dish was served up with some hot, buttered noodles. My son, a fan of Italian food who would have devoured this had it come with a price tag of 9.99 in an individual ramekin at Olive Garden, picked at a few bites, complained he wasn't hungry, and sat staring at his plate through dinner. Ostensibly, his stomach hurt, but over the years I have learned that is code for, "This isn't what I want to eat."
This trick has never gotten him anything, to be sure. Since he was a small child, my son has been given the same food my husband and I eat. If he didn't eat it, he was allowed to be hungry. This may sound cruel, but giving in to a child's whims on cuisine is just not in my repertoire. I refused then (and now) to make a pan of macaroni and cheese, slap together a sandwich, or offer a bowl of oatmeal when a perfectly acceptable dinner is on the table. So, I'm not really sure where my son learned to be finicky, but it does vex me.
Perhaps it is a control issue - he doesn't eat because he is peeved. Perhaps it is a teenager thing - he doesn't eat because he doesn't really know what he wants at any given moment. Perhaps it is a stress indicator - he doesn't eat because he's worried about school or friends. Whichever of the million possible explanations it truly is, I always have this nagging feeling that he doesn't eat it to spite me. In reality, that's an egocentric view since it presumes that I have that much control over his feelings - which I don't. (Have I mentioned he's nearly 15?)
Either way, last night was one of those evenings. After dinner he disappeared into the cavernous basement to play a video game. An hour later, he appeared in the kitchen digging through the cupboard in search of canned ravioli. When I pointed out that we had leftovers, he shrugged and apologized. "You know I still love you, Mom," he said. "I just want the ravioli." Go figure.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
To Meat or Not to Meat; That Is the Question
I have a confession to make. For the last four or five years I have been a vegetarian - sort of. I have continued to eat fish on a regular basis, but chicken, beef, pork, and the like have been off the menu. The problem is I've been craving the stuff lately.
A couple of weeks ago I began considering culinary school, and oddly enough one of the first thoughts that came to mind was, "I'll have to eat meat." This sounds strange, I know, being forced to eat non-vegetable food stuffs might be some kind of punishment - or reward. As a rule, meat has never been at the top of my list for oral gratification. I adore spices and sauces, fruits and sorbets, vegetables and cheeses. When meat was part of the picture, it was never the star, simply the supporting cast member that made the wonderfulness possible. Then, I became a mom and empathy for every living thing in the world multiplied by a million. How could I eat that poor cow or pig? Isn't it really akin to cooking my loving pet for dinner? Just look in any animal's eyes and tell me it can't feel. More and more often I couldn't pick up the steak or chicken at the grocery, and I couldn't even take a bite of my husband's during a dinner out. At some point I stopped eating animals altogether, for awhile.
That foray into vegetarianism lasted the first five years of my son's life, but something happened. Somewhere along the way I began to hanker for a bite of hickory smoked bacon or a slice of the sugar-cured holiday ham that graced my buffet table every Christmas. I began to consider how much better the biscuits would be crumbled and smothered in peppery sausage gravy. The chicken breasts my husband lined up on the grill for our Fourth of July guests smelled heavenly as they dripped their smoky-sweet marinade onto the smoldering coals. Eventually, I gave it to my baser instincts and began eating meat once again.
Over time, though, I found myself becoming dissatisfied with the treatment of farm animals and the addition of hormones and chemicals to meat products. Once again, I began eating less and less until I stopped completely, which is how I've lived in recent years. However, my resolve is beginning to slip. The thought of slow-cooker pork barbecue sandwiches makes me salivate. The mention of spicy orange chicken with confetti rice fires my imagination. Every time I turn on Food Network, I can almost smell the sizzling meat that glistens on my television screen.
So what's a cook with a conscience to do? Vegetables just aren't inspiring me these days, but meat seems inhumane. The idea of "humane meat" is not new, but it has been slow in catching on. The Certified Humane Raised and Handled label is backed by many non-profit agencies including the Humane Society of the United States and the ASPCA. The problem is that not many stores carry the products. (The website offers a list of stores and restaurants by state.) So, if certified humane meat is not readily available in a given area, the next option is to order it online. (The Certified Humane website also offers a list of companies complete with links to their own websites.) In theory this sounds like a good idea, but in reality I am skeptical. Presumably the products will be frozen, and should be able to be shipped fairly quickly, but common sense indicates they will thaw in transit. In addition, living in southern Arizona presents a more intense heat/defrost problem than most places in the country. The cost, too, seems high at $6 to $10 per pound before tax and shipping. When the whole point of eating at home is to save money, it feels counterproductive to buy meat this way. My conscience says it might be worth the price, but my wallet says we can't afford it.
So, what is a basically vegetarian girl to do? Perhaps moderation is the key. After all, Ben Franklin said everything was fine in moderation. I'll continue mulling this question, but I suspect a meat dish is in my near future. Sorry Bessy.
A couple of weeks ago I began considering culinary school, and oddly enough one of the first thoughts that came to mind was, "I'll have to eat meat." This sounds strange, I know, being forced to eat non-vegetable food stuffs might be some kind of punishment - or reward. As a rule, meat has never been at the top of my list for oral gratification. I adore spices and sauces, fruits and sorbets, vegetables and cheeses. When meat was part of the picture, it was never the star, simply the supporting cast member that made the wonderfulness possible. Then, I became a mom and empathy for every living thing in the world multiplied by a million. How could I eat that poor cow or pig? Isn't it really akin to cooking my loving pet for dinner? Just look in any animal's eyes and tell me it can't feel. More and more often I couldn't pick up the steak or chicken at the grocery, and I couldn't even take a bite of my husband's during a dinner out. At some point I stopped eating animals altogether, for awhile.
That foray into vegetarianism lasted the first five years of my son's life, but something happened. Somewhere along the way I began to hanker for a bite of hickory smoked bacon or a slice of the sugar-cured holiday ham that graced my buffet table every Christmas. I began to consider how much better the biscuits would be crumbled and smothered in peppery sausage gravy. The chicken breasts my husband lined up on the grill for our Fourth of July guests smelled heavenly as they dripped their smoky-sweet marinade onto the smoldering coals. Eventually, I gave it to my baser instincts and began eating meat once again.
Over time, though, I found myself becoming dissatisfied with the treatment of farm animals and the addition of hormones and chemicals to meat products. Once again, I began eating less and less until I stopped completely, which is how I've lived in recent years. However, my resolve is beginning to slip. The thought of slow-cooker pork barbecue sandwiches makes me salivate. The mention of spicy orange chicken with confetti rice fires my imagination. Every time I turn on Food Network, I can almost smell the sizzling meat that glistens on my television screen.
So what's a cook with a conscience to do? Vegetables just aren't inspiring me these days, but meat seems inhumane. The idea of "humane meat" is not new, but it has been slow in catching on. The Certified Humane Raised and Handled label is backed by many non-profit agencies including the Humane Society of the United States and the ASPCA. The problem is that not many stores carry the products. (The website offers a list of stores and restaurants by state.) So, if certified humane meat is not readily available in a given area, the next option is to order it online. (The Certified Humane website also offers a list of companies complete with links to their own websites.) In theory this sounds like a good idea, but in reality I am skeptical. Presumably the products will be frozen, and should be able to be shipped fairly quickly, but common sense indicates they will thaw in transit. In addition, living in southern Arizona presents a more intense heat/defrost problem than most places in the country. The cost, too, seems high at $6 to $10 per pound before tax and shipping. When the whole point of eating at home is to save money, it feels counterproductive to buy meat this way. My conscience says it might be worth the price, but my wallet says we can't afford it.
So, what is a basically vegetarian girl to do? Perhaps moderation is the key. After all, Ben Franklin said everything was fine in moderation. I'll continue mulling this question, but I suspect a meat dish is in my near future. Sorry Bessy.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Try, Try Again
Just yesterday we were patting ourselves on the back for having spent only $22.77 over the course of two weeks, and today we fell off the wagon straight into plates full of fried rice at Panda Express.
We left home with good intentions, having eaten a breakfast of homemade waffles, baked apples, and bacon. We even picked up cans of soda before our outing. Having fallen for the free 30-day trial membership hook, we headed to a DirectBuy presentation. By the time it was all over, we walked away from the trial membership just to escape the pressure tactics, but that is another story. Feeling annoyed and slightly used and abused we decided to make a pit stop at the mall to look at shoes. Of course, as we made our way to the shopping Mecca, stomachs began to rumble. We probably should have stopped at QT for a snack since that is always the least expensive option, but I didn't want to eat junk, but by the time all was spooned and plated, I probably consumed just as many calories at the mall.
The food court is a wondrous thing. Where else can a person choose from ten types of cuisine within twenty steps of each other? Though I do have to wonder if property managers and designers actually think mall food courts are enticing. There were large screen televisions dropping from the ceiling around the perimeter of the seats so noshers could watch music videos and advertisements. At the same time, echoing kitchen sounds competed with the music and voices for aural dominance. The overall affect was one of frenzied movement and a dull roar which was impossible to talk over without shouting. Still, our tummies demanded food and we surveyed the choices carefully. My husband and son made a bee-line for one of their favorites - Panda Express. I meandered the circuit waiting for something to catch my fancy. I studied pictures of brightly colored food swimming in a variety of sauces at Japanese, Mexican, and Italian cafe fronts. A couple of deli-style sandwich places smelled of seasoned fries and Philly cheese steak. Even the old-fashioned Hot Dog on a Stick had updated its menu with vegetarian corn dogs. I contemplated each place before moving to the next, and finally found myself back at Panda Express where the guys were paying.
