Food Freebies

Today was disappointing in terms of mall food. Usually, meandering through the mall presents many opportunities to sample a wide variety of edibles. Several restaurants in the food court - nearly always a Chinese and a Mexican place, but sometimes Chik-Fi-La and Cinnabon - hand out a tasty morsel or two. Of course, the person offering the nibble will be disappointed and hurt if you refuse, so I think you're obligated to try whatever is on the tray. However, no such luck today.

In addition, Harry and David frequently has bowls of Moose Munch in assorted flavors along with small chunks of fancy cheesecakes. Alas, only coffee and jelly beans were available this afternoon. On the bright side, Tea Nirvana offered two kinds of steaming liquid to passersby. Jeff tried the jasmine - which smelled like a spring garden, but tasted like unsweetened fruit cocktail - and I went for the cinnamon, which had a spicy flavor of warm cloves that matched its rich aroma.

As we sipped our warm tasties, we strolled towards Barnes and Noble, where I spent a good deal of time leafing through gardening books and bargain-priced recipe collections. Upon leaving the store (and having spent at least half an hour staring at food), I hoped to find some tempting morsels in Williams Sonoma, but it just wasn't meant to be. The store was offering small cups of scrambled eggs with hollandaise sauce, which was left over from a cooking demo conducted in the morning. (I don't know about you, but left over eggs isn't something I hope to taste in a gourmet culinary establishment.)

Our final hope for a bit of glamour faded as we walked into the Godiva Chocolate shop. The window displayed some yummy confections I hope to replicate at home. There were small chocolate shell cups (which can be made using melted chocolate and muffin cups) filled with fresh raspberries and blackberries and drizzled with more chocolate. These looked delectable! In addition, there were skewers of fruit - glorious strawberries alternating with ripe banana slices - again drizzled with dark, wonderful chocolate. Our mouths watered as we passed these lovelies and stepped into the shop, only to find it to so crowded there was no hope of reaching the counter for a taste of decadence.

Ultimately we left the mall with appetites unappeased. I guess we should have tried our Super Target - which has multiple tasting stations every weekend featuring wonderful cheeses, something from the snack aisle (perhaps the latest trail mix or granola), another goodie from the breakfast aisle (usually an interesting cereal choice), and something from frozen foods (like pizza or potato puffs). World Market also has munchies out on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, including their ultra-yummy veggie chips and spicy rice snacks. Of course, they have coffee and tea samples daily positioned to pull shoppers to the back of the store. (Friends tell me that Sam's Club practically serves a full meal on weekends, but we don't currently have a membership.)

It's pretty amazing how much free food is available to potential buyers, especially on weekends. Our grocery store (Fry's) has quite a few samples available from the deli on Saturday mornings ranging from cheese and crackers to pita chips to fresh breads and cookies. The sushi station at the back frequently offers tidbits of whatever is being rolled at the time. But the hands down best sample we ever had at the grocery was Domain St. Michelle champagne. We had to show I.D. and I harassed the guy serving because I had at least 15 years on him. Come to think of it, we have also sampled several wines and vodkas at the local BevMo store on weekend afternoons. Perhaps I should start a list of everything we get to eat for free. That could be a flavorful project, indeed.

Gearing Up For Gardening

Jeff and I took some time today to meander through the backyard and discuss which plants should stay or go during the spring clean up. (This is an annual event that usually occurs the weekend before spring break.) The job seems larger than normal this year because we had a wet winter and most of the trees actually dropped all of their leaves, which now have to be cleaned up via rake, blower, or Gila Valley weed eater (a mini flame thrower that crispy critters grasses, leaves, and weeds at the touch of a button). The fire option is often appealing - it's fun, it's fast, and it's pretty easy. However, generally it is not a good idea to burn anything (even in small doses and even after a wet winter) in the desert Southwest, not to mention the fact that it leaves black spots scattered around the yard and through the gravel. Thus, clean up generally entails a leaf blower and a rake. Oh well.

The good news is we are carving out another area for gardening. Our yard is bigger than a postage stamp (unlike lots in Las Vegas), but it is not huge. It is also brimming with palm trees, fruit trees, cape honeysuckle, oleander, Lady Banks roses, mounding grasses, and smaller ground covers like spreading daisies, and low growing ferns. This oasis surrounds a little bit of grass, a pool, and a spa. Last year, we added a small garden area and tried two seasons' worth of plantings. After working with this plot, we have decided to expand our foray into vegetable gardening this year.

Of course we will have tomatoes (They're just so sweet and warm right off the vine - nothing like the flavorless fruits available in the grocery store.) Our bell pepper plants didn't seem to do well last summer, but managed to survive into fall and produce fruit all winter long - go figure. However, they have become scraggly and seem to be on their last leg. (The peppers are still there, but quite small and mostly seeds.) I'm leaning toward some okra, but the guys don't care for it much. If we plant it, I'm thinking I'll have to pickle it and put it away. (Have you seen how much pickled okra is in the store?) Of course, some will have to be tossed in cornmeal and fried, or it just won't be summer. Our zucchini and squash have not done as well as we expected, but I think the new area will be a better place for them since it isn't as sheltered as the side yard. We're also planning to try watermelons again. (None came up for us last year.) Finally, one of our trees in the front yard looks pretty puny and we're considering replacing it with a fruit tree. We currently have a fig and a plum tree in the back yard.

Dreaming of plantings and spring break is an excellent way to pass an afternoon. I know we don't contend with the snow of colder climates, but spring is about renewal wherever you live - even in the desert. Here, spring means the climbing roses that adorn parts of our back wall are covered in pale buds waiting to burst open all at once and fill the entire yard and house with their rich, heady scent. Spring means the grasses will return to a dark emerald green and the days will be filled with warm sunshine and light breezes. The light, too, is different in spring. It is not the heavy, burning rays of 110-degree summer days that are fit only for lounging in the pool or under a ceiling fan. In March and April, the sun is gentle and friendly, nurturing the cotton fields as well as the bougainvillea and Mexican bird of paradise. We see a few rabbits in fields nearby along with the coyotes who hunt them. Hummingbirds buzz through the yard, the air smells fresh, and the blue sky beckons us to lie on the ground and stare at the endlessness of it all.

The Prince of Sandwiches

Our family tradition is that on birthdays the celebrant may choose to have anything for dinner he wishes. Today my son turned 15 and his wish was a sandwich. Of course, there's more to it than peanut butter and jelly.

A few weeks ago he opted for a sandwich dinner. This is unheard of in our family. When a person can have anything (and I do mean we are only limited by what is available at the grocery store), why would he have a sandwich? After all, isn't that something you carry in a paper bag and snarf down in two minutes while you're working through lunch? Not for him. He loves sandwiches of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

In some ways, this dinner idea is harder than it appears at first glance. When I logged on to FoodNetwork.com to look at sandwich recipes, I was overwhelmed with the sheer volume of them (thousands). I had the same problem at AllRecipes.com. To compound this, many of them sounded pretty hum-drum, paper-sack, eating for the sake of nourishment. I had hoped to find something interesting for this birthday challenge. Ultimately I approached it from a regular meal point of view, meaning we needed a vegetable, a main course, and a dessert. This helped with sifting out many of the recipes, but it still took a good deal of time to decide what to make. The final menu included creamy vegetable sandwiches; grilled apple, bacon and cheddar sandwiches; Stromboli, and fruit pate (all of which came from FoodNetwork.com). (Of course, we had cake for dessert. Carrot cake smothered in cream cheese icing was the flavor of choice this year.)

The creamy vegetable sandwiches were a hit with everyone except the hubby. They had diced cucumbers (along with bell pepper, carrots, garlic, and green onions), which he dislikes. However, the teenager, the grandparents, and I all enjoyed this one. I especially liked the small crunch of the finely diced veggies with the smooth cream cheese base. The garlic might have been better than the chopped ginger I used by mistake (same size jar, same part of the fridge - go figure). But they seemed none the worse for the wear. The recipe said to serve this on rye, but I had cheese bread from the bakery.

The dried fruit pate squares were the boy's least favorite, but Jeff really liked these. The basic idea was to put dried figs (I used dates instead), apricots, and cranberries into the food processor with some toasted almonds, smoked turkey, and green onions. A little bit of cream cheese and sour cream held the mixture together. The recipe called for pumpernickel or a combination of wheat and rye bread, but I served the mixture on small croissants. The sandwiches had a sweet nuttiness that was offset by the onion flavors which made for an interesting combination. It was unusual and good.

The grilled apple, bacon, and cheddar sandwiches were also good, but would have been better without the red onion mayonnaise that Paula Deen calls for. The mayo overpowered the rest of the flavors, which were already yummy together. Use good sliced cheddar for this and a tart granny smith apple. You won't be disappointed.

Finally the Stromboli began with refrigerated pizza crust stuffed (really!) with Swiss cheese, mozzarella cheese, black olives, spaghetti sauce, and a little Italian sausage. This was the hands down favorite for the guys. After baking this for 15 minutes, the crust was golden brown and just barely crispy and certainly delicious.

I rounded out the feast with homemade potato salad (I like the kind with a balance of mustard and mayo, plus black pepper, salt, and sweet pickle relish.), two kinds of chips (blue corn tortilla and cracked pepper potato), and some whipped cream cheese and chive dip. The predictability of the side dishes was comforting next to the newness of the sandwiches.

Of course, the carrot cake was fabulous - even if I did have to start over today. (Let's just say that it isn't a good idea to forget to spray the cake pans, even when they are made of no stick silicone.)

All in all, the meal went well. Jade was happy and that's all that really matters.

Dream Kitchen

My hand touches the heavy steel bar and pulls firmly, expecting resistance. Instead, my efforts are met with a smooth gliding motion what silently opens out and down – my new oven – at least for the moment until two realizations push their way into my brain. First, the price tag is prohibitive. Second, people are beginning to stare at this crazy woman caressing an appliance in the middle of the design store. I sigh away, casting my eyes down and slinking past the sales associate whose mocking gaze says she knows I’m an amateur dreaming of stardom.

My dream kitchen has all the coolest appliances, the hottest finishes, and the hippest colors, of course. It also changes every time I stroll through a catalog or dissect a Food Network set. Only one constant remains in my dream kitchen: love. Kitchen love comes in many forms – the macaroni and cheese that warms a child’s smile after school, the aroma of cloves, cinnamon, ginger and yeast that embraces a family on Christmas morning, the echoing laughter of teenagers tumbling over one another on the way to the fridge, the trailing steam that rises from an antique porcelain cup brimming with chai.

