There is no turning back

I overhead a conversation about organics, which got me thinking about esoterics. You know when you start to head down a certain path of knowledge or study and you are moving along this path not realizing how far you are going. And then one day you overhear a conversation that has to do with the little world you joined, and you find yourself chiming in and then blathering on while others stare blankly.

The conversation was something like: If you want to buy organic food, but do not want to spend so much, you can save money by buying organic foods that "matter." The logic was that fruits like the banana do not have to be organic because you peel it and therefore do not ingest any pesticides. This led to a wider discussion about the woes of buying raspberries that cost $7 per pint. This conversation took place in March, by the way.

So I sat there, marveling first at the fact that no one seemed to get that organics is about more than just the pesticides that you may or may not ingest. And second that no one seemed conscious of seasons and fruit.

I have brought seasonality up before, in conversation. As a response I heard about the wonders of shipping, global trade, and living in the US. Yes, but ... other 1st world countries still do the seasonality thing. And raspberries out of season taste like crap. Furthermore, raspberries from the supermarket taste like crap. But people vigorously defend their food choices. If you have ever been a vegetarian, as I was for 5+ years, you surely know how people will defend their choice to eat meat, and they will defend it with gusto.

So this time I did not take part in the food conversation because I realized that I am on a, perhaps esoteric, path of knowledge about food. I guess that I have already walked a long way down it such that I can't see the fork in the road where I turned anymore. Instead of taking part I thought about how Josh and I went to a very popular steakhouse in Seattle and the waiter was so happy to announce that they serve "corn-fed beef." But ... cows eat grass. Do you know what happens to them and therefore all the medicine and crap you have to pump them full of when you feed them what they don't eat? Not to mention the corn that they are eating is GMO and covered with pesticides? What would the server have said to that diatribe?

There are several sayings associated with knowledge and the lack thereof. Knowledge is power. Ignorance is bliss. A little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Then there is that whole biblical metaphor. And I certainly do not claim to be a purist. I buy conventional foods; I ate a steak from a corn-fed steer at the aforementioned restaurant. What am I saying, then? I don't really know. Perhaps just that the difference is in the guilt because of the knowledge of sin, or what I am coming to define as a food sin.

This would be blathering on, I think.

Fruit

I am livid.

One of the worst things on the planet - after poverty, hunger, war, etc. - is the fruit industry in this country. For years, I have been complaining that fruit doesn't taste like it's "supposed to." Finally, I hear many more people saying the same thing. Fruit is picked too early and blasted with ethylene (a natural chemical produced by apples and bananas) to "ripen" them, but they don't really ripen, do they? They look ripe, but rarely smell like the fruit they are, and taste like ... nothing. I haven't had a decent strawberry from the market in ages. And I never buy the fringe berries that we have here: blackberry, marionberry. They taste like dirty water. Those have to be picked in the woods.

Am I the only person who smells her fruit? People stare at me when I pick up a pineapple and hold it to my nose.

Surely, part of the beauty of this international market of foods is that you can get these wonderful things in northern latitudes: passionfruit, starfruit, dragonfruit, pineapple. But they just aren't right when they are here, are they? I remember eating a mango in Taiwan. Holy crap! Is that what they really taste like? I recall discovering that, yes, I do like pineapple ... in Hawaii. Before, I actually thought it was gross. Who doesn't like pineapple? But that stuff doesn't grow here. Is it great that we can enjoy them, even if they are not all they can be, or is it wrong? Perhaps we shouldn't ship those delicate things. Those tropical things. Those things that age on the table, but really should ripen on the vine. Maybe they will be better and even more special if you can only eat them where they are grown. Some fruits you will never eat. Some just once in your whole life.

Where is this coming from?

I bought a container of kiwi and a pineapple from Costco. The pineapple is fine - pretty sweet, but not Hawaii sweet. The kiwi are rock hard and not ripening, but rather shriveling, like an old woman's lips. The moisture is ... evaporating or something.

And I'm pissed. I keep cutting them open thinking that, yes, it gave to a little pressure, this one, this one is ripe. No. Inedible. It's been two weeks!

Have you ever had a peach from the American South? I mean, California grows some good fruit, but no way do the peaches even compare. No way.

So I am vexed by my fruit conundrum. Do I eschew all the sweet delights that cannot be grown close enough to home to allow them to be picked when ripe and not rocks? Buying organic helps a little, but not much, I've noticed. Buying at farmers markets definitely helps. But I'm not going to get my passionfruit fix at an Seattle market. I won't be shaking the hand of my local durian purveyor any time soon.

Vexation.

Culinary Good Deed

Well, Happy Earth Day. I celebrated today ... I didn't celebrate. But I did a culinary good deed. Haven't heard if these before? That's because I just made them up. Feel free to adopt the practice. Spread culinary knowledge wherever you roam.

Details? Happy to oblige.

I was at Safeway because Sam was screaming "grapes" all morning and I just wanted him to stop. I thought about going to Whole Foods so that I could also get some caffeine, aka, the elixir of life, or my best friend, but I hate WF and I didn't want to see how much organic grapes cost. I know. I need to buy everything organic. I know. But I went to Safeway anyway because I also wanted oil-cured olives and I didn't want to pay $20 for a jar, which is what I was certain to pay at WF. So, I'm at Safeway, which didn't even have said olives, by the way. I got them there before, too, what in tarnation is the big idea? Okay. They had one eensy jar for $8.39! of kalamatas and I wanted mixed. Curses