When they arrived at the nearby table I had chosen, my husband offered to share his meal since I hadn't found anything to my liking. He reasoned this would save both money and calories, which made sense. So we ate our fried rice and vegetable spring rolls without shouting over the ambient noise before moving on to books, shoes, and other shopping goodies. The sad part is it wasn't that good. There was nothing wrong with the food; it just wasn't interesting. As we tossed the paper plates into the trash, I made a mental note to pack a cooler even if we don't think we're going to want it. So, today's lesson is live and learn. Tomorrow, we'll get back on the budget horse and eat from the trough at home.
We left home with good intentions, having eaten a breakfast of homemade waffles, baked apples, and bacon. We even picked up cans of soda before our outing. Having fallen for the free 30-day trial membership hook, we headed to a DirectBuy presentation. By the time it was all over, we walked away from the trial membership just to escape the pressure tactics, but that is another story. Feeling annoyed and slightly used and abused we decided to make a pit stop at the mall to look at shoes. Of course, as we made our way to the shopping Mecca, stomachs began to rumble. We probably should have stopped at QT for a snack since that is always the least expensive option, but I didn't want to eat junk, but by the time all was spooned and plated, I probably consumed just as many calories at the mall.
The food court is a wondrous thing. Where else can a person choose from ten types of cuisine within twenty steps of each other? Though I do have to wonder if property managers and designers actually think mall food courts are enticing. There were large screen televisions dropping from the ceiling around the perimeter of the seats so noshers could watch music videos and advertisements. At the same time, echoing kitchen sounds competed with the music and voices for aural dominance. The overall affect was one of frenzied movement and a dull roar which was impossible to talk over without shouting. Still, our tummies demanded food and we surveyed the choices carefully. My husband and son made a bee-line for one of their favorites - Panda Express. I meandered the circuit waiting for something to catch my fancy. I studied pictures of brightly colored food swimming in a variety of sauces at Japanese, Mexican, and Italian cafe fronts. A couple of deli-style sandwich places smelled of seasoned fries and Philly cheese steak. Even the old-fashioned Hot Dog on a Stick had updated its menu with vegetarian corn dogs. I contemplated each place before moving to the next, and finally found myself back at Panda Express where the guys were paying.
When they arrived at the nearby table I had chosen, my husband offered to share his meal since I hadn't found anything to my liking. He reasoned this would save both money and calories, which made sense. So we ate our fried rice and vegetable spring rolls without shouting over the ambient noise before moving on to books, shoes, and other shopping goodies. The sad part is it wasn't that good. There was nothing wrong with the food; it just wasn't interesting. As we tossed the paper plates into the trash, I made a mental note to pack a cooler even if we don't think we're going to want it. So, today's lesson is live and learn. Tomorrow, we'll get back on the budget horse and eat from the trough at home.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Two Weeks Down, Fifty to Go
Today marks the end of the second week of our Eat at Home Project. We have spent a little over half of the money we budgeted for eating out, and we feel pretty good about that accomplishment. As my husband and I trekked through the grocery store this evening, we discussed whether or not we missed fast food. Jeff said he hasn't missed it at all, and as an added benefit he's lost a few pounds from not eating all the junk. I, too, have lost a few pounds, but probably because I'm tracking the calories, though upon further contemplation I get many more bites for the buck at home than I would at the local drive-thru. I have to admit, though, that I kind of miss it. I miss the five-minute detour that means I don't have to go home and cook something after working all day. I miss the reward factor of making it through a tough day and hearing Jeff say, "Let me buy you dinner." Mind you, I don't miss it enough to go back to spending the money we were forking over weekly, but I do have to say that some nights are more difficult than others. Is there a 12-step program for recovering fast-food addicts? Should I join a support group for women who actually cook dinner? Sometimes I wonder.
I'm still figuring out the best way to cope with my convenience cravings. So far, pizza night in the middle of the week has been the best strategy since any one of us can open the boxes, turn on the oven, and set the timer. With this thought in my head, I looked over the freezer section carefully tonight. Should we get some beer-battered fish? What about a frozen lasagna? Unfortunately for me, I look at all the food and think, "This is expensive, and my version is at least twice as good." So we drove home with sacks full of fruit, natural cheese, and fresh vegetables instead of pre-made, homogenized, chemically-enhanced casseroles. For this my brain and my stomach join forces in a chorus of "I love you, food!" - at least for today. By Wednesday, the two will be arguing about whose idea it was to plan on cooking every night instead of using the microwave. Perhaps, in the long run, my waistline will thank me and the other parts will fall in line, like good little soldiers. Until then, I'll keep taking the Eat at Home Project one day at a time.
I'm still figuring out the best way to cope with my convenience cravings. So far, pizza night in the middle of the week has been the best strategy since any one of us can open the boxes, turn on the oven, and set the timer. With this thought in my head, I looked over the freezer section carefully tonight. Should we get some beer-battered fish? What about a frozen lasagna? Unfortunately for me, I look at all the food and think, "This is expensive, and my version is at least twice as good." So we drove home with sacks full of fruit, natural cheese, and fresh vegetables instead of pre-made, homogenized, chemically-enhanced casseroles. For this my brain and my stomach join forces in a chorus of "I love you, food!" - at least for today. By Wednesday, the two will be arguing about whose idea it was to plan on cooking every night instead of using the microwave. Perhaps, in the long run, my waistline will thank me and the other parts will fall in line, like good little soldiers. Until then, I'll keep taking the Eat at Home Project one day at a time.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
My Son is a "Fungi"
Meal time is a big deal at our house. Not that we have a linen table cloth, shiny charger plates, or sparkling crystal on a daily basis - we don't. What we do have is time to talk - every day.
Week days begin with breakfast for everyone. We don't all eat the same things, but we do eat together. While my son blows the steam from his oatmeal and waits for his sausage to cool, I pour glasses of juice and distribute vitamins all around. My husband joins us within a few minutes, standing next to his chair while he finishes fussing with his tie. At that point, I have a couple of plates of doctored eggs and toast to put down so we can all start the day off well. During the hubbub that precedes the actual eating, we catch snippets of the news, query whomever was in the kitchen about the weather forecast, and push each other headlong into the day with, "I'd like to go a few minutes early; I have a meeting." or "Mom, can I get off the bus at Alec's house after school?" Breakfast is pretty hectic, but we all manage to start each day together.
Likewise, we end it the same way. Sometimes we eat our dinner in the theater watching a DVD (especially on pizza night), but we all gather for the making of dinner. It's funny, because when I was a kid making dinner seemed an independent task assigned to Mom alone. Sure, we wandered through the kitchen sometimes to check the progress of the meal, as in "How long until dinner? I'm starved!" or "Do I have time to call Theresa?" But we didn't generally spend the prep time in the kitchen, though we did come together for dinner every night. Even on date night, we were generally expected to eat at home unless we were specifically going out to dinner with someone, which was rare indeed. If my brother or I wanted a date to start before our normal dinner time, the other party would have to join us for the meal. (You can imagine this didn't happen often, since teens seldom want their significant others to watch them eat, so perish the thought of eating at home complete with siblings and parents!)
But it's different at our house. The meal itself may not be accompanied by in-depth conversation because the cooking time probably was. When I walk into the kitchen to start dinner (or make cookies, or look for a snack, even) my son seems to miraculously appear from the basement. Since I don't fix dinner at a set time every night, it can't be that he watches the clock. He just knows when I'm in the kitchen. These days he bounds up the stairs carrying his guitar which he quietly picks at and plays with while he recounts the events of the day. I get a rundown, class by class, of academic activities and smart alec comments his friends made. His stories of lunch are generally hilarious since he and his friends loudly recite their favorite You Tube videos, quote strange songs, chase each other across the quad, and duel with sporks. I'm sure all this frivolity must be counterproductive to the serious nature of education, but I'm happy that a 6'2" almost 15-year-old can still be a kid.
In addition to his daily play-by-play, my son throws out random facts about whatever I'm cooking. Tonight I made mushroom stroganoff so he told me strange things about mushrooms like why they grow in circles after it rains, why those circles are called fairy rings, and that the fungus part is really what is underground, not the mushroom itself. He even mentioned that the world's largest fungus is over four miles long and growing in Oregon. I haven't verified this information, so don't take it as the gospel truth. One of my son's best traits is his ability to entertain (which he gets from dear old Dad). Thus, he intersperses odd facts that he picked up from books or Discovery channel shows with things that sound good, even if they aren't true. As his dad always says, "It makes a good story." Those stories are now synonymous with dinner time at our house. Eating together is only a small part of the fun. It's the pre-dinner show that I enjoy most, and if I hang around the kitchen after dinner - perhaps contemplating a batch of cookies before T.V. time - I get an encore performance. Hmm... It's show time.