Kitchens really are the heart of the home, the place where everyone’s life intersects. They are made grand not by what they are stocked with, but by what happens there. Life’s frustrations and joys are played out across a million meat loaves and birthday cakes. Thus my dream kitchen – which is redesigned almost hourly in the ongoing wishfulness of my head – isn’t really about that exorbitantly priced double oven in stainless steel and polished eggplant as much as the glittering gems of the moments and memories that make a home.

The Last Piece of Anything

Why doesn't anyone ever eat the last of anything? For Valentine's Day I made a dark chocolate cake with fudge frosting - rich and decadent. The three of us dove into the initial cuts with gusto, savoring the sweetness melting into vanilla bean ice cream for good measure. The next day, my son and hubby helped themselves to seconds leaving two large or three small pieces for day three. However, that day came and went and no one touched the cake. Day four also passed without anyone even uncovering the chocolate confection. On day five I offered to divide the remainder of the cake between them, but met with hems and haws. "Is there something wrong with it?" I queried.

"Oh no! It's great, but I don't want to eat more than my share," Jeff responded.

At this point I assured him there was plenty to go around, but even the boy remained skeptical. "Don't you want some?" he asked, as if waiting for the royal taste tester to prove it was safe.

"No." And therein lies part of the problem. Neither of the guys wants to be accused of taking my share, but both of them know I don't really want it.

Usually I overcome this dilemma by offering to divvy it up at the beginning of T.V. time. I get out three plates and say, "Who wants dessert while we watch a movie?" When they see more than two dishes, they eagerly agree before heading downstairs to prep the electronics. At this point I divide the remains in half and return the third plate to the cabinet. Problem solved.

Of course, this reticence to finish the last of food is not relegated to cake alone. Often leftovers disappear systematically from the fridge until only one serving remains. However, that one just sits and sits awaiting its fate at the hands of the mold monster. Maybe no one wants to rinse an empty dish and put it in the washer. Maybe everyone is tired of the food by the time only a single serving is left. Maybe we all feel like curly-tailed oinkers when we polish off a dish. (After all, if there is some left we couldn't have eaten too much.) This is perhaps the best explanation since I have seen my family pull a casserole out and take half of whatever portion is left - even if it is single serving size.

Whatever the reason, this conundrum has existed our entire married lives. (Come to think of it, Jeff's dad never wants to take the last of anything when we have them over for dinner. Wonder if passed along some don't-finish-off-the-food gene to Jeff.) Or maybe it goes back to the whole problem my guys have - had - have with leftovers. I guess I should just sacrifice myself for the cause and make it my mission to finish every last bite.

Felines and Food

Why can't people be more like cats? After all, they are content with eating the same food day after day, week after week. Not only that, they sometimes become extremely upset if the food is different, even to the extent of refusing to eat. While it is true that cats are creatures of habit, so are they enchanted by the mysteries of sunbeams, the inspirational qualities of stuffed mice, and the flirtatiousness of birds just outside the window. Obviously, cats don't lack imagination, yet they are satisfied with boredom in food.

Or perhaps not. Licorice (one of my many feline companions) constantly begs for a morsel of whatever I happen to have, and (unlike other cats I've known) never fails to eat whatever he is given. Many cats hanker to know what's in the bowl, but not many will actually taste the chipotle sauce mixed with refried beans and cheese. Of course, one cat (who passed away 15 years ago) enjoyed such delicacies as fresh grasshopper and monarch butterfly. Now, he was truly a connoisseur of live edibles, yet he too would eat anything he could purloin from a human plate.

Honestly, though, I probably would beg for scraps if I had to eat cat food every day. It only comes in two basic varieties: wet and dry. The dry is actually the lesser of the two evils since it is more akin (I imagine) to eating a handful of nuts. It seems to be basically crunchy kibble meant for kitties. (I seem to remember my son trying some when he was small and surviving none the worse for wear.) The truly revolting stuff is the wet food which comes in a variety of cans, pouches, and waxed cardboard containers. My furry friends prefer the pouch these days, which really means that's the only one Licorice isn't allergic to. (Yes, my cat has a food allergy. It's hard to explain, but to suffice to say that things get messy when he eats the wrong thing - which doesn't usually include human food since it doesn't contain the same amounts of wheat gluten as feline dietary products.)

Each evening the horde gathers for a small dish of bite-sized, moist morsels in flavors like chicken and liver, tuna, beef and broth, or turkey and giblets. Interestingly they all look the same - little squares of mystery meat swimming in a viscous, malodorous sauce. Yet, the little varmints line up like clockwork for their four bites of bliss and crowd each other out trying to get more than their fair share. All of this hullaballoo occurs over the same thing every night, which brings me to the point of this tirade. (You weren't sure I had one, were you?) Cats - self-possessed creatures of luxury with a reputation for being finicky - aren't. They are content to eat the same food day in and day out, yet are accused of being persnickity by the same people who whine incessantly if they have to eat the same dish twice in one week. (e.g. "I don't want leftovers for dinner!" Can you guess who utters these words most frequently around here? Uh-huh.)

So this evening, and many others around dinner time, I find myself wondering why humans can't be more like cats. After all, they are independent while open to loving relationships, self-sufficient while grateful for charity, entertaining while not demanding another's undivided attention (at least not often), and they don't mind eating the same food night after night - something humans might actually learn from them.

Mexicali Pork Chops

Tonight's dinner was brought about by my Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book. This collection of recipes is like a childhood friend who never gets tiresome. I have a 1960's version that my mom gave me when I moved away from home and a late 1980's version that my mother-in-law gave Jeff when he moved away from home. It must be a rite of passage, somehow. I can see it now, after my son graduates from college and strikes out completely on his own, I'll probably hand him a 2017 copy sporting its classic red and white checkered cover and a sappy inscription on the title page. Maybe I'll go through the book and write in all the little notes my mom (and I) jotted in mine. For example, on page 90 the directions for "Blue Ribbon Fudge" have been altered to use cocoa powder and milk instead of unsweetened chocolate squares. At the end of the recipe is a note about adding peanut butter instead of chopped walnuts, and lower on the page the temperature and test for soft ball stage are carefully circled. All these little tips are meant to aid the first-time and well-seasoned candy maker alike.

I find that when I am non-plussed by my dinner choices, this BH&G book always does the trick. I can find something as basic as white sauce directions (printed on the inside back cover) to many-ingredient casseroles, and crowning achievements like a Parmesan soufflé or baked Alaska. So this afternoon, I turned once again to this mainstay of my cook book collection. The weather turned rainy and unseasonably cool today (only 60 degrees), which called for something hot and spicy in the oven. Thus, Mexicali Pork Chops (which I had never made before) became the dish of choice (and a good choice it was, if I do say so myself).

The dish begins by browning pork chops on the stove top, and then removing them to create a sauce out of bell peppers, onions, diced tomatoes, green chilies, corn, and kidney beans. After adding some chipotle sauce, water and rice, the mixture goes into a large casserole dish, is topped with the pork chops, covered, and baked in the oven.

At the end of 45 minutes, the house smelled of simmering vegetables and tender pork. The spicy aroma of peppers wafted through the kitchen into my office practically pulling me toward the oven as the timer beeped. The guys and I were rewarded for our patience with piping hot goodness that soothed our souls and warmed us from the inside out. The entire dish was pretty, too, with the pork chops resting atop a colorful bed of red tomatoes, green chilies, and white kidney beans. As usual, though, there are a couple of things I'll change next time around. First, the kidney beans became a little mushy for my taste, and I think black beans would fare better in the oven. The pork chops could have been cut into bite-sized pieces and mixed into the whole thing, as well. This would be a good idea for leftovers and would work as well with chicken, too.

Overall, my stalwart friend saved dinner once again. Now, to make a few notes on the page...

Of Cookies and Cleaning

Today we cheated. After barely passing each other in the dark for the last two days we decided to do some eating and shopping all together and not at home. We did, however, manage to keep ourselves reigned in at Quick Trip as opposed to the Chinese buffet (which is really expensive on Sunday). So after $11.35 worth of drinks, hot dogs, taquitos, and cupcakes, we set out on our excursion which included a great deal of laughter directed at fashion in Ross, imported foods (including mushroom-shaped, chocolate-dipped cookies, a craft book revolving around Peeps, and bunny-liscious pasta just in time for Easter) at World Market, and random people wandering through the video game store. (Let's just say that spiky hair and numerous earrings were the tamest thing we saw.)

Eventually we made our way home for nap-time (What else is Sunday afternoon for?) and goodies in the form of freshly baked cookies. Here's where it gets strange. While I stirred together butter, sugar, and eggs, Jeff decided to clean the floor and - you'd better sit down - our son helped. As Jeff scrubbed, a soon-to-be-15-year-old scooted around behind him drying the floor. On top of that, the pair told jokes the entire time. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, and then it occurred to me I might be in heaven (though the likelihood of that may be disputed by my closest friends). There were two strong, muscular guys cleaning my floor with nary a complaint while I admired their handiwork and continued making cookies.

When the event (which I wish I had videotaped for all you nonbelievers) ended, more entertainment ensued with an accidental flushing of a wash cloth down the toilet. Apparently it was in the bottom of the bucket unseen through the Pine Sol clouded water. Much grasping and poking could not bring the rag out, so a plunger was used to help it along the way down. The fun of this, of course, was listening to the conversation between the guys. "Ew...That's disgusting. I don't think I can put my hand in there," says the older one. "Let me do it," the younger one volunteers brightly. "After all, I've let all kinds of bugs crawl up and down my arm, and I dug a whole duck skeleton out of the mud last summer. It couldn't be grosser than that."

Eventually the episode ended and another began. This time, the washer was flashing "SUDS." Apparently this meant that the detergent (a different brand than we normally buy) had created too many suds and the washer was waiting for them to dissipate before finishing the bath rugs inside. Upon opening the washer door, the guys decided they should help the suds move along to their Valhalla, and that a hairdryer would be the most expedient method for dispatching them. Thus, the two of them sat (taking turns) pointing the hair dryer into the suds-filled washer. The first burst of air blew pillows of foam throughout the laundry room which promptly became volleyballs in the hands of the teenager. After several minutes of playing with the soap, the bubbles were tamed and the washer set to work again.

This finally ended our adventures in cleaning for the evening. The two triumphant warriors set the house right, absconded with warm cookies, and headed to the basement for a round of video game fighting. Alas, my knights may not have shining armor, but they do know how to defeat the monsters of water, soap, and grime.