Week days begin with breakfast for everyone. We don't all eat the same things, but we do eat together. While my son blows the steam from his oatmeal and waits for his sausage to cool, I pour glasses of juice and distribute vitamins all around. My husband joins us within a few minutes, standing next to his chair while he finishes fussing with his tie. At that point, I have a couple of plates of doctored eggs and toast to put down so we can all start the day off well. During the hubbub that precedes the actual eating, we catch snippets of the news, query whomever was in the kitchen about the weather forecast, and push each other headlong into the day with, "I'd like to go a few minutes early; I have a meeting." or "Mom, can I get off the bus at Alec's house after school?" Breakfast is pretty hectic, but we all manage to start each day together.
Likewise, we end it the same way. Sometimes we eat our dinner in the theater watching a DVD (especially on pizza night), but we all gather for the making of dinner. It's funny, because when I was a kid making dinner seemed an independent task assigned to Mom alone. Sure, we wandered through the kitchen sometimes to check the progress of the meal, as in "How long until dinner? I'm starved!" or "Do I have time to call Theresa?" But we didn't generally spend the prep time in the kitchen, though we did come together for dinner every night. Even on date night, we were generally expected to eat at home unless we were specifically going out to dinner with someone, which was rare indeed. If my brother or I wanted a date to start before our normal dinner time, the other party would have to join us for the meal. (You can imagine this didn't happen often, since teens seldom want their significant others to watch them eat, so perish the thought of eating at home complete with siblings and parents!)
But it's different at our house. The meal itself may not be accompanied by in-depth conversation because the cooking time probably was. When I walk into the kitchen to start dinner (or make cookies, or look for a snack, even) my son seems to miraculously appear from the basement. Since I don't fix dinner at a set time every night, it can't be that he watches the clock. He just knows when I'm in the kitchen. These days he bounds up the stairs carrying his guitar which he quietly picks at and plays with while he recounts the events of the day. I get a rundown, class by class, of academic activities and smart alec comments his friends made. His stories of lunch are generally hilarious since he and his friends loudly recite their favorite You Tube videos, quote strange songs, chase each other across the quad, and duel with sporks. I'm sure all this frivolity must be counterproductive to the serious nature of education, but I'm happy that a 6'2" almost 15-year-old can still be a kid.
In addition to his daily play-by-play, my son throws out random facts about whatever I'm cooking. Tonight I made mushroom stroganoff so he told me strange things about mushrooms like why they grow in circles after it rains, why those circles are called fairy rings, and that the fungus part is really what is underground, not the mushroom itself. He even mentioned that the world's largest fungus is over four miles long and growing in Oregon. I haven't verified this information, so don't take it as the gospel truth. One of my son's best traits is his ability to entertain (which he gets from dear old Dad). Thus, he intersperses odd facts that he picked up from books or Discovery channel shows with things that sound good, even if they aren't true. As his dad always says, "It makes a good story." Those stories are now synonymous with dinner time at our house. Eating together is only a small part of the fun. It's the pre-dinner show that I enjoy most, and if I hang around the kitchen after dinner - perhaps contemplating a batch of cookies before T.V. time - I get an encore performance. Hmm... It's show time.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Leftovers Never Die - They Just Change Color and Crawl Away
Tuesday was leftover night, which usually means a collective groan from the family. Somehow, though, last night was different. I pulled out Spaghetti Western, grilled burger patties, vegetable pot pie, and pasta fagouli, arranging them artfully across the sparkling black counter top, enticing each of us to choose a favorite for dinner. Well, not really. In reality, I pulled out the leftovers, put them on the island and said, "What do you want?"
My I'll-eat-anything-in-a-restaurant son, who usually sniffs disdainfully at leftovers cordially opted for Spaghetti Western, as did I. Thanks to our handy-dandy microwave, we were happily feasting in three minutes flat, which brings me to the crux of the problem with leftovers - the microwave. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my under-the-cabinet model for any other appliance in the kitchen. I use it daily to make breakfast - pulling out oatmeal, sausage patties, and eggs in mere moments. It is my friend at snack time when I'm hankering for nachos or popcorn. It helps prep chocolate for dipping, appetizers for party nights, and a host of frozen foods when we're in a hurry. One thing it does not do, though, is make leftovers better.
In the pre-microwave era, leftovers required imagination, skill, prowess. Cooks were forced to consider what they could turn those leftovers into rather than tossing them into the magic box for miraculous reheating. Monday's leftover rice became Tuesday's rice pudding. Wednesday's spaghetti sauce became Thursday's sloppy joes. Friday's vegetables with cheese topped Saturday's pizza crust. Ah yes, leftovers were once things to be reckoned with - even Frankenstein's monster was made from leftovers. Now, they are simply the remnants of yesteray's dinner stuffed into a plastic container for today's lunch. How boring it is to eat that same meal over and over again. No wonder my son isn't fond of leftovers. Still, they seem to be a necessity. I can't bring myself to throw away perfectly good food, even if I am tired of eating it for lunch every day. Wasting leftovers is just not in my nature, especially after I cooked the meal to begin with.
Perhaps learning to eat leftovers is something that has to be ingrained in our youthful psyches. For example, when we were first married, my husband threw away the remnants of a delicious dinner, and I nearly panicked. I'd never met anyone who didn't eat leftovers, so I was shocked - dismayed, even, at the idea that he did not plan to finish what I had cooked. When he was growing up, leftovers sat in the fridge until they changed color, grew hair, and were eventually fed to the garbage disposal with one hand while holding your nose with the other. So, he reasoned, he should simply skip the middle steps and toss them at the git-go. I, on the other hand, had grown up with a frugal mom who knew that tonight's meatloaf could become something else tomorrow and no one would be the wiser - at least not until we were old enough to no longer care.
Now, I regard leftovers with a mixture of relief and dread. I'm always relieved that there is something to toss in my lunchbox, but I dread eating the same thing several days in a row. It's the catch-22 of culinary life.
My I'll-eat-anything-in-a-restaurant son, who usually sniffs disdainfully at leftovers cordially opted for Spaghetti Western, as did I. Thanks to our handy-dandy microwave, we were happily feasting in three minutes flat, which brings me to the crux of the problem with leftovers - the microwave. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my under-the-cabinet model for any other appliance in the kitchen. I use it daily to make breakfast - pulling out oatmeal, sausage patties, and eggs in mere moments. It is my friend at snack time when I'm hankering for nachos or popcorn. It helps prep chocolate for dipping, appetizers for party nights, and a host of frozen foods when we're in a hurry. One thing it does not do, though, is make leftovers better.
In the pre-microwave era, leftovers required imagination, skill, prowess. Cooks were forced to consider what they could turn those leftovers into rather than tossing them into the magic box for miraculous reheating. Monday's leftover rice became Tuesday's rice pudding. Wednesday's spaghetti sauce became Thursday's sloppy joes. Friday's vegetables with cheese topped Saturday's pizza crust. Ah yes, leftovers were once things to be reckoned with - even Frankenstein's monster was made from leftovers. Now, they are simply the remnants of yesteray's dinner stuffed into a plastic container for today's lunch. How boring it is to eat that same meal over and over again. No wonder my son isn't fond of leftovers. Still, they seem to be a necessity. I can't bring myself to throw away perfectly good food, even if I am tired of eating it for lunch every day. Wasting leftovers is just not in my nature, especially after I cooked the meal to begin with.
Perhaps learning to eat leftovers is something that has to be ingrained in our youthful psyches. For example, when we were first married, my husband threw away the remnants of a delicious dinner, and I nearly panicked. I'd never met anyone who didn't eat leftovers, so I was shocked - dismayed, even, at the idea that he did not plan to finish what I had cooked. When he was growing up, leftovers sat in the fridge until they changed color, grew hair, and were eventually fed to the garbage disposal with one hand while holding your nose with the other. So, he reasoned, he should simply skip the middle steps and toss them at the git-go. I, on the other hand, had grown up with a frugal mom who knew that tonight's meatloaf could become something else tomorrow and no one would be the wiser - at least not until we were old enough to no longer care.
Now, I regard leftovers with a mixture of relief and dread. I'm always relieved that there is something to toss in my lunchbox, but I dread eating the same thing several days in a row. It's the catch-22 of culinary life.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Failure is an Option
I often fail at cooking, though people I’ve entertained probably wouldn’t believe so. Actually, one of the best things about cooking is having permission to fail and try again.
I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”
My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.
This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.
Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)
Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.
There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.
I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”
My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.
This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.
Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)
Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.
There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.
Monday, January 18, 2010
All Washed Up
We have been fighting with our dishwasher for over a month. Actually, my husband has been fighting with it. If an appliance doesn't work, I can't fix it. But, I don't want to buy a new one either. "Oh, Jeefff..." Yup. He's the resident handyman, and usually when he does battle with some malfunctioning THING, he wins - but not today.
Not long before Christmas the dishwasher - which we upgraded and had installed when we built this house four years ago - stopped cleaning. Jeff examined the mechanized box and decided we should call a repairman. If he says it's time to get professional help, I believe him. So, a GE technician appeared at our house, replaced a part, lectured us on water temperature and correct operation of an appliance that we had managed to operate well for several years, and left; but not before charging us $200 in parts and labor. We consoled ourselves with the idea that it would cost much more to replace the item, and we had made the right decision. Au contraire mon frere!
Over the ensuing month or so, GE sent a technician three more times, because the blasted piece of machinery still wouldn't function correctly. (Actually, we wanted our money back, but GE wouldn't refund it, only send someone else to fix it.) Each time Jeff spent 45 minutes or more arguing with someone on the phone about whether we should pay for another service call. (We did not, but only because he was so persistent.) Each time the technician arrived, made a minor adjustment, lectured us on water temperature and operation (must be something they learn by rote during training), and assured us the dishwasher was operating at its fullest potential. Each time, it worked for a few days, and then something else went wrong. Yesterday was the last straw. Jeff pulled the entire contraption out from under the cabinet, checked all the hoses and drains, located and tightened a loose connection, and pronounced it fixed. Happily we loaded dishes into the shiny, black box throughout the day, and switched it on after dinner. Unfortunately, when it went off just before bedtime, there was water standing in the bottom. (One of the recurring problems the techs hadn't been able to fix, either.)
Thus, we ventured out in search of a new dishwasher. The process entailed three stores and three hours. At one point hunger and frustration overtook us, and we stopped at Quick Trip for sodas and snacks. Luckily, we walked out having spent only $3.77.
Ultimately, we purchased a middle-of-the-road model, but some were so expensive that it would be cheaper to purchase slave-labor from a third world country to do the dishes. Seriously, $1500 for a dishwasher? For that price it ought to cook the dinner, load itself, and wipe the cabinets when it's done.
And then there were the low-end models. These were servicable, but were much louder and took more money to operate. My question is, if we have the technology to make appliances quiet and energy efficient, why build one that isn't? I can see paying more for bells and whistles like adjustable tubs and extra cycles, but why charge more to build something the way it should be built in the first place? Needless to say, the shopping experience was frustrating on many levels, not to mention the installation process.
Originally, my plan for today was to clean-out and reorganize the kitchen cabinets, so I took the opportunity to look over cabinet organizers at the home improvement store. Upon further contemplation, though, my husband pointed out that if we reworked the storage area downstairs, there would be plenty of room for my seldom-used-but-still-wanted appliances. We agreed to begin that project as soon as the dishwasher is installed. Now, I can't decided if I've been granted a reprieve from cleaning out the kitchen or I've been snookered into creating a man-cave in the storage room, complete with tool bench and pegboards. Hmm...
Not long before Christmas the dishwasher - which we upgraded and had installed when we built this house four years ago - stopped cleaning. Jeff examined the mechanized box and decided we should call a repairman. If he says it's time to get professional help, I believe him. So, a GE technician appeared at our house, replaced a part, lectured us on water temperature and correct operation of an appliance that we had managed to operate well for several years, and left; but not before charging us $200 in parts and labor. We consoled ourselves with the idea that it would cost much more to replace the item, and we had made the right decision. Au contraire mon frere!
Over the ensuing month or so, GE sent a technician three more times, because the blasted piece of machinery still wouldn't function correctly. (Actually, we wanted our money back, but GE wouldn't refund it, only send someone else to fix it.) Each time Jeff spent 45 minutes or more arguing with someone on the phone about whether we should pay for another service call. (We did not, but only because he was so persistent.) Each time the technician arrived, made a minor adjustment, lectured us on water temperature and operation (must be something they learn by rote during training), and assured us the dishwasher was operating at its fullest potential. Each time, it worked for a few days, and then something else went wrong. Yesterday was the last straw. Jeff pulled the entire contraption out from under the cabinet, checked all the hoses and drains, located and tightened a loose connection, and pronounced it fixed. Happily we loaded dishes into the shiny, black box throughout the day, and switched it on after dinner. Unfortunately, when it went off just before bedtime, there was water standing in the bottom. (One of the recurring problems the techs hadn't been able to fix, either.)
Thus, we ventured out in search of a new dishwasher. The process entailed three stores and three hours. At one point hunger and frustration overtook us, and we stopped at Quick Trip for sodas and snacks. Luckily, we walked out having spent only $3.77.
Ultimately, we purchased a middle-of-the-road model, but some were so expensive that it would be cheaper to purchase slave-labor from a third world country to do the dishes. Seriously, $1500 for a dishwasher? For that price it ought to cook the dinner, load itself, and wipe the cabinets when it's done.
And then there were the low-end models. These were servicable, but were much louder and took more money to operate. My question is, if we have the technology to make appliances quiet and energy efficient, why build one that isn't? I can see paying more for bells and whistles like adjustable tubs and extra cycles, but why charge more to build something the way it should be built in the first place? Needless to say, the shopping experience was frustrating on many levels, not to mention the installation process.
Originally, my plan for today was to clean-out and reorganize the kitchen cabinets, so I took the opportunity to look over cabinet organizers at the home improvement store. Upon further contemplation, though, my husband pointed out that if we reworked the storage area downstairs, there would be plenty of room for my seldom-used-but-still-wanted appliances. We agreed to begin that project as soon as the dishwasher is installed. Now, I can't decided if I've been granted a reprieve from cleaning out the kitchen or I've been snookered into creating a man-cave in the storage room, complete with tool bench and pegboards. Hmm...
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Pie Isn't Always Better on the Other Side of the Oven
Last night my family ate our dinner at home before heading to a local theater to see a community production of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. We feasted on marinated ahi tuna grilled to perfection, saffron rice, and a crisp, green salad - simple and delicious. The plan, of course, was to eat dinner at home, and then go out for dessert after the show.
One of our favorite past times following a show is to pick apart the production as we delve into a sugary confection, so at 9:45 p.m. we pulled into the parking lot of a Village Inn complete with window paint boasting, "We're Open Late," and "Try Our Pie" - exactly what the back-seat director ordered. My son and I ordered strawberry-rhubarb, while my husband went for the decadence of white chocolate cherry mousse filling. By the time we pressed the last crumbs of pastry with our forks, swigged the final draught of coffee, and tipped the waitress, the bill hit $19. As we folded ourselves into the car for the short drive home, my husband said, "Well, was it worth it?"
"No," was the immediate answer on my lips, and so crumbled the rest of our theater night tradition. We agreed that next month - when we see I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change - we will be heading home for a decadent dessert. Even our son agreed that while the pie was good, it was not worth the price, nor was it better than anything I could make at home. While my first thought was that we could just buy a nice frozen pie at the grocery and bake it before heading to the theater, the idea that even my son recognizes the value of eating home deserves something special. I have several weeks to mull it over, but I'm leaning toward a rich, gooey mud pie complete with ice cream, carmel, and chocolate - the perfect complement to a steaming cup of coffee or vanilla tea. I can hardly wait!
One of our favorite past times following a show is to pick apart the production as we delve into a sugary confection, so at 9:45 p.m. we pulled into the parking lot of a Village Inn complete with window paint boasting, "We're Open Late," and "Try Our Pie" - exactly what the back-seat director ordered. My son and I ordered strawberry-rhubarb, while my husband went for the decadence of white chocolate cherry mousse filling. By the time we pressed the last crumbs of pastry with our forks, swigged the final draught of coffee, and tipped the waitress, the bill hit $19. As we folded ourselves into the car for the short drive home, my husband said, "Well, was it worth it?"
"No," was the immediate answer on my lips, and so crumbled the rest of our theater night tradition. We agreed that next month - when we see I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change - we will be heading home for a decadent dessert. Even our son agreed that while the pie was good, it was not worth the price, nor was it better than anything I could make at home. While my first thought was that we could just buy a nice frozen pie at the grocery and bake it before heading to the theater, the idea that even my son recognizes the value of eating home deserves something special. I have several weeks to mull it over, but I'm leaning toward a rich, gooey mud pie complete with ice cream, carmel, and chocolate - the perfect complement to a steaming cup of coffee or vanilla tea. I can hardly wait!
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Score One for the Family
Week one of the Eat at Home Project has drawn to a close and we didn't spend any money on eating out. As little as two weeks ago I would not have believed my family could make it through seven days without stopping for coffee or hitting a fast food drive-thru on the way home from work. To celebrate - you guessed it - we're going out! Ah, the irony.
Actually, tonight we have tickets to see a local production of You're a Good Man Charlie Brown. Traditionally, we would go out to dinner before hitting the theater, and then stop for dessert and coffee afterward, giving us something to munch while we pick apart the show. This time will be different, but only slightly. We have all agreed - yes, even the teenage son - to eat dinner at home. But, we will still head out for an after-theater treat. This seemed to be a good compromise since dessert and coffee won't be nearly as expensive as dinner PLUS dessert and coffee. Perhaps we are beginning to see the error of our ways (but I'm not holding my breath).
Having reached an entire week without spending the $20 we allotted last Saturday, we had to discuss what happens to that money. Does it roll over into the next week giving us an available balance of $40? Does it go into a separate fund that we can split three ways at the end of the year? Does it stay in the bank account giving me the pleasure of seeing a higher balance every time I check it? Needless to say there were differing opinions on this subject. Ultimately, though, we agreed to roll the money over from week to week so that we could (in theory) plan ahead for larger outings, special occasions, or day trips around the area. What happens if there is any money left at the end of the year? That remains to be seen.