The Aroma Beckons

Tonight I learned that chicken pot pie can actually act as a beacon of light luring my husband home. He has spent the last two days at the regional music festival leaving home at 5:30 a.m. and returning after 7 p.m. While working the festival as regional choir chair he has eaten cold fast food and wilted take-out salads (none of which, luckily, he had to pay for) over and over again. So this evening, when he called from the other side of Phoenix as he embarked on the hour and half drive home, he wondered if I had made anything for dinner. The answer was "Yes, chicken pot pie."

For some this answer might conjure up images of 50 cent, tiny frozen hockey pucks that have to bake in the oven before being somewhat edible, but not at our house. Here, chicken pot pie consists of sautéed fresh vegetables like yellow squash, garden-grown bell peppers, mushrooms, and baby yellow carrots, all well-seasoned with plenty of black pepper, garlic, and Italian herbs. Once the veggies are done, flour, milk, and broth create a lovely sauce that thickens while it simmers. All of this is then ladled into ramekins and topped with a square of pie crust before being baked until the filling bubbles around the edges of the golden brown pastry.

As you can imagine, the aroma of these lovely vegetables and creamy sauce fills the house, and apparently the mind of those who adore them. After polishing off a plate full, my husband informed me that all the way home - through the dark and the (uncharacteristically hard) rain - he could just smell the pot pies in the oven. He was not disappointed as his aching feet and tired brain were soothed by the homemade goodness of chicken pot pie.

Isn't that the way of things, though? There are some scents, sounds, and colors that conjure up comfort and safety for us. Some people feel that way about lasagna or vegetable soup simmering on the stove, while others dream of the aroma of baking bread or cinnamon tea. Some of our most powerful memories revolve around smells - freshly mown summer grass, baby powder clinging to a stuffed animal, the perfume a loved one always wears. I guess that's why just the thought of those pot pies in the oven was enough to bring my weary traveler safely home tonight.

Hope Springs Eternal

Today I am reminded of both the fragility and resiliency of life. My friend and colleague, Mark Kooi, passed away unexpectedly last night, and I received the news, along with the rest of the faculty, this morning before school. Needless to say, it was a difficult day, and Mark will be sorely missed by the many teachers, parents, and students he touched. But my plan is to grieve in silence rather than eulogize him here, because through the ebb and flow of shock and tears I am reminded that life goes on.

The sunny, 75-degree weather of Arizona in late February bodes well for spring. The grass is turning green after the January rains; the birds are singing in the plum tree, sitting on branches heavy with buds waiting for the right moment to burst forth. My little garden beckons me to turn some dark earth and choose vegetables from the local nursery. The fig tree's branches are cupped to the sky and beginning to show signs of leaves. All around me life is burgeoning, finding a way to continue.

And, isn't that really the point of our lives - to just continue? I have always believed that everyone has a purpose. We make choices about fulfilling that purpose, about learning from our past, and about setting one foot in front of the other every morning. Sometimes we get stuck in sorrow, in guilt, in fear, in frustration, and in pain, but our challenge is to continue to move forward, no matter what.

This need to keep moving, to keep going, is a basic part of human nature. After all, think of the public tragedies we have all endured - 9/11, the Oklahoma City bombing, and Columbine to name only a few. These events have taught us collectively that life goes on - the sun rises, the cat has to be fed, the kids go to school, and so on. In our hearts we may pause for a little while; we may feel like the sun won't shine again, but it does. Personal losses are the same. Yes, the grief is deeper, the heart feels empty longer, but eventually spring must come again.

Knowing this is the natural cycle of life - that spring follows winter as surely as boys trail after girls - helps us remember that we have to keep putting one foot in front of the other while we wait for peace to follow sorrow and laughter to follow tears. In doing so we continue the journey, yet remember how tenuous our hold on life is. We consider how important it is to play, to laugh, to work, to love every day realizing it could be our last. Perhaps that is the purpose of sorrow and loss - to remind us that our lives are fleeting, even though some days (usually the bad ones) seem to last forever.

Personal loss also forces us to confront our own mortality and take inventory of our own journey. It forces us to say, "There but for the grace of God, go I." But, more than that, it forces us to acknowledge that life will continue after we, too, are gone. Spring will come and flowers will bloom. Young people will marry and have babies. Old folks will pass into history. All of this will happen whether we are here to see it or not, so it is best to use our time wisely - to create something beautiful as a legacy, and to hope that when we pass it will teach someone left behind this lesson of waiting for spring, of moving forward in the face of sorrow, because in the end, that's really all we can do.

More Than Just Food

Have you ever noticed how many movies and songs talk about food metaphorically? My all-time favorite is "Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death," from Auntie Mame. Of course Parrot Heads will recall, "I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise." Even old sitcoms like "The Jeffersons" have theme songs with lyrics that say "I finally got a piece of the pie."

The idea that food nourishes more than the body isn't new, but it is worth contemplating. When I was growing up food was one of the many ways that I knew I was loved. My mom baked bread, cookies, pies, and cakes for no special reason except that my dad, brother, and I liked them. She made dinner every night so that we could all sit down together to talk about the events of the day. She packed sack lunches for school trips with plenty of snacks to share because she knew our friends might not have as much. She provided goodies for school bake sales and cake walks so my brother and I would learn that contributing to a worthy cause was important. She brought two flavors of homemade cupcakes to class on our birthdays so we could learn to share and consider other people's wants and likes. In the summer, we had homemade peach ice cream, popsicles made from Kool-Aid and Dixie cups, and fresh English peas from the garden. All of this labor created a home where my brother and I felt rich and safe, even on tuna casserole night.

Now - all grown up with a family of my own - I endeavor to bring these touches of love to my own home. Not long after I purchased a food processor, I made potato chips with plenty of salt and pepper. The starchy rounds were oh so thin and crispy when fried. My son, who loves chips almost as much as I do, said "Wow! I bet none of my friends have moms who make potato chips at home." While this seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of life, I think he was telling me that he, too, feels loved when I spend time in the kitchen just because I know he'll enjoy what I'm making.

Ultimately, that's what cooking is about for me. Sure, I love the taste, the texture, the color, and the smell of food. But more than that, the food itself - no matter how plain the grilled cheese, how often I stirred the risotto, or how long I simmered the shrimp Creole - is about love of another kind. It is about communicating to my family how much they mean to me through the time and effort I spend in the kitchen. This is a lesson I learned well as a child and hope to pass on to my son. Thanks, Mom.

For the Love of Cookbooks

Cookbooks are wondrous things that bedeck my office shelves by the dozens. I am especially fond of the full-color, picture of every dish, food-laid-out-in-a-feast books. I have been known to spend hours in the cooking section of the local bibliophile hangout (aka Borders) simply browsing through the photographs. (This is even better when I have a cup of richly scented coffee and a piece of cheesecake to enjoy while I lounge in the deep velvet chair nearby.) What a pleasant way to pass an afternoon, or morning, or any other time of day.

I admit this might be even more fun if the weather were dreary, cold, and rainy, but since it is seldom any of those (let alone all three together)in the Valley of the Sun, I pretend. Sometimes, early in the morning I draw all the curtains and shades to block the banana cream light, turn on the fireplace (I know - don't ask why we have one.), and dream of succulent feasts and friends gathered to share them.

Weekend shows on Food Network can also fulfill my cookbook fix. I enjoy listening to Nigella Lawson's sumptuous descriptions and sardonic tone. The Barefoot Contessa is another staple because she never skimps on the butter or cream. I do, however, have trouble with the low-fat, low-calorie, low-taste shows. I'm sure I should pay attention and try to emulate those recipes, but they just can't be as good as the southern fried chicken and cornbread Paula Deen's making. The best part of watching a cooking show is that I can almost smell the tasty treats in my own home. Of course, this frequently leads me to making the meals so that I can actually smell (and eat) them all, which may be why I'm having trouble losing weight.

Hey, do you think I could sue? Imagine a perky, petite reporter approaching a somewhat portly middle-aged woman on the courthouse steps.
"Excuse me ma'am. Would you care to comment on the basis of your lawsuit?"
"Of course. You see, I blame Food Network for making me fat. After all, if they don't expect me to cook all of that food, why do they show it on television? Obviously it is a subversive plot to lower the self-esteem of women everywhere and make it easier for the communists to take over America."
"Do you think you have a good chance of winning?"
"Yes. I hired the same lawyer who helped the lady get millions from McDonald's because their coffee was hot! If he can win that lawsuit, I'm sure he can do wonders with this one."

Well, maybe not. But, since this is February - a month devoted to chocolate and love - I decided to write a little ditty (Actually, it's a triolet.) to my adored kitchen companions.

To a Cookbook
I think upon my meals with you -
sweet time engaged in wine and song
and pies, and cakes, and cookies too.
I think upon my meals with you
remembering each scent and hue
of dinners - simmering so long.
I think upon my meals with you
sweet time engaged in wine and song.

(FYI: Triolets are a French poetic form generally written in iambic tetrameter. Lines 1, 4, and 7 are the same. Lines 2 and 8 are the same. Lines 3 and 5 rhyme with line 1. Line 6 rhymes with line 2. This is one of my students' favorite creative forms. Give it a try.)

Ulta's Fruit Stand

I spent some time at my favorite cosmetic store and realized that although I thought I was surrounded by SPF 50 self-tanners, facial creams, mineral make-up, and anti-aging lip balm, I was really in a grocery store.

On the skin care/produce aisle I beheld cucumber eye pads. These nifty little rounds are printed to look like cukes and should be stored in the fridge before placing them on the eyes to reduce tiredness and swelling. Next to them I found several seaweed extract formulas and polishing facial scrubs containing raspberry seeds, avocadoes, and pure honey. Even as I write I have a mint julep (Yes, this indeed seemed the most appropriate flavor for me since none of them were marked "dirty martini.") masque drawing the impurities from my cheeks. After all, do we really want to put "mud" on our faces if it doesn't have the word "peach," "strawberry," or "melon" in the name? I guess if any of these items drip, I can just lick my fingers.

As I moved on to the row of mineral-based make-up I thought the food references might end since the silken powders I prefer are made from rocks not food. I was wrong. The bases themselves sported the standard tags of fair, light, medium, and dark; however, the eye shadows, blushes and lipsticks featured food references galore. My eyes wandered through grape-a-liscious, berry delight, and peach parfait before moving on to simply strawberry, frosty plum, and watermelon sorbet. Richer descriptions including chocolate kiss, candied brandy, and coffee cream beaconed beyond the fruit. By this time, my quest for some new face paint was making me hungry, and I still hadn't made it to the checkout.