Friday is normally pizza night for us. But, alas, we ate our cheesy frozen pies earlier in the week, so the stove was calling my name. My husband requested pasta and sauce, but I could not leave it alone. There are, of course, many variations of this dish, and generally the more "stuff" added, the better I like it. We called the resulting dish Spaghetti Western. Of course, any vegetables you like can be added or substituted. I just happened to have squash and zucchini left in the crisper at the end of the week. Some Roma tomatoes and bell peppers would make a nice addition. (I especially like the concentrated sweetness of tomatoes after baking them in chunks.) Similarly, whatever kind of cheese you have will work, but go for a combination of flavors.
Spaghetti Western
3 cups yellow squash cut into bite-size pieces
3.5 cups zucchini cut into bite-size pieces
1.5 cups roughly chopped onions
1 Tablespoon olive oil
1 packet of fajita seasoning
12 ounces tri-color corkscrew pasta
1 jar pasta sauce
3/4 cup shredded cheddar (divided)
3/4 cup shredded mozzarella (divided)
Chipotle pepper sauce to taste
Toss the squash, zucchini, and onions with the olive oil and fajita seasoning. Spread evenly on a cookie sheet and bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, cook the pasta according to package directions.
Combine the drained pasta with the vegetable mixture, pasta sauce and 1/2 cup of each cheese. Add chipotle sauce to taste. (I like mine spunky!)
Put mixture into a large baking dish and top with remaining 1/4 cup of each cheese. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Enjoy!
Actually, tonight we have tickets to see a local production of You're a Good Man Charlie Brown. Traditionally, we would go out to dinner before hitting the theater, and then stop for dessert and coffee afterward, giving us something to munch while we pick apart the show. This time will be different, but only slightly. We have all agreed - yes, even the teenage son - to eat dinner at home. But, we will still head out for an after-theater treat. This seemed to be a good compromise since dessert and coffee won't be nearly as expensive as dinner PLUS dessert and coffee. Perhaps we are beginning to see the error of our ways (but I'm not holding my breath).
Having reached an entire week without spending the $20 we allotted last Saturday, we had to discuss what happens to that money. Does it roll over into the next week giving us an available balance of $40? Does it go into a separate fund that we can split three ways at the end of the year? Does it stay in the bank account giving me the pleasure of seeing a higher balance every time I check it? Needless to say there were differing opinions on this subject. Ultimately, though, we agreed to roll the money over from week to week so that we could (in theory) plan ahead for larger outings, special occasions, or day trips around the area. What happens if there is any money left at the end of the year? That remains to be seen.
Friday is normally pizza night for us. But, alas, we ate our cheesy frozen pies earlier in the week, so the stove was calling my name. My husband requested pasta and sauce, but I could not leave it alone. There are, of course, many variations of this dish, and generally the more "stuff" added, the better I like it. We called the resulting dish Spaghetti Western. Of course, any vegetables you like can be added or substituted. I just happened to have squash and zucchini left in the crisper at the end of the week. Some Roma tomatoes and bell peppers would make a nice addition. (I especially like the concentrated sweetness of tomatoes after baking them in chunks.) Similarly, whatever kind of cheese you have will work, but go for a combination of flavors.
Spaghetti Western
3 cups yellow squash cut into bite-size pieces
3.5 cups zucchini cut into bite-size pieces
1.5 cups roughly chopped onions
1 Tablespoon olive oil
1 packet of fajita seasoning
12 ounces tri-color corkscrew pasta
1 jar pasta sauce
3/4 cup shredded cheddar (divided)
3/4 cup shredded mozzarella (divided)
Chipotle pepper sauce to taste
Toss the squash, zucchini, and onions with the olive oil and fajita seasoning. Spread evenly on a cookie sheet and bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, cook the pasta according to package directions.
Combine the drained pasta with the vegetable mixture, pasta sauce and 1/2 cup of each cheese. Add chipotle sauce to taste. (I like mine spunky!)
Put mixture into a large baking dish and top with remaining 1/4 cup of each cheese. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Enjoy!
Friday, January 15, 2010
It's Never Too Early for Spring Cleaning
Last night we had vegetable pot pies for dinner. As I was climbing on a chair to reach my ceramic ramekins, I took inventory of the counter tops. The fruit basket and napkin holder stood to the left of the sink; the electric can opener, toaster, and coffee pot to the right. Have you ever noticed, though, that there's always something that doesn't fit in your kitchen? I like to think of my kitchen as a place of cleanliness and orderliness, but some thing always manages to spite me.
Over the last month (which held both Christmas and my birthday)I received several gifts related to my culinary pursuits including lovely aprons, collapsible colanders, a cast iron grill pan, a dehydrator, a silicone baking set, an electric can opener, a jar gadget, and a set of crock pots. When I requested these useful items, each had a home in my kitchen - or at least in the kitchen that exists in my head. The aprons hang expectantly on a gleaming hook inside my pantry door, and the colanders rest inside the punch bowl under my island. While the grill pan keeps company with the roasting racks beneath my oven, the silicone baking set easily fits into the small cabinet next to the dishwasher. Even the large, three-station crock pot set has a place to sleep in extra storage until the next department social. But my dehydrator has no home. In the well-planned, efficient kitchen of my dreams, it holds hands with the bread machine under the watchful gaze of the stand mixer. Alas, not in reality.
In reality, my kitchen appliances and gadgets are getting out of hand. My bastion of culinary civility is becoming a jumble of whisks, spoons, food processors, and serving dishes. As the drawers and cabinets become more and more disorganized, I feel a growing sense of unease with the place. It's as if the more toys I accumulate, the more pressure there is to cook something fabulous - as if I have to somehow be worthy of these modern conveniences my grandmother never had.
Somehow this feeling about my kitchen's disarray is creeping into my life. How do I live up to my good job, my nice house, my cool car? The answer is - I don't know. Perhaps that's one of the dilemmas of modern society. We have accumulated so much stuff that it crowds our lives and pressures us to continue craving, grabbing, hoarding more. The idea that I would be a better cook if only I had this gadget becomes I am a better person because I live in this neighborhood. It's all a vicious circle of wanting, getting, and wanting until our very lives are overrun with clutter.
Over 150 years ago Henry David Thoreau urged us all to "Simply! Simplify!" Guess it's time to clean out the cabinets.
Over the last month (which held both Christmas and my birthday)I received several gifts related to my culinary pursuits including lovely aprons, collapsible colanders, a cast iron grill pan, a dehydrator, a silicone baking set, an electric can opener, a jar gadget, and a set of crock pots. When I requested these useful items, each had a home in my kitchen - or at least in the kitchen that exists in my head. The aprons hang expectantly on a gleaming hook inside my pantry door, and the colanders rest inside the punch bowl under my island. While the grill pan keeps company with the roasting racks beneath my oven, the silicone baking set easily fits into the small cabinet next to the dishwasher. Even the large, three-station crock pot set has a place to sleep in extra storage until the next department social. But my dehydrator has no home. In the well-planned, efficient kitchen of my dreams, it holds hands with the bread machine under the watchful gaze of the stand mixer. Alas, not in reality.
In reality, my kitchen appliances and gadgets are getting out of hand. My bastion of culinary civility is becoming a jumble of whisks, spoons, food processors, and serving dishes. As the drawers and cabinets become more and more disorganized, I feel a growing sense of unease with the place. It's as if the more toys I accumulate, the more pressure there is to cook something fabulous - as if I have to somehow be worthy of these modern conveniences my grandmother never had.
Somehow this feeling about my kitchen's disarray is creeping into my life. How do I live up to my good job, my nice house, my cool car? The answer is - I don't know. Perhaps that's one of the dilemmas of modern society. We have accumulated so much stuff that it crowds our lives and pressures us to continue craving, grabbing, hoarding more. The idea that I would be a better cook if only I had this gadget becomes I am a better person because I live in this neighborhood. It's all a vicious circle of wanting, getting, and wanting until our very lives are overrun with clutter.
Over 150 years ago Henry David Thoreau urged us all to "Simply! Simplify!" Guess it's time to clean out the cabinets.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Freezer Ice
Yesterday was frozen pizza day at last, and was greeted with much celebration from my teenage son who requested pizza every day since I brought it home. But as I pulled the boxes out of the sleek, stainless steel contraption that houses our perishable items, I began remembering my childhood.
When I was a kid, freezer ice was Mom's enemy in an ongoing war with a not-so-modern appliance. She would - on a regular, tick-tock clockwork basis - remove all goodies (firmly ensconced in layers of plastic wrap and aluminum foil and carefully labeled in black water-proof ink) from the freezer that hovered at the top of the fridge. These items were piled neatly across the counter - the better to make a quick re-entry, my dear - before the freezer itself was attacked.
The first wave included trays of hot water which, when placed in the dark, frozen cave, brought forth rolls of fog rivaling those seen in an old black-and-white version of The Hound of the Baskervilles. This steam engulfed my mother's face as she leaned in for hand-to-hand combat armed with an ice pick or metal spatula. As she chiseled away at the frozen tundra, great chunks of ice fell in an avalanche of sound. Occasionally Mom called a temporary hiatus to the battle and tossed these icebergs into the nearby sink.
In the summer, my brother and I would swoop in to gather the frozen tendrils before prancing out the sliding glass door to the backyard with a "Don't keep running in and out!" resounding in our ears. Here we slurped up the ice greedily, hoping to get back in for a second round before it all melted. As the fragments disappeared through our fingers, dripping their relief on toes burning in the Oklahoma sun, we pelted them at each other, flailed our arms wildly to create a cool rain, and licked our fingers as we opened the door to begin our next retrieval mission.
By this time, Mom had conquered the task and steam no longer billowed from the dragon's yawning mouth. As she returned the bundles of lasagna, fried chicken, and cinnamon rolls to the freezer, we gathered up the remains of the dragon's teeth from the sink and scampered back to the yard to resume our play.
Thankfully, I don't have to face the menace of freezer ice. Still, I wonder sometimes if my son is missing out on the dramatic simplicity of growing up before technology ran our lives and our households.
When I was a kid, freezer ice was Mom's enemy in an ongoing war with a not-so-modern appliance. She would - on a regular, tick-tock clockwork basis - remove all goodies (firmly ensconced in layers of plastic wrap and aluminum foil and carefully labeled in black water-proof ink) from the freezer that hovered at the top of the fridge. These items were piled neatly across the counter - the better to make a quick re-entry, my dear - before the freezer itself was attacked.
The first wave included trays of hot water which, when placed in the dark, frozen cave, brought forth rolls of fog rivaling those seen in an old black-and-white version of The Hound of the Baskervilles. This steam engulfed my mother's face as she leaned in for hand-to-hand combat armed with an ice pick or metal spatula. As she chiseled away at the frozen tundra, great chunks of ice fell in an avalanche of sound. Occasionally Mom called a temporary hiatus to the battle and tossed these icebergs into the nearby sink.
In the summer, my brother and I would swoop in to gather the frozen tendrils before prancing out the sliding glass door to the backyard with a "Don't keep running in and out!" resounding in our ears. Here we slurped up the ice greedily, hoping to get back in for a second round before it all melted. As the fragments disappeared through our fingers, dripping their relief on toes burning in the Oklahoma sun, we pelted them at each other, flailed our arms wildly to create a cool rain, and licked our fingers as we opened the door to begin our next retrieval mission.
By this time, Mom had conquered the task and steam no longer billowed from the dragon's yawning mouth. As she returned the bundles of lasagna, fried chicken, and cinnamon rolls to the freezer, we gathered up the remains of the dragon's teeth from the sink and scampered back to the yard to resume our play.
Thankfully, I don't have to face the menace of freezer ice. Still, I wonder sometimes if my son is missing out on the dramatic simplicity of growing up before technology ran our lives and our households.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Another Round of Chips
After Monday's baked potato chip debacle, I decided it was time to try out the dehydrator. Again using my trusty vegetable peeler to get thin chips, I dismembered a lovely orange sweet potato, liberally peppered and frugally salted it, and scattered it across the trays. The good news is that the chips are crunchy and tasty. The bad news they shrank - a lot. This is obviously why no one sells packed dehydrated sweet potato chips - shrinkage. Oh, and they're ugly. They sort of shriveled into crispy bits. For me shrinkage only creates a problem in that I don't have very many trays and it took most of them for one sweet potato. On the other hand, a nice baggy full makes a good snack size and it is easy to remember that one bag equals one potato. Next time around I'll try some different spices and break out the food processor to speed up the "chipping" process. This might be a good way to have my chips and eat them too.
Normally I don't spend time worrying about how many calories are in what I eat or how healthy that food may or may not be. I spend many more hours contemplating the taste and texture of the food, which is all well and good until I stepped on the scale. Yikes! However, it occurred to me that since we are trying to eat at home more, this is a good opportunity to take control of the situation and eat something better, thus the dehydrated chips. And, since I'm being honest, chips are my kryptonite. If Superman loved chips as much as I do, even his great powers would not have enabled him to fly because he'd be weighed down by all those lovely, crispy chips - sea salt and vinegar, cracked pepper, Maui onion, green olive; corn chips, veggie chips, pita chips, tortilla chips. Need I continue? I love them all! How can something so light, so crunchy, so airy be so bad? I think chips were invented by Satan. Sin is always tempting, delicious, and expensive.
The price of chips is measured in the waist line - at least mine. So after thinking it over, I have decided to (gulp) watch what I eat. Five years ago my family moved to Arizona from Nevada. I was fortunate to have a few months off between jobs, and I wisely used that time to lose some weight, do some writing, and generally get myself together. For three years, I managed to keep that weight off and keep myself together. The last two years, though, have been iffy. I've regained the weight and questioned myself. Last week I turned 45 - halfway home, I think, and back to my top weight. For a little while I did what all strong, self-possessed, modern women do - I cried - but only for a little while. This week, I'm doing the other thing women are known for - I'm doing something about it. Wish me luck.
Normally I don't spend time worrying about how many calories are in what I eat or how healthy that food may or may not be. I spend many more hours contemplating the taste and texture of the food, which is all well and good until I stepped on the scale. Yikes! However, it occurred to me that since we are trying to eat at home more, this is a good opportunity to take control of the situation and eat something better, thus the dehydrated chips. And, since I'm being honest, chips are my kryptonite. If Superman loved chips as much as I do, even his great powers would not have enabled him to fly because he'd be weighed down by all those lovely, crispy chips - sea salt and vinegar, cracked pepper, Maui onion, green olive; corn chips, veggie chips, pita chips, tortilla chips. Need I continue? I love them all! How can something so light, so crunchy, so airy be so bad? I think chips were invented by Satan. Sin is always tempting, delicious, and expensive.
The price of chips is measured in the waist line - at least mine. So after thinking it over, I have decided to (gulp) watch what I eat. Five years ago my family moved to Arizona from Nevada. I was fortunate to have a few months off between jobs, and I wisely used that time to lose some weight, do some writing, and generally get myself together. For three years, I managed to keep that weight off and keep myself together. The last two years, though, have been iffy. I've regained the weight and questioned myself. Last week I turned 45 - halfway home, I think, and back to my top weight. For a little while I did what all strong, self-possessed, modern women do - I cried - but only for a little while. This week, I'm doing the other thing women are known for - I'm doing something about it. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Not So Perfect Chips
I'll admit it. I love potatoes. Baked, boiled, fried, or distilled into vodka those starchy bundles are among the best things on earth and a constant source of eating pleasure.
Last night I decided I needed potato chips to accompany the fried shrimp we were having for dinner. I also thought that since the shrimp was fried it would be nice if the potato chips were baked. So I turned to Food Network.com for some help with time and temp. settings. Of course Ellie Krieger had a recipe for baked potato chips and all was well. Well, not quite. Being the genius that I am, I decided that the 1/8inch slices she called for wouldn't get really crispy, so I used my vegetable peeler to shave off lovely, uniform strips of potato. I then tossed them in lots of pepper, a little salt, and olive oil - but not as much as E.K. suggested because about half as much oil looked like the right amount. I know, I know ... foolish me. I spread them across a couple of baking sheets and into the oven they went. But with little success.
Apparently, if the chips are too thin and don't have enough oil, they stick - horribly. On top of that they don't really get crispy until they are DARK brown. I kept a close eye on my slices of heaven (After all, wasting a potato would be sacrilege!) and pulled them out about five minutes before time was up. The dark brown parts were yummy - light and crunchy. The rest was soggy. My husband came to the rescue and peeled all the potatoes off the aluminum foil and separated the soggy from the crunchy, at which point I fried the soggy pieces into crispy submission. Oh well, so much for healthy chips.
On a brighter note, I received a dehydrator for Christmas and played with it yesterday, too. The apple slices are wonderful. The slightly chewy, sweet apple flavor made them a fabulous after school snack. I had room for a couple of mangoes in the trays as well. They were good, too, but I had the slices a little small so they weren't as chewy. I'm trying again with a couple more mangoes this afternoon. I wonder how potato chips would work in the dehydrator. Hmm...
Last night I decided I needed potato chips to accompany the fried shrimp we were having for dinner. I also thought that since the shrimp was fried it would be nice if the potato chips were baked. So I turned to Food Network.com for some help with time and temp. settings. Of course Ellie Krieger had a recipe for baked potato chips and all was well. Well, not quite. Being the genius that I am, I decided that the 1/8inch slices she called for wouldn't get really crispy, so I used my vegetable peeler to shave off lovely, uniform strips of potato. I then tossed them in lots of pepper, a little salt, and olive oil - but not as much as E.K. suggested because about half as much oil looked like the right amount. I know, I know ... foolish me. I spread them across a couple of baking sheets and into the oven they went. But with little success.
Apparently, if the chips are too thin and don't have enough oil, they stick - horribly. On top of that they don't really get crispy until they are DARK brown. I kept a close eye on my slices of heaven (After all, wasting a potato would be sacrilege!) and pulled them out about five minutes before time was up. The dark brown parts were yummy - light and crunchy. The rest was soggy. My husband came to the rescue and peeled all the potatoes off the aluminum foil and separated the soggy from the crunchy, at which point I fried the soggy pieces into crispy submission. Oh well, so much for healthy chips.