On my way I faltered at the lotion/spice aisle. Here I inhaled the scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and brown sugar. These were mixed into heady creams meant to soften the skin and intoxicate the user each night before bed, suggesting a sleep filled with dreams of gingerbread and crumb cake. Is it any wonder I can't lose weight? I managed to leave this area with only a couple of additions to my basket, but my willpower was waning.

Finally, I stood in front of the register, only a few steps from the door and a bill that could have rivaled my weekly trip to the grocery store if I had stayed any longer. As I scurried toward the exit with my pink grapefruit sack of creamy treats, I heard the women behind me discussing how much they loved the coconut lime bath gel because it smelled like a tropical drink. Alas, it was all I could do to save myself, so I abandoned them to their fate and stepped into the cool evening air that (blissfully) did not smell of food.

The Tie that Binds

Sixteen years ago tonight Jeff told me he loved me for the first time, to which I replied, "Thank God." Within 10 seconds these two words gave him the courage to suggest we should get married, and it took less than a second for me to agree. That Tuesday evening started the adventure we call marriage, and food has played an integral part of our shared history together.

The friendship that began our love affair centered on frequent dinners together. Once, Jeff walked into my classroom in Kingman, AZ., and said, "Do you ever do anything impetuous?" (Obviously, he didn't know me well at this point in time, and he has never had to ask that particular question again.) This query led to a spur-of-the-moment trip to nearby Laughlin, NV., for dinner. Another time, I invited him to dinner and presented grilled shark steaks, which he approached with a bit of trepidation, but enjoyed in the end. A weekend trip to the Grand Canyon included two roasted Cornish game hens I had cooked the night before, and during dinner at his place he impressed me with Chicken Kiev. I guess the way to anyone's heart is through the stomach, after all.

Not long after we were married food became a source of debate and sometimes frustration. I had grown up eating a wide variety of garden-fresh produce, Tex-Mex creations, home baked goodies, and comforting Southern casseroles. He had grown up on a basic meat and potatoes diet supplemented with take out. He thought my food was strange, and I thought his was bland. But to his credit, if I cooked it, he ate it (at least once). He learned to couch his distaste for some things in kind terms, and I learned not to be hurt that he didn't appreciate spicy enchiladas, fried okra, or baby asparagus with hollandaise sauce. One of my fondest dinner memories from these early days happened the weekend he met my family. We had been married about a month when five of my relatives (parents, aunt, uncle, and grandmother) arrived in Laughlin for a vacation. For dinner my family chose a Mexican restaurant in Harrah's not knowing that Jeff hated spicy food. He ordered chicken enchiladas and ate every last bite with a smile on his face.

Of course, one of my first meals with his parents wasn't much better. During a visit a couple of weeks before we eloped, Jeff made some off-color comment during dinner and I playfully elbowed him and said, "You weren't raised in a barn," to which his imposing German immigrant mother haughtily replied, "No, but I was." Needless to say, this shook the very foundation of my Southern upbringing, and it was all I could do not to utter the words, "Well, bless your heart." Still, all's well that ends well, and we managed to survive those early tussles over food, though Jeff still harasses me over selling his Fry Daddy in a garage sale when we left Kingman.

Nowadays, food is an adventure for both of us. We have a birthday tradition of being able to choose any meal the celebrant wants. Year before last, Jeff challenged me to create a chocolate-centered dinner party. Dessert was the easy part, but I also obliged with dishes like Caramelized Black Bean Butter (which includes cocoa), dates stuffed with cream cheese and chocolate bits, and squash filled ravioli complete with shaved chocolate and parmesan cheese. Another year for my own birthday I created a Mediterranean-inspired menu of gazpacho, spanakopita, Portuguese-style spiced shrimp, and ginger custard with mango. A couple of years ago we held a Christmas feast of bell pepper soup, eggplant gratin, pears with blue cheese, autumn salad, vegetable pot pie and a variety of desserts including vegetarian mincemeat and ginger-brandy cheesecake. Last November's dinner party had a harvest theme and included eggplant spread with pita chips, baked scallops, dates with goat cheese on greens, sweet potato soup, roasted marinated vegetables, and shrimp creole. For dessert we had pumpkin cheesecake (Paula Dean's recipe, of course), with molasses lace cookies.

All of this food has created a bond of shared meals and shared memories. Jeff and I have drowned our sorrows in pints of ice cream, stressed over our jobs with Hershey's kisses and jars of peanut butter, celebrated our victories with pork tenderloin in cherry sauce, integrated into our respective families with cookouts and cookies, and built unity by discussing other family members' food choices with derision. Food is one of the many things that has brought us together and continues to entwine our lives through daily meals and meetings of the mind.

Why Are People Such Pigs?

I'll never understand it. The fact that some people are just trashy was blazoned across two places we visited today, and there's just no excuse for it. People will argue that since this is a "free country," we all have the right to do whatever we wish. What they forget, or are just too dense to understand, is that people don't have the right to interfere with someone else's enjoyment of the world. This is one of my favorite soap boxes, so let me explain how the idea presented itself today.

My family went to the Casa Grande ruins in Coolidge, AZ. We listened to a knowledgeable and friendly tour guide for awhile, but eventually meandered off to explore the place on our own. When we arrived at the doorway marking the entrance to the Hohokam structure which was built in the 1300's, a gate barred our way. My husband, who had visited the site as a kid in the 1970's reminisced about going inside the building and wandering around. As my son peered through the gate and voiced his wish to go inside, he noticed some graffiti etched into one of the walls. "There," he said. "That's probably why we can't go in anymore." Someone, who knows when or where, had decided that this centuries old wonder of ingenuity needed to be "decorated" for everyone's enjoyment. This carving into the fragile walls saddened me and my family. We so wanted to stand inside where ancient Native Americans had stood and try to imagine their lives, their hopes, their dreams. This transcendent experience was denied us because someone else exercised his "right" to do whatever he wanted. Needless to say, walking around outside the structure and peering in through the gates gave us only a small taste of the place that we wanted to drink in completely.

After our visit to the ruins we enlisted the help of the Garmin to find a park for the picnic lunch we carried in the trunk. We sifted through several candidates before finding one that had enough room and grass to play Frisbee and cook out. Here, we were again confronted by the needless piggishness of people. The park was generally a nice place with a large ramada for parties, playground equipment (including swings - my favorite!), grass, and shade trees. We parked ourselves under a tree near our car and set up our picnic. As my husband cooked the hotdogs on the portable grill, my son and I meandered through the grass and played on the swings. We couldn't help but notice the trash lying around including three empty alcohol bottles - rum, whiskey, and bourbon - an empty Eskimo pie box, crumpled paper cups, a torn KFC bag, and an empty shoe box complete with the paper stuffing from a new pair of shoes setting on top of a sack from a local store. As we ate our lunch, two young women brought several children to play. They all trooped past the trash lying around, but ignored it. We seemed to be the only people there picking up garbage. What has happened to our society that we can allow other people the "right" to make a mess out of our enjoyment? How long must we wait for people to take responsibility for themselves and their environment? Henry David Thoreau said that if one person stands up for what is right, others will follow. Isn't it time to reclaim our parks and monuments from the boorish and porcine people of the world?

Holidays Are Not About Food Alone

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, a holiday we have always approached with creativity and frugality. Like many young couples, in the first years of our marriage we were broke. On our first Valentine's day as husband and wife we set a $5 spending limit because that was really all we could afford. Actually, we probably should celebrate the day after Valentine's day because that would be much more inexpensive since everything is marked at least half off and still appropriate since February 15 is the day Jeff asked me to marry him. But, unable to resist the hype completely, long ago we embarked on making this hearts and flowers holiday our own.

That first year, and many succeeding ones as well, we made the valentines ourselves. I used a scrap of fabric to cover an old three-ring binder which I filled with famous love poems as well as some I had written. I bought a box of kiddie valentines and a glitter glue stick to decorate the divider pages of the notebook. Another time Jeff turned a small glass vase, some colored stones (the kind you put in the bottom of a fish tank), florist's wire, and squares of paper into an origami bouquet of flowers that graced my desk at school for many years. Once I bought a pretty, old book at a yard sale and painted over pages, decoupaged pictures, and wrote love notes throughout. Then, another year, Jeff filled a glass jar with paper hearts. Each heart had a task, a gift, a plan for a little romance written on it. Each week I drew a heart from the jar and Jeff did whatever it said from cooking dinner and doing laundry to renting a sappy movie or planning a family outing - which brings me to this Valentine's day.

We are continuing our tradition of having fun with this syrupy holiday by taking a family trip to the Casa Grande ruins in Coolidge, AZ. Jeff visited the site as a child, but our son and I have never been there. Following a look around at the ancient dwellings and the museum we're going to have a picnic in the park, complete with cooking hotdogs on the grill and playing some Frisbee. Since we didn't get back from the school trip until this afternoon, we decided to pick up a couple of side salads for the cookout at the grocery store, but I added a homemade touch with holiday cookies. I made basic drop sugar cookies but rolled the dough into little balls and flattened them with a fork. Next I sprinkled them with red sugar before baking. After they were cool I sandwiched them with cream cheese icing I had tinted red. They're festive and yummy, so that should set the tone for the event.

In addition to a picnic and some family time, I'm planning a nice beef dish which can simmer in the crock pot while we're gone. With the addition of some mashed potatoes and rolls, dinner will be a breeze. Of course, I didn't skip dessert - not on Valentine's Day. I whipped up a devil's food cake before I started the cookie project. After all what would a holiday known for flowers and candy be without something chocolate?

In case you're wondering about the gifts, we have those covered at record prices this year. That $5 spending limit I mentioned earlier lasted (appropriately enough) for the first five years of our marriage. We then moved up to $10 for the next five years, and $15 for the five after that. This is our 16th Valentine's Day as husband and wife, but we're sticking with the $15 limit indefinately. Jeff, who can't ever wait until an actual holiday arrives when gifts are involved, gave me my present tonight. He arranged our song ("With You" from the musical Pippin) for acapella choir, and his kids are singing it to me at the last concert of the year (in May). Yes, I cried. True to form, though, I am holding his gift until Valentine's Day actually arrives. Using a photo from a Mexican Riveria cruise we took last October, I created a pop art piece with the picture repeated in three different colors. The total for our love-fest gifts was $10, which is the price I paid for the discount poster frame at Michaels. Of course, at this rate there was enough left over to buy our son a box of chocolates. After all, nothing says I love you more than fat and sugar.