On a brighter note, I received a dehydrator for Christmas and played with it yesterday, too. The apple slices are wonderful. The slightly chewy, sweet apple flavor made them a fabulous after school snack. I had room for a couple of mangoes in the trays as well. They were good, too, but I had the slices a little small so they weren't as chewy. I'm trying again with a couple more mangoes this afternoon. I wonder how potato chips would work in the dehydrator. Hmm...
Monday, January 11, 2010
And on the Seventh Day We Rested...Not
You wouldn't think Sunday would be any challenge at all for cooking dinner, but yesterday was. First we had to deal with our customary Quick Trip stop after church. Usually, Sunday noontime finds us picking up drinks (my favorite is half cherry slush and half Dr. Pepper) along with snacks, like spicy cheese taquitos and cool ranch dip. But yesterday was different. Yesterday we decided we weren't going to stop even before we left for church. (Yeah!! Score one for the home team!!)
All would be well, except we had a couple of errands to run after church, so what to do? We packed a cooler, of course. Upon seeing the small cooler (large enough for a few drinks and a couple of snacks) my son gave me a look of consternation and said, "Are we going for a picnic in our church clothes?" When I explained I had drinks and snacks, he was non-plussed but willing to go along with the plan.
Sooo, we happily popped open our sodas, peeled back the wrappers of cheese sticks, and even stripped a couple of tangerines on our way to Target later in the day. Unfortunately, the trip to Target lasted longer than I anticipated - but then again it always does - and the specter of "I'm hungry" reared its menacing head on the way home. Luckily, we managed to by-pass the fast food signs that beckoned to us like sirens luring Odysseus toward the rocks and make it home unscathed and unfed.
With multiple chores looming before us, we opted for a quick fix - grilled cheese. Yes, this is pretty standard, but a combination of cheddar, provolone, Swiss, and muenster managed to make all of us happy. Mission accomplished! Oh, and don't ask about dinner. We never really made any. Only chocolate chip cookies came out of the kitchen later that evening before it was time to watch a movie. Alas, there is always tomorrow.
All would be well, except we had a couple of errands to run after church, so what to do? We packed a cooler, of course. Upon seeing the small cooler (large enough for a few drinks and a couple of snacks) my son gave me a look of consternation and said, "Are we going for a picnic in our church clothes?" When I explained I had drinks and snacks, he was non-plussed but willing to go along with the plan.
Sooo, we happily popped open our sodas, peeled back the wrappers of cheese sticks, and even stripped a couple of tangerines on our way to Target later in the day. Unfortunately, the trip to Target lasted longer than I anticipated - but then again it always does - and the specter of "I'm hungry" reared its menacing head on the way home. Luckily, we managed to by-pass the fast food signs that beckoned to us like sirens luring Odysseus toward the rocks and make it home unscathed and unfed.
With multiple chores looming before us, we opted for a quick fix - grilled cheese. Yes, this is pretty standard, but a combination of cheddar, provolone, Swiss, and muenster managed to make all of us happy. Mission accomplished! Oh, and don't ask about dinner. We never really made any. Only chocolate chip cookies came out of the kitchen later that evening before it was time to watch a movie. Alas, there is always tomorrow.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ahh...Macaroni and Cheese
Last night we ate in. This isn't really astounding for us on a Saturday night. In reality, we are far more likely to have dinner at home, since we aren't pressed for time. Upon scoping out the fridge and freezer at about 4 p.m., my son requested frozen pizza for dinner. While it was tempting to agree to toss those puppies in the oven at 6 p.m., my husband pointed out that we should save them for the middle of the week. So, to assuage my son's disappointment over the pizza, I made a perennial favorite - macaroni and cheese from scratch (Ah, comfort food!) and fried mushrooms.
Homemade mac and cheese is one of those dishes that is soooo easy, yet many people don't seem to make. Food like this hearkens back to my childhood - an idyllic time of coming home to a house permeated with the scent of yeast rolls, of slurping Kool-Aid popsicles on the patio while taking turns staring through the family telescope, of grabbing a handful of cookies before running outside to play all day. As I recreate comforting staples from my youth - like homemade mac and cheese - my spirits lift. I am reminded of the gifts in my life including the luxury of a stay-at-home mom who kept a spotless house, contributed to every school fundraiser, volunteered for every field trip, and brought homemade cookies and cupcakes to class on my birthday. My friends were envious, and I was oblivious. It took many years of watching other families to realize how lucky I was - but, I digress.
Last night's mac and cheese went over particularly well. Probably because I didn't add vegetables (which always annoys my son - the purist - "It's not called macaroni-vegetable casserole, Mom."), and I did add some chipotle sauce which gave the dish a satisfying depth. I also had a few odds and ends of grated cheese in the fridge, so I used those instead of industriously grating a new block (or bothering to open a new package of pre-grated. How lazy can I get?) Ultimately, the point is that comfort food works in many ways: it is usually easy to prepare; it brings back memories of a happy childhood, and it brings my family together adding new memories to conjure next time I take a bite of creamy cheese sauce with a hint of warmth and a little crunch from the crusty top layer.
Jenny's Macaroni and Cheese
Prepare a 16 oz package of pasta as directed on the label. (I like large elbow macaroni, but any shape will do. If you are going to add vegetables, or serve this to guests, you might consider bowtie pasta.) Use a large pan, since you will be adding the cheese sauce to it and need room to stir. If you plan to add vegetables, frozen peas and carrots work well. So does a mixture of frozen broccoli or cauliflower. Of course, if you have veggie leftovers, they're good too. Just defrost (if frozen) the veggies and add to the pasta water a couple of minutes before it is ready. Then drain with the pasta and continue.)
While the pasta cooks, make the cheese sauce.
4 Tablespoons butter
5 Tablespoons flour
2 cups of milk (If you have buttermilk or half and half, it will make the dish richer - a good
way to dress it up for company.)
8 ounces of cheese (Pick one you like, or add a mixture. Last night I had about 3 ounces of
sharp cheddar, 3 ounces of provolone, and 2 ounces of mozzarella.)
Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the flour and stir until smooth and golden (1 to 2 minutes). Add the milk all at once and stir continuously until the mixture becomes thick and bubbles. Remove from heat and add the cheese. Stir until the cheese melts and is evenly incorporated.
Drain the pasta (and veggies if used) and return it to the large pot. Add the cheese sauce and mix it gently, but completely. Add salt and pepper to taste. (I prefer less salt, more pepper.) Now is the time to play with seasonings. If you added Italian vegetables, why not throw in some basil, oregano, parsley, and garlic. If you added peas and carrots, try some paprika. Last night I didn't add any veggies, so I added some chipotle pepper sauce. This is not really a hot sauce, although you will find it on that aisle in the grocery store. The flavor of the chipotle is smoky and warm, but it doesn't have the mouth-tingling fire of Tobasco, so you can add quite a bit even if you are timid. I probably used 1.5 teaspoons before I was finished.
After adding any desired spices, turn the mixture into a baking dish, sprinkle the top with a little more cheese (I like parmesan) and toss it in the oven for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. The top will turn a light golden color and form a crispy crust that contrasts nicely with the creamy sauce.
Jenny's Fried Mushrooms
16 ounces of fresh mushrooms
1 cup plus 1 Tablespoon of flour
1 cup of beer
Chili powder to taste
Vegetable oil for frying
Clean the mushrooms and pat them dry. Sprinkle 1 Tablespoon of flour over the mushrooms and toss gently to coat.
Mix the remaining 1 cup flour and 1 cup beer in a large bowl. Whisk until smooth. Add the mushrooms to the batter and turn with a spoon until well coated.
Drop into hot (350 degrees) vegetable oil. (I use a fondue pot for this, since it has high sides to prevent splatters as well as a good temperature control.) Fry mushrooms until golden brown (about 4 minutes). Don't crowd in too many at once, since the temperature will drop and the mushrooms will be soggy. Drain on a paper towel lined baking sheet. (If you are making a lot of these for a party, pop the baking sheet into the oven to keep the mushrooms warm and crisp between batches.)
Serve with honey-mustard or your favorite dipping sauce.
These, too, have a lot of variations. Try adding Asian seasonings to the batter and serving with sweet and sour sauce. Another good one is adding Cajun seasonings to the batter (spice it up, baby!) and serving with a mayo, ranch, or sour cream dipping sauce to cool it down.
Homemade mac and cheese is one of those dishes that is soooo easy, yet many people don't seem to make. Food like this hearkens back to my childhood - an idyllic time of coming home to a house permeated with the scent of yeast rolls, of slurping Kool-Aid popsicles on the patio while taking turns staring through the family telescope, of grabbing a handful of cookies before running outside to play all day. As I recreate comforting staples from my youth - like homemade mac and cheese - my spirits lift. I am reminded of the gifts in my life including the luxury of a stay-at-home mom who kept a spotless house, contributed to every school fundraiser, volunteered for every field trip, and brought homemade cookies and cupcakes to class on my birthday. My friends were envious, and I was oblivious. It took many years of watching other families to realize how lucky I was - but, I digress.