Over the years of being forced to spend time rather than money on a Valentine's gift we have learned to appreciate the truly important gifts we have every day of our lives, especially the one we found in each other. So, here's hoping your lacy hearts day gifts are more interesting and creative than expensive. Happy Valentine's Day!

Waste Not Want Not

I am writing this from a hotel room in Flagstaff where my husband's choir is participating in the NAU Jazz and Madrigal Festival. As I mentioned in a previous post, the school no longer reimburses teachers for the cost of meals on a trip. So, I decided to handle this like an extended picnic. Last night I made crunchy, oven-baked chicken for dinner, but doubled the batch so we could bring it along on the trip. I packed the orangy chicken fingers in heavy plastic take out containers we have accumulated from Pei Wei. I also packed some baby carrots and celery sticks, ranch and barbecue sauces for dipping, and some sandwich makings (roast beef from the deli, Swiss cheese slices, and rye bread), along with an assortment of soft drinks, tea, and juice. All of this fit into two small coolers, plus my husband provided goody bags with chips, crackers, raisins, etc. that he assembled for everyone on the trip. (The kids love these. Every year he springs for some small toys from Oriental Trading Company and creates a music-based puzzle book. All of this accompanies the snacks in a decorative bag for each student. This bag gives the kids something to do and something to eat while we drive up to Flagstaff from the East Valley, and keeps them from wanting to make a million pit stops along the way.)

When we arrived at NAU we spent the first hour watching the ajudicator (who will be judging our school first thing in the morning) work with other groups. When the competition took a lunch hiatus, so did we. The kids and another chaperone went off in groups to eat at the student union - which has a vast array of fast food as well as school meal options - while Jeff and I headed back to the bus where we munched on sandwiches, chips, and pudding cups while discussing what the judge was looking for in the groups we had seen. After this short break, we took a walk around campus and shopped at the college book store before meeting the kids to tour Riordan Mansion, an Arizona state park.

Jeff and I have been to Riordan Mansion several times, but none of the kids had seen it before. The park's purpose is to preserve a beautiful arts and crafts style 1904 mansion that was built as a 13,000+ square foot duplex (two family homes built as mirror images and connected by a great room/game room that is over 1,000 square feet by itself) by a pair of brothers who married a pair of sisters. The Riorden family, which played a huge role in developing Flagstaff, donated the house to the state in the 1980's. We are lucky to have taken this tour today because the park is scheduled to be closed 10 days from now due to our state's budget woes.

As we toured the house (perhaps for the last time ever), Jeff and I discussed the ingenuity and thriftiness of the people who designed, built, and lived in it. For example, the ice box (which holds a 100-pound block of ice) has pipes connecting it to the laundry room so that as the ice melts the water can be used to wash clothes. In addition, the water heater's pipes are connected to the old, cast-iron stove so that as the stove is used to cook dinner, it also heats the water for family baths following the meal. Another ingenious creation is the "air-conditioning" system created by a large, built-in hole (for lack of a better description) in the middle of the upstairs hallway. This open area provides light and ventilation from windows in the ceiling to the bottom floor of the house. In the summer time, the outer downstairs windows and the ceiling windows are all opened to create a cooling updraft through the entire mansion.

The tour itself consists of a park ranger guiding visitors through one of the houses which contains original furnishings, clothing, and other artifacts. The other house is a museum with information about the Riordans and turn-of-the-century Flagstaff. It contains a couple of antique pianos and multiple rotating displays. What struck me most today was a collection of World War I era food conservation signs. These signs urged people to use every scrap of food possible, to deny themselves something in an effort to provide food for starving refugees in Europe, to recycle their dinner scraps into animal food and other products, to not use sugar on fruit or in desserts so it could be sent overseas. The signs made it clear that every American should be carefully conserving and recycling as much food as possible. As I studied these signs and pondered the conservation efforts modeled in this early 1900's home, I thought about how wasteful we are as a nation. We hear repeated cries about going green, recycling, and not wasting our resources as if they are new to us, but they're not. We have simply been ignoring the wisdom of "waste not, want not" in favor of the folly of "gimme, gimme, gimme."

This evening as Jeff and I ate the chicken we brought from home, we discussed how much better it tasted than fast food and how happy we were to have more time to relax before tonight's festivities (a concert by Take 6!). This feels like conservation to me. We brought our own food, so we're not wasting money. We didn't have to walk all over creation in the cold, so we're not wasting time and energy. Perhaps that's really what this project is about - learning to reconnect with some of the simple things that worked for us as individuals and as a nation.

Budget Update or How to Eat Out on $14

If you're watching the magic counter to the right, you will notice we spent $20 and change this week. This is our budgeted amount, and we are well within our allotted money so far, but we had a break down this week starting with snacks at Quick Trip on Monday after school. Yes, we could have eaten a snack at home, but the slushy goodness of frozen cherry drink mixed with Dr. Pepper was irresistible. Of course, what's a drink without a nosh? The guys picked up a hot dog and a couple of spicy taquitos. This little foray into convenience store heaven set us back $6 and change, and primed the pump for todays spending.

This morning we awoke to a refrigerator devoid of leftovers and a bread-challenged pantry which presented a problem for our empty lunch boxes. We had actually intended to eat sandwiches today, and I had even saved some Kaiser rolls from last week for that very purpose. Nonetheless, at 5:45 a.m. Jeff meandered into our room and announced, "The rolls are cocooned in a spider web of white mold." While this sounds pretty and poetic, it's not good news when the only bread-stuff in the house is making a lacy fashion statement on its way to the garbage can. (In case you're wondering, we polished off the regular bread last night making patty melts complete with sautéed onion, mushrooms, and bell pepper.)

Since our lunch plans had gone awry, we decided to eat in the school cafeteria. After all, $3.50 seems a small price to pay for a full lunch including soup, salad, entree, side, dessert, and drink. When we invited a couple of guests to join us at our restaurant du jour, the total hit $14 for the four of us. To tell the truth, today is the first time I've eaten in our school cafeteria and it was (surprisingly) pretty good. Yes, the veggies were limp and overcooked, but the main course (teriyaki chicken) was tender, juicy, and well-seasoned. The rice was a little dry, but the sauce from the chicken remedied that problem easily enough. I was disappointed in the salad fixings (The cafeteria was running low by the time we arrived.), but well pleased with the moist carrot cake with cream cheese frosting for dessert. Beverage choices included lemonade and cold, fresh iced tea - not something I would have expected at school.

The only thing that bothered me about the whole experience was the plate. When I was a kid, the cafeteria had real plates - or at the very least it had a compartmentalized tray geared to hold each part of the meal. Today, we used Styrofoam plates and plastic utensils. As conscious as we have all become about the environment - our school is practically littered with recycle bins - I find it ironic that the cafeteria hasn't gotten with the program. Perhaps by the time the dollar amount and environmental impact of heated, soapy water is stacked up against the molded foam plates that will last a millennium in the land fill, it all comes out the same. I don't claim to be an expert on this sort of thing. But I do think we're regressing when we eat a nice - albeit ordinary - meal off of the kind of plates I only resort to when we're moving. Maybe next time I'll take my picnic kit - complete service for four including real plates, napkins, and utensils that fit neatly into a small backpack. This should give the people at the neighboring tables something to talk about.

Laughing in the Face of Diets

Comic Totie Fields once said, "I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is two weeks." Amen, sister.

Several weeks ago I decided I should lose the 20 pounds I gained two years ago, but things haven't been going too well for me. I started with the best intentions. I created an account on a weight-management web site. I figured out my BMI and how much, exactly, I should weigh. This, of course, was the first bump in my road, since the height and weight charts gave a considered opinion that losing 50 pounds would be in my best interest. I keep trying to visualize what I would look like 50 pounds lighter, but this task is getting the better of me. I can close my eyes and imagine rooms completely redecorated down to the art hanging on the walls. I can relax on the couch and conjure up beautiful table settings of crystal and china sporting the most lusciously decadent desserts. I can even call forth the image of my laziest student creating a PowerPoint presentation that knocks my socks off. What I cannot seem to see is a picture of me thin.

Perhaps this is because I've never really been thin. Of course, when I was a teenager my waist was a good deal smaller, but I've always had wide hips and an ample bosom. My sadistically tortuous older brother convinced me that I was fat, but in retrospect he just didn't want me dating his friends (who, by the way, hit on me every time they were at the house). The thinnest I ever remember being was a size 10 while I was in my mid-20's. I followed Weight Watchers religiously and spent a good deal of time planning, measuring, and weighing food that took me surprisingly little time to eat. And, in reality, it wasn't the amount of food that ultimately made me quit. It was the lack of variety. Breakfast consisted of a portion (notice I did not say a bowl) of cereal and about half a cup of skim milk. Lunch was oh so much better with a can of water-packed tuna, four or five saltines, and a piece of fruit. Of course, dinner was the big deal of the day, yet always carried descriptions like "sensible" and "healthy." My meals were planned to the calorie, and spontaneity went out with the clothes that no longer fit. This was fine for awhile, but as you may have gleaned by now I'm not good at holding the status quo. So eventually those size 10 jeans gave way to the size 12's and then the 14's which I kept in my closet since my weight seemed to slide between the two.

The real killer, though, was pregnancy. Despite "Steppin' to the Oldies," vigorous walks around the block pushing a stroller, and eating healthy food, after my son was born I hovered around size 16 for many years with only brief forays back down to those same 14's I kept in the back of the closet. But all that changed when we moved to the East Valley just over five years ago. At that point I lost some weight and dropped to a size 12. After staying there a year, the trusty 14's went to Goodwill. However, when I turned 43 my body revolted. Maybe. Maybe it's just that I discovered how much I love to cook, which reminded me of how much I love to eat. Maybe that is when I started watching Food Network on Saturday morning to plan the week's menu. Whatever the reason, I gained weight - back to the 14's for a year, and now the 16's for another one. The pounds have crept up on me. I would see two or three more on the scale and think, "I really have to do something about this before it becomes a problem." Guess what. I didn't. Even now I comfort myself with the counsel of my doctor from Safford who told me not to worry about the weight. "After all," he said. "People are starving all over the world. We're lucky to have some extra pounds." Needless to say, I really liked him.

So... back to the most recent attempt at losing weight. It seems I am failing yet again. I started out counting all the calories I ate, and found some quick success. As a matter of fact I lost five pounds pretty easily. (I wrote down everything to keep myself honest, and it worked!) But then, (You know where I'm going with this.) I got bored. I grew tired of measuring, counting, writing, figuring, and planning. So I stopped, and regained three pounds. So I started again, and lost three pounds. So I stopped again, and regained three pounds. Do you see a pattern here? Currently I'm on the regained side of those pounds, and I wonder why I keep fighting with them.

Why can't I just accept that I'm a size 16 and be done with it? I'm healthy. I have energy (as evidenced by the fact that my work days and weekends move at a pretty good clip). I laugh. I play. I sing. I dance. I do anything I want, but I'm not thin. I keep telling myself that a well-educated, modern, enlightened woman should just accept herself as is. After all, I don't judge my friends based on outward appearance, so why should I judge myself? We all talk about how society sends us subliminal messages about body image, and how our culture holds a double-standard for women and men, but why do we let it?

I'm reminded of the time a fellow college student judged me based on gender. We were discussing The Catcher in the Rye. When I said I didn't really like the book, he said, "That's because you didn't get it. After all, you're a chic and this is a guy book." Of course I laughed in his face and never discussed literature with him again. (Come to think of it, I never discussed anything with him again.) But my point is, why can't I handle issues of weight in the same way? I can see it now. I'll step on the scale tomorrow morning, which will groan under the additional three pounds I am still battling, but I won't care. I'll laugh (derisively, perhaps, but laughter none-the-less) and inform my mechanical nemesis (and the woman in the mirror) that I'd don't intend to discuss the matter any further. That should work until I step on the scale again, or tomorrow - whichever comes first.

A Sip of Sanity

I'm a drinker, which means I walk around with some type of liquid refreshment close at hand all day long. My beverages of choice are numerous and varied including coffee, hot tea, iced tea, pink grapefruit juice, orange-pineapple juice, ginger ale, lemon-lime soda, chocolate milk, dark beer, light beer, vodka, and gin, to name a few.

I know people who drink only water. While I understand this is a healthful practice meant to cleanse the system daily, the only real bath, shower, or spa I'm interested in works on the outside of my body and comes complete with scented oils and lavishly lathering shampoos. I spend a lot of time with my liquid refreshment, and I want it to taste like something, beginning with the morning coffee.

I did not learn to drink coffee until I was an adult. (I do realize it is an acquired taste, and my mother-in-law graciously educated me in this area by acquainting me with Starbucks some years ago.) These days I'm not as interested in drinking a dessert of caramel and whipped cream, but I have learned to appreciate a good cup of coffee. It is, especially on dark winter mornings, the elixir of life that helps me climb out of a sleepy stupor and into a productive day of telling kids what to do. As the weather warms up (which happens early and quickly in central Arizona), I prefer my morning jolt over ice, but I want it nonetheless. My students caution me regularly on how addictive and destructive a java habit can be, but I really don't think they'd like me if I skipped a cup of joe before spending the day with them. Besides, these days if you don't like the report that says your food and beverage choices are harmful, flip to another web site and read some contradictory material to soothe your conscience. I do. And, finally, to those who consistently criticize my food and beverage choices, all I can say is you've gotta die of something.

After my morning routine of coffee coupled with some ice-cold juice, my stomach seems ready to move on to other beverages. These may be somewhat limited by work, since I cannot generally stop in the middle of teaching the three-prong, five paragraph essay form to pick up a drink at Quick Trip. Fortunately, a small dorm-sized refrigerator is my savior rendering a handy supply of sodas and iced tea to my parched existence, because if I have to spend more than 30 minutes without wetting my whistle, things can get ugly. To be fair, students are also allowed to keep liquid refreshment close at hand for a rehydration emergency, and thus everyone is happy.

Later, as the day draws to a close, I move into the third stage of my beverage routine and line up a glass of wine with dinner (I especially favor a nice Chianti.), or finish off a beer that I opened to make fish batter. Sometimes, the setting sun's burst of pinks and purples playing across the vastness of the sky and giving way to darkness dotted with the first evening stars calls for a toast, and I oblige with a perfect dirty martini made from Trader Joe's olive juice, Bombay Sapphire Gin, and just a breath of vermouth. Hands down, this is my favorite way to sip through the cocktail hour at the end of a well-accomplished day.

Later, as my family settles down to watch TV for the evening, a steaming pot of herbal tea is on the menu. My favorites are saturated fruity flavors like raspberry and sweet cherry, or strong, dark, spicy brews featuring Madagascar cinnamon and aromatic chai. Mugs of these beverages signal my tired body that it is time to relax, unwind, and begin shutting down for the night. Coupled with a few vanilla tea biscuits or crunchy ginger snap cookies, hot tea creates the perfect atmosphere in which to bid the day goodnight.

In addition to keeping my body hydrated throughout the day and shifting my brain into various modes of operation, drinking occupies my mouth at crucial times when I might be tempted to put my foot there instead. For example, when a student asks the same question I have answered at least three times already (such as "How many points is this worth?" "Is this homework?" or "What if my printer won't work?") I can take a long drink of peach tea and a deep cleansing breath rather than disabusing him of the notion that he is an intellectual giant. This works with colleagues as well. If someone comes in and asks about the grading process for school-wide writing (which is clearly delineated in the instructions that he obviously didn't bother to read), before I say something about how a person with a college degree should be able to figure it out on his own, I can swig some ginger ale, pause to paste on a smile, and answer the question as if it is the most pertinent one I've ever heard. So, you see, spending the day with a glass, a can, or a mug in my hand keeps me from becoming dehydrated, but it also keeps me from going insane.

Ho-Hum Mornings

I'm bored with breakfast. It is my task to produce a morning meal for three people in 10-15 minutes, and I'm tired of it. Don't get me wrong. I'm not upset over fixing the food. My husband and I have an equitable agreement. He puts together lunches and starts the coffee while I get ready for work, and then I make breakfast and divvy up the vitamins while he gets ready. Our son joins us around the table at about 6:30 every morning to catch a little news and put some fuel in our bodies.

Left to their own devices my guys wouldn't eat much in the morning. My son would just pour a bowl of cereal and be done with it, while Jeff might have a glass of juice and a piece of toast if he were feeling productive and unhurried. However, I believe it is important to put some nourishment into our systems before embarking on hectic, adventuresome days at school. After all, who can think when his stomach is growling? To that end, it has fallen to me to make sure everyone eats something before walking out the door, but frankly, I'm tired of what we have to eat.

Normally breakfast includes oatmeal and sausage or bacon for the boy, while my husband and I generally have an egg, sausage, and toast in some form or another. Often that form looks like a breakfast sandwich with a piece of cheese melted across the egg which rests with the split sausage (real or vegetarian) between two slices of toasted bread or half a bagel or an English muffin. Generally this is pretty good, except when it's not. And it hasn't been recently, not because anything is particularly wrong with it, but because it is boring.

Tired of the same old sandwich, this morning I sautéed peppers, onions, and mushrooms before scrambling some eggs and laying a piece of Muenster across the top to melt. We skipped the toast all together, and enjoyed the slight change of pace. Sometimes I actually think about breakfast around dinner time and put together a casserole with whipped eggs, lightly cooked veggies, chopped sausage, and cream of broccoli soup. This is a good way to have something different and save some time in the morning since I only have to portion it out and punch up a couple of minutes on the microwave. However, this is still basically the same doctored eggs we have every day.

Sometimes, when the moon is just right, we eat a bowl of cereal or have some yogurt and fruit, but neither of these sticks with me until lunch time, and I find myself digging through my lunch box for munchies by the end of second period. What I really long for is a beautiful breakfast - the kind that takes a good deal of time on Saturday morning - every day.

I'd like to start the meal with a steaming cup of coffee for me and tea for Jeff. Next to those mugs should be small, well-chilled glasses brimming with pink grapefruit juice for me and mango-orange for Jeff. These should be the perfect size to wash down the several vitamins we take on a daily basis. As we finish this endeavor, I'd like a plate of crepes with fresh blueberries or blackberries to appear in front of me. I'm not interested in all the whipped cream madness I see on IHOP commercials, just some honest berries drizzled across warm crepes perhaps stuffed with the perfect amount of ricotta cheese. Next to these delicious tidbits I'd like to have two slices of barely crispy sugar-cured bacon. (I prefer oven-baked for its texture, which seems less rubbery than pan-fried bacon.)Following these delectable morsels, I'd like a second cup of coffee and perhaps just a dollop of lemon or key lime yogurt sprinkled with granola.

In my dreams, breakfast is interesting and unhurried. Sometimes biscuits and gravy grace my plate, and other times I see Belgian waffles with lingonberry syrup. On other occasions I envision warm, buttery croissants graced with thinly shaved smoked salmon, a tablespoon of cream cheese, a sprinkling of capers, and a small ring or two of red onion. Some mornings I even fantasize about crispy-tender hash brown potatoes topped with sautéed onions, peppers, and ham tidbits under a canopy of melting sharp cheddar cheese. Alas, Monday through Friday's morning meal is never so sweet or succulent, but it is sustaining, and that's really the point after all. But, in my heart I know the weekend's coming, and I can just taste those goodies, now.

Super Bowl Sunday Dinner

Some people believe my husband and I have an unconventional marriage. He is often nonconfrontational, while I have a don't-even-try-to-push-me-around attitude. He is a singer/performer/teacher who is deeply in touch with his emotions, while I can come across as steely and forbidding. This mesh works for us on many levels in a variety of situations, especially on Super Bowl Sunday.

Jeff is not a football fan. This is not to say he abhors sports in general because he enjoys an occasional trip to the ballpark complete with snacks and singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" during the seventh inning stretch. I, on the other hand, was raised where football is practically a religion. Not many spectacles on earth rival Knoxville, Tn., on Bama weekend. The entire city seems to burn with an electric orange glow. Everyone - and I do mean everyone from tiny infants to octogenarians - sports savage orange in one form or another. So, when Peyton Manning (a U.T. graduate, of course) stepped up to lead the Indianapolis Colts on to the field today, I was planted squarely in front of the flat screen to cheer him on while my husband continued to work industriously in his office.