Last night's mac and cheese went over particularly well. Probably because I didn't add vegetables (which always annoys my son - the purist - "It's not called macaroni-vegetable casserole, Mom."), and I did add some chipotle sauce which gave the dish a satisfying depth. I also had a few odds and ends of grated cheese in the fridge, so I used those instead of industriously grating a new block (or bothering to open a new package of pre-grated. How lazy can I get?) Ultimately, the point is that comfort food works in many ways: it is usually easy to prepare; it brings back memories of a happy childhood, and it brings my family together adding new memories to conjure next time I take a bite of creamy cheese sauce with a hint of warmth and a little crunch from the crusty top layer.
Jenny's Macaroni and Cheese
Prepare a 16 oz package of pasta as directed on the label. (I like large elbow macaroni, but any shape will do. If you are going to add vegetables, or serve this to guests, you might consider bowtie pasta.) Use a large pan, since you will be adding the cheese sauce to it and need room to stir. If you plan to add vegetables, frozen peas and carrots work well. So does a mixture of frozen broccoli or cauliflower. Of course, if you have veggie leftovers, they're good too. Just defrost (if frozen) the veggies and add to the pasta water a couple of minutes before it is ready. Then drain with the pasta and continue.)
While the pasta cooks, make the cheese sauce.
4 Tablespoons butter
5 Tablespoons flour
2 cups of milk (If you have buttermilk or half and half, it will make the dish richer - a good
way to dress it up for company.)
8 ounces of cheese (Pick one you like, or add a mixture. Last night I had about 3 ounces of
sharp cheddar, 3 ounces of provolone, and 2 ounces of mozzarella.)
Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the flour and stir until smooth and golden (1 to 2 minutes). Add the milk all at once and stir continuously until the mixture becomes thick and bubbles. Remove from heat and add the cheese. Stir until the cheese melts and is evenly incorporated.
Drain the pasta (and veggies if used) and return it to the large pot. Add the cheese sauce and mix it gently, but completely. Add salt and pepper to taste. (I prefer less salt, more pepper.) Now is the time to play with seasonings. If you added Italian vegetables, why not throw in some basil, oregano, parsley, and garlic. If you added peas and carrots, try some paprika. Last night I didn't add any veggies, so I added some chipotle pepper sauce. This is not really a hot sauce, although you will find it on that aisle in the grocery store. The flavor of the chipotle is smoky and warm, but it doesn't have the mouth-tingling fire of Tobasco, so you can add quite a bit even if you are timid. I probably used 1.5 teaspoons before I was finished.
After adding any desired spices, turn the mixture into a baking dish, sprinkle the top with a little more cheese (I like parmesan) and toss it in the oven for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. The top will turn a light golden color and form a crispy crust that contrasts nicely with the creamy sauce.
Jenny's Fried Mushrooms
16 ounces of fresh mushrooms
1 cup plus 1 Tablespoon of flour
1 cup of beer
Chili powder to taste
Vegetable oil for frying
Clean the mushrooms and pat them dry. Sprinkle 1 Tablespoon of flour over the mushrooms and toss gently to coat.
Mix the remaining 1 cup flour and 1 cup beer in a large bowl. Whisk until smooth. Add the mushrooms to the batter and turn with a spoon until well coated.
Drop into hot (350 degrees) vegetable oil. (I use a fondue pot for this, since it has high sides to prevent splatters as well as a good temperature control.) Fry mushrooms until golden brown (about 4 minutes). Don't crowd in too many at once, since the temperature will drop and the mushrooms will be soggy. Drain on a paper towel lined baking sheet. (If you are making a lot of these for a party, pop the baking sheet into the oven to keep the mushrooms warm and crisp between batches.)
Serve with honey-mustard or your favorite dipping sauce.
These, too, have a lot of variations. Try adding Asian seasonings to the batter and serving with sweet and sour sauce. Another good one is adding Cajun seasonings to the batter (spice it up, baby!) and serving with a mayo, ranch, or sour cream dipping sauce to cool it down.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Beginning
Eating out is a national past time - more popular than baseball, even. After all, when was the last time you went to the ball park? How about the last time you picked up a burger or a cup of coffee? Normally, I'd say this was alright. But a few nights ago - it was 3:15 a.m. Friday, to be exact - I was lying awake thinking about food and money - two of my favorite topics on which to ruminate.
Having a busy family seems to mean picking up food on the go - frequently. As I was lying there I wondered how much money my family was actually forking over to local eateries. So the next morning over breakfast I found myself adding up food purchases from the checkbook register. I included the many stops at Quick Trip (a local convenience store next to work) where I practically mainline coffee every few days, along with fast food, pizza delivery, and "nice" places. When I hit $3100 for 2009, I quit. Granted, that was most of it. There were probably a few restaurant purchases made in cash and on credit card statements from travel, but not many. Needless to say, that number astounded me and my husband. I couldn't believe we actually waste that much money! At that point we decided to try something new - something novel; it's called eating at home. Who would believe it, right?
We also realize this probably isn't going to be easy for us (We are, after all, creatures of habit and convenience.), so we decided to allot our family $20 a week for snacks, coffee, fast food, etc. This still sounds like a lot, but in reality it is less than one-third of our previous habit. At $20 a week, our tally should be $1040 for the year. That is our goal, and this blog is going to (hopefully) keep us honest. We're going to track our running total here - for all to see. (It reminds me of going to Weight Watchers. I always counted everything I ate because I knew I had to step on a scale in front of other people.)
We decided that one obstacle we frequently face is not having enough food in the house. I tend to plan what we're having for dinner during the coming week while watching the Food Network on Saturday morning. This is all well and good until it is 6:30 p.m. Tuesday, we arrive home from work late, and our nearly 15-year-old son is hungry. At that point, neither of us really wants to chop the onions or hover over the stove stirring the rissotto. So we agreed to plan a few extra meals that are more convenient. We bought frozen pizza for Friday night movie watching. We picked up a loaf of sour dough, muenster, and swiss for grilled-cheese heaven. We added some hot dogs to throw on the grill. I know this sounds basic, but I think we have forgotten that homemade doesn't have to mean gourmet - although it's fabulous when it does! In addition to these convenience foods, we'll still have a few meals I've gleaned from Nigella or Giada, but we'll have something to grab at home instead of heading for the drive-thru or dialing up Chinese take-out (one of my personal favorites).
As I was thinking over our menu for the week (Yes, I write it down and post it on the fridge.), it occurred to me that the best solution is a mixture of these things. We can have hot dogs, but I'll make some fabulous barbecue beans to go with them. While the sandwich maker toasts our grilled cheese, I'll roast some sweet potatoes for a side. All-in-all, I think we'll be much happier eating at home, since most restaurants (even McDonald's) frown on customers wearing pajamas and fuzzy slippers.
Having a busy family seems to mean picking up food on the go - frequently. As I was lying there I wondered how much money my family was actually forking over to local eateries. So the next morning over breakfast I found myself adding up food purchases from the checkbook register. I included the many stops at Quick Trip (a local convenience store next to work) where I practically mainline coffee every few days, along with fast food, pizza delivery, and "nice" places. When I hit $3100 for 2009, I quit. Granted, that was most of it. There were probably a few restaurant purchases made in cash and on credit card statements from travel, but not many. Needless to say, that number astounded me and my husband. I couldn't believe we actually waste that much money! At that point we decided to try something new - something novel; it's called eating at home. Who would believe it, right?
We also realize this probably isn't going to be easy for us (We are, after all, creatures of habit and convenience.), so we decided to allot our family $20 a week for snacks, coffee, fast food, etc. This still sounds like a lot, but in reality it is less than one-third of our previous habit. At $20 a week, our tally should be $1040 for the year. That is our goal, and this blog is going to (hopefully) keep us honest. We're going to track our running total here - for all to see. (It reminds me of going to Weight Watchers. I always counted everything I ate because I knew I had to step on a scale in front of other people.)
We decided that one obstacle we frequently face is not having enough food in the house. I tend to plan what we're having for dinner during the coming week while watching the Food Network on Saturday morning. This is all well and good until it is 6:30 p.m. Tuesday, we arrive home from work late, and our nearly 15-year-old son is hungry. At that point, neither of us really wants to chop the onions or hover over the stove stirring the rissotto. So we agreed to plan a few extra meals that are more convenient. We bought frozen pizza for Friday night movie watching. We picked up a loaf of sour dough, muenster, and swiss for grilled-cheese heaven. We added some hot dogs to throw on the grill. I know this sounds basic, but I think we have forgotten that homemade doesn't have to mean gourmet - although it's fabulous when it does! In addition to these convenience foods, we'll still have a few meals I've gleaned from Nigella or Giada, but we'll have something to grab at home instead of heading for the drive-thru or dialing up Chinese take-out (one of my personal favorites).
As I was thinking over our menu for the week (Yes, I write it down and post it on the fridge.), it occurred to me that the best solution is a mixture of these things. We can have hot dogs, but I'll make some fabulous barbecue beans to go with them. While the sandwich maker toasts our grilled cheese, I'll roast some sweet potatoes for a side. All-in-all, I think we'll be much happier eating at home, since most restaurants (even McDonald's) frown on customers wearing pajamas and fuzzy slippers.
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