Although my guys lost, I enjoyed watching the game and eating a lovely dinner at the same time. You might wonder how this could happen. You may ask, "Did you cook it ahead of time?" "Did you have frozen pizza?" "Did you break down and order out for Chinese?" The answers are no, no, and no. I was the thankful and pleased recipient of a dinner prepared by my better half, who emerged triumphantly from his office at half-time only to be disappointed that he hadn't missed the whole game. After a brief discussion of how good the guys from The Who look for their age, my husband and son announced their deep-set need to eat. After a moment or two of staring blankly back and forth (me to my son, my son to my husband, my husband to me), Jeff decreed that he would fix dinner, and I breathed an audible sigh of relief since third quarter was about to start.

As he left for the kitchen I presumed my son and I would be the recipients of grilled cheese sandwiches, doctored mac and cheese, or left overs. Any of these would have been dandy in my book since I didn't have to fix it. However, by the time my Jeff returned to distribute plates and silverware across the coffee table, the aroma coming from the kitchen definitely said "chicken." Moments later I was treated to a moist and delicious chicken parmesan beautifully arranged atop a bed of pasta and drizzled artfully with spaghetti sauce. There was even a loaf of garlic bread on the side. The meal served as salve for my damaged soul as I watched the Saints pick up an interception in the fourth quarter that sealed the game. Woefully, Peyton lost, but happily my stomach did not because I'm married to a great man who doesn't enjoy watching guys knock each other over on the field but who isn't afraid to knock around the kitchen.

Pie Heaven

O.K. Last month I said we would come home from I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change to an ooey-gooey mud pie or some similarly decadent confection, but that just didn't happen tonight.

I'm proud to say we did, indeed, have our pick-apart-the-show pie at home, but it wasn't really decadent. Instead it was light, fluffy, sweet, and crumbly. My original intention was to cheat a little (I know; who would believe it of me?) and pick up a pie at a specialty shop. My husband received a gift certificate to Croshaw's Gourmet Pies, and browsing their website certainly made my mouth water. But I guess that will have to wait for next month's show. The plan was to run some errands and pick up the pie early in the day. I even voiced this intention to my mom when I hung up the phone at 10 a.m. But it just didn't happen. I think my two favorite Roberts (Frost and Burns) said it best when describing "how way leads on to way" sort of diverts "the best laid plans of mice and men." By 1 p.m. it was clear we weren't getting out of the house anytime soon, and I decided I'd better make a pie. After all, theater night without pie might be sacrilegious.

Upon rummaging through refrigerator and pantry I came up with several choices for the required dessert. Cream pies (vanilla, chocolate, butterscotch, or banana) were definitely in the running. I had a hankering for banana cream with raisins, but I couldn't find a shriveled grape in the house. How disappointing! Since my first choice was so cruelly struck from the list, I moved on to other kinds of pie - chiffons to be exact. Before today I had never made a chiffon pie, and the flavor choice du jour was strawberry, which I thought I would make quick work of, but that, too, was not meant to be.

Normally I keep store bought pie crust in the fridge. I know pie crusts are easy to make, but the others are just so convenient it's hard to give up the habit. However, I was out of that today, too. (Did I mention I went grocery shopping yesterday? I wondered how I could actually be missing these things.) So I made my own crust, which tastes much better anyway since it always comes out light and slightly crispy/crumbly. Unfortunately, the lovely twisted edge I added fell off during baking, so my pie shell, while tasty, was not particularly attractive.

While the shell baked (and the edge fell) I moved on to the filling which begins with crushing strawberries. This sounds like an easy task, but I assure you, it is not. Strawberries were on sale yesterday, so I purchased a carton. However, since they aren't really in season they are not of the super luscious variety, nor have they been sitting in the fridge for a week getting soft. Instead, today's berries were sweet, but very firm. I thought perhaps my potato masher would be the best tool for this crushing business, but it was in the dishwasher which had 70 minutes left on the cycle. My next choice was a large fork. I reasoned the tines could effectively imitate my friend the masher, just on a smaller scale. They did not. The strawberries merely skittered away around the bowl. The next implement I pulled out of the gadget drawer was an ice cream scoop. This doesn't sound like a likely candidate, but I have one that is a solid piece of die cast metal, which makes it a good facsimile for a pestle. Alas, this did not work either. The strawberries continued to slip right out from under the thing. (Yes, I tried the handle end and the scoop end.) Digging through the kitchen drawers, I didn't see anything of better use, so I resorted to my hands. Actually, this was pretty fun because the berries squishing between my fingers reminded me of bare feet in summer mud puddles.

With the strawberries thoroughly crushed and my skin stained pink, I finally moved on to the next step of dissolving the gelatin, mixing it with the berries, and waiting for the mixture to be partially set but still pourable. This didn't take terribly long, but I did have to check it every 10 minutes or so. When the gelatin had reached the correct stage, I whipped egg whites and sugar until stiff peaks formed and folded their airiness into the fruit. Again, the mixture chilled until it was partially set, at which point I mounded it into my flaky, but ugly, pie shell and returned it to the fridge until after the show.

Arriving home tonight, we were all eager to taste the pie. It was smooth and creamy, sweet and fruity. The crust was tender, light, and slightly crisp. It was the kind of pie you could just keep eating. The pale pink dreaminess of it denied that it could be bad for you in any way. It was pie heaven, so fluffy light and cloudlike floating across the palate. Late though it is, a second piece is beckoning to me even now.

The Land of Milk and Honey, and Produce and Cereal and ...

Am I the only person who has a love-hate relationship with the grocery store? During the school year I am relegated to evenings and weekends at the supermarket. At these times the store is invariably noisy and filled with rude customers who would rather tromp over someone than utter a simple, "Excuse me." Even the clerks are agitated and grating because they're listening to these whiney people complain about how long it takes to check out. If I could shop on Tuesday, Thursday, or Friday morning around 10 a.m., the grocery store would be my favorite place to go. Imagine strolling leisurely up and down the aisles, pausing whenever you choose to read a label, find a coupon, or study the differences among six brands of mayonnaise. It would be glorious.

As a matter of fact, this is just what I do during summer break. Donning my favorite denim skimmers, slip-on tennies, and a soft cotton tee prepares me for the adventure of grocery shopping. Armed with my trusty coupon organizer (cleverly disguised as a worn out photo album) and a detailed list of food and sundry items, I gleefully hop into the car, pop the top on the convertible and let the wind ruffle my hair in anticipation of cruising through the edibles emporium (a.k.a. Fry's Food and Drug). I realize this sounds inane, but the joys of shopping in a nearly empty grocery store are numerous and immediate.

Obviously, I never have to bring a cart in from the parking lot since they are lined up - row upon gleaming row - waiting for my arrival. Nor do I have to carry along my own disinfecting wipes for fear the container at the store will be empty. And, after I have procured by metal chariot and thoroughly wiped down the handlebar, I may stroll through the silent automatic doors to a cheerful "Good Morning, ma'am" from the person standing just inside the blissfully cool respite from the central Arizona heat. Some 80's pop music filters through the background and I begin humming along. (My son says I know every song played in every store we visit.)

The produce section - one of my favorite parts of the store - greets me with a riot of color and texture as I glide fully inside the structure. I can (and frequently do) meander here among the fresh fruits and vegetables - smelling the peaches, husking the silver queen sweet corn, and carefully selecting the best portabellas from the pile. In the midst of summer, this place is loaded like a farmer's market, only better because you don't have to get up early and stand out in the heat.

Of course other parts of the store draw my attention as well. The bakery is always lovely since the smell of yeasty warm bread wafts from its interior beckoning me ever closer to the fresh, fragrant loaves. I seldom leave with only one. The deli, too, which stands adjacent to the bakery, is fun to browse because of its large selection of imported cheeses complete with full-color recipe cards and wine pairings to help the novice nosher. Advancing through the store, each successive aisle has something interesting and entertaining to offer up. The baking aisle has spices from all over the world while the row set aside for South of the Border devotees has dozens of salsas ranging from milquetoast to fire. But, one of the most iconic symbols of American decadence and privilege lurks elsewhere -on the cereal aisle. Most countries (so I am told by my well-traveled, jet setter friends - both of them) have a basic selection of cereal like corn flakes, crisped rice, shredded wheat squares, etc., but this is not so in America. Even in the small bedroom community of Queen Creek, Arizona, we have hundreds of choices for cereal. The row runs half the depth of the (enormous) store and is stacked four shelves high, each crammed with box after box of sugar, fiber, fruit, and nut crunchy breakfast foods.

Actually, the most amazing thing about this aisle (and the entire store) is that I take it for granted. I expect that aisle - and every other - to be brimming with choices. Not only that, but when the store doesn't have exactly the brand, size, color, flavor, or price that I'm looking for - I'm annoyed. Yes, truly annoyed. I guess this is evidence of how spoiled I have become. There was a time when the family budget was so tight that my husband and I walked through the grocery store with a calculator keeping a running total. Whether or not we could treat ourselves to a bag of cookies or a box of flavored herbal tea depended on that little glowing number. Nowadays we still live on a budget, checking for the best price and purchasing generic when it doesn't make a difference, but we no longer worry we won't be able to cover the bill. This is real privilege.

We are so privileged, in fact, that our local grocery store sells cookware, kitchen towels, and pretty seasonal plates in shapes like sunflowers, playful kittens, lacy hearts, and autumn leaves. Right next to the toilet tissue and paper towels, I can buy scented candles and wrought iron sconces. Just one aisle over boasts comforters in 20 colors and 400-thread-count sheet sets to match. The home decor items abound for several more rows before reaching the garden area which sports outdoor swings, grills, tableware, and palm trees. The health and beauty area brings a shopper back into the center of the store with row upon curving row of lotions, creams, cosmetics, and nail polish not to mention the (hundreds) of basics like shampoo, conditioner, cotton swabs, and deodorant. I'll bet there are 50 kinds of toothpaste, alone.

I think these trips to the grocery store should be something we learn to appreciate. It wasn't so long ago that people had to make a separate stop at each store to purchase produce, meats, cheeses, bakery items, etc., or even had the ability to get these items in a shop rather than having to raise or make them on a farm. When put in perspective, the modern grocery store is a marvel, and all those cranky, snippy shoppers who occupy it on Friday evening should learn to see the beauty and richness it provides. Perhaps they should stop by the floral department and literally take a deep, cleansing breath over a bouquet of sunny yellow roses.

A Yearning for Yams

Sweet potatoes are wondrous things. They're fantastic boiled and mashed with a good dose of black pepper and some half-and-half. They're delicious baked, seasoned, and smothered in butter. They're heavenly baked, scooped, doctored like mashed potatoes, and piped back into the shell for a second round in the oven. But the all-time best way to eat sweet potatoes is roasting. For awhile I thought the best way to treat a roasted sweet potato was with a little olive oil and plenty of Italian seasonings. Lately, though, I've come to the conclusion that they're even better roasted in fajita seasonings.(Thinly slice the sweet potatoes. Cut the slices in half if they are large. Place in a bowl, drizzle with olive oil, and add a packet of your favorite fajita seasoning. Toss to coat. Bake on a foil-lined cookie sheet in a single layer at 400 degrees for about 30 minutes.)
The starchy sweetness mixed with the kick of spice just makes my mouth water.

Tonight we had sweet potato tacos, which consists of roasting the fajita-seasoned sweet potatoes and scooping their soft, warm goodness into oven-crisped taco shells before topping with sharp cheddar cheese and sour cream. Scrumptious. In addition to the yummy taste, these tacos look exciting thanks to the potato's orange color which turns from a bright, sunny hue to a deep, golden amber upon roasting. This dinner is a no-brainer and a family favorite. The fleshiness of the potatoes coupled with the lightness of the taco shells creates a satisfying mixture of smooth and crunchy. Add to this the coolness of the sour cream, and how could it be bad?

We finished dinner with a quickie version of bananas foster. (Melt a tablespoon of butter in a small skillet over medium heat. As the butter begins to bubble add two bananas cut into coins. Cook for a couple of minutes until the bananas start to get soft and lightly browned. Meanwhile, warm some store-bought caramel sauce in the microwave. When the bananas are done, divide them over two or three dishes of vanilla ice cream and add the caramel sauce.) This is deluxe and takes five minutes or less to make. I am a little picky about my vanilla ice cream, though. I prefer the kind that has flecks of actual vanilla bean in it, since it has a far richer flavor than most ordinary, vanilla flavored ice creams.

Tonight's dinner made me glad to eat home. It was fast and easy to prepare, imminently satisfying, and not something we could have picked up anywhere else. With food like this, who needs to eat out?

Is White Meat the Dark Side?

As I continue to struggle with the moral dilemma of eating meat, I have strayed on to the carnivorous side of the path. This is much like Luke Skywalker discovering his father is Darth Vader. He is stunned and ashamed, yet knows he cannot change who he is. O.k., that's a little melodramatic. Seriously, though, I do feel guilt and remorse over eating the meat, but not until I have felt the thrill of something tasty crossing my lips.

For the past several years I have made lemon "chicken" by creating the sweet and tangy sauce to serve over rice and Morningstar Farms breaded not-quite-chicken patties. But last night, I made it for real. As I fried the bite-sized pieces of tempura-battered white meat, my mouth began to yearn for a taste. It was all I could do to wait for successive batches of chicken to come out of my wok while I industriously stirred the lemon sauce. (Alright, I did sneak one little bite, but only one.) The smell of the saffron rice with some added spices filled the kitchen and mingled with the sweetness of the lemons. When we finally sat down to dinner, I savored each bite wondering how I had lived without this goodness for so long.

That's it; I'm ruined. I didn't realize how much I missed eating meat dishes until last night. Now, I don't really want to stop again. In addition to this craving, which is probably akin to the one Louis feels in Anne Rice's classic Interview with a Vampire, I have been thinking about how expensive it is to eat vegetarian foods. For example, the boneless, skinless, chicken breasts we had last night were about $2.00 per pound, whereas the fake "chicken" patties go for nearly $4.00 for 10 ounces, which comes to more than $6.00 a pound. In this economy it is hard to justify spending that much money on something made from soy proteins. When you factor in the idea that I have to buy enough to feed my husband and son, the price becomes exorbitant. In addition, as my son pointed out, whether or not I eat the meat doesn't seem to make a big difference. "You know, if half the population did it," he said, "someone might notice." And I suppose he's right, though Henry David Thoreau would argue that I should be an individual and not allow society to dictate my morals.

So here I am again thinking about this food decision that no one else seems to care much about. For now, at least, I'll allow that lovely white chicken breast back into the kitchen on a regular basis. I'll enjoy every bite of it whether it is baked, fried, grilled, or sauced. I'll probably even lick the plate at the end of the meal before the feelings of guilt creep in only to be banished (hopefully) before dinner tomorrow night.

Cookie Monster Lives

Cookies have to be the world's most perfect food. After all, they're just as good raw as they are cooked, warm as they are cool, plain as they are dressed up. You can eat them any time of day with any kind of beverage. You can keep them, share them, or give them as a gift. They can be quick and simple or complicated and impressive. They are for holidays and every day, for family and friends, for eating at home or taking to a social function.

My family's favorite cookie is a classic - chocolate chip. I have tried a myriad of recipes and nearly every brand of chip on the market in search of the best. Interestingly enough, our top pick for chips is not made from Godiva chocolate or in a package emblazoned with Ghirardelli. We like the Kroger Private Selection (yes, generic) milk chocolate chips, plus the best recipe we've tried is on the back of the bag. Go figure. Sunday night I ventured into the realm of cookiedom once again at the behest of my nearly 15-year-old son. What can I say? He uses the puppy dog face well. Of course I don't actually bake all of the cookies, because large spoonfuls of raw dough tend to not-so-mysteriously disappear from the bowl. And why not? I can't resist licking the beaters, or the spatula, or any random spoon that gets "dropped" into the batter, or the bowl itself, for that matter.

While the batter is scrumptious, it's the aroma of baking cookies - ripe with overtones of real butter, brown sugar, and vanilla - that really gets to me. Someday, I'm going to stand before the pearly gates and say, "Hey Pete, is that homemade chocolate chip cookies I smell?" because heaven just has to be perfumed with the scent of baked goods.

Another cookie I love in any form is the traditional ginger cookie. I bake these every year at Christmas, but they're not always reserved for that holiday. Often on Valentine's Day the smell of dark, rich molasses coupled with the spicy tang of ginger wafts through our house as I pull sheet pans filled with cut out hearts, lips, and cupids from the oven. I have actually amassed quite a collection of cookie cutters for an array of holidays including Christmas, Valentine's Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Easter. There are also other, more general, shapes of fruit and animals. (I bought the fish and kitty cutters to make homemade cat treats, which - of course - my finicky furry friends merely smelled of with disdain before frolicking away.) So you see, I'm armed with cookie cutters for every occasion, and I'm not afraid to use them.

Another baking great is the tried and true peanut butter cookie. My mom made these often when I was a kid, probably because they're my dad's perennial pick. I remember carefully dipping the fork tines in a small pile of sugar and then pressing them onto the balls of cookie dough in a criss-cross pattern. More often than not, though, Mom baked them while my brother and I were in school. (I'm sure it was a good deal easier to make the cookies without grabby little hands wanting to eat heaps of dough before it ever made it to the oven.) At the end of the day, we'd come tumbling through the door pulled in by the smell of those cookies - brown sugary sweet and peanutty delicious. Before we ever had a bite we knew they would be perfectly done - soft and chewy with just a hint of crunchy, caramelized sugar around the edges.

Most people have memories like these - a favorite cookie, the aroma filling the house, the anticipation of that first (and every successive) bite. But somehow I like to think my memories are better because they span so many decades, so many shapes and kinds, and so many flavors. But that's just how the cookie crumbles at my house.

It's All About Perspective

Sometimes it seems that life is conspiring against our eat-at-home project. Over the weekend my husband was running regional choir auditions and ended up eating out a couple of times. He spent about $9.00 between two meals (one at McDonald's and one at Jack in the Box). In reality, that is a pretty low amount for eating twice, but he consciously tried to make the visits as inexpensive as possible. He even called before the first one and apologized for buying a burger. What a guy!

Here's the problem. Future choir trips, festivals, events are looming. The next one on the agenda is an overnight trip to Flagstaff which I am chaperoning. How are we to keep the expenses at a minimum for that trip? One might presume the trip shouldn't count against us because the money will be reimbursed by the district. (After all, we are taking the choir kids on a trip.) But, no such luck. In these days of heavy budget crunches, school districts are suffering as much (if not more than) most other entities and individuals. The days of reimbursed meals during school trips ended a couple of years ago. So, back to the problem.

As I see it we have about two days worth of meals to account for. We'll leave school at 8 a.m. on Friday and return to school between 4 and 5 p.m. on Saturday. Friday morning is a no-brainer since we will eat breakfast at home, as usual. Likewise, Saturday evening we should be home in time for dinner with the boy (who, by the way, is always happy to be left in Oma's charge for maximum spoiling action). The hotel we usually stay in offers a continental breakfast, so we should be alright with bagels and coffee on Saturday. By my calculation that leaves three meals plus snacks and beverages that we have to cover out of our pocket.

My thought is we should pack a cooler with soda, cheese sticks, and fruit to nosh when we're peckish. I would like to pack something more substantial, but I haven't made any decisions. I'm trying to approach this as a game of how can we actually spend a weekend away from home without eating out? My first thought was basic picnic food that doesn't need reheating. However, I realized the hotel has a microwave in the lobby near some small tables, which are nicely situated next to a large fireplace. (This is definitely a plus for Flagstaff in February.) This opens a larger realm of possibility. Perhaps something fancier and gourmet is order so that we don't feel put upon when the kids venture out to eat and we stay in. I can almost see it now. A small round tablecloth tossed nonchalantly across the two-seater in front of the fireplace; plates, flatware, and plastic champagne flutes from my Sunday-in-the-park gear; perhaps a chilled bottle of raspberry-apple cider to accompany shrimp scampi with cheese biscuits and a green salad. Perhaps the other chaperones will be envious of our lovely meal. Perhaps the firelight will flicker across the silver in my hair and hearken us back to the early days of our marriage. Perhaps the lobby will be filled with milling teenagers surreptitiously pointing and snickering at the two old fogies who brought their own food because they were too cheap to eat out.

Actually, I am reminded here of meals we have eaten in places where no kitchen existed. Once, when our house in Safford, AZ, was being built, my husband planned a dinner date at the construction site. He hired one of his choir kids (who is now an officer in the Navy and about to depart for law school followed by a JAG assignment) to serve us dinner. The two of them set up a table complete with white linens, flowers, silverware, and china. Matt, the student, wore his tuxedo (a.k.a. his choir uniform) and served us chilled cider in crystal flutes along with Kentucky Fried Chicken. There are many such days of silliness that my husband and I often recall amid laughter. Perhaps I can turn our weekend foray into another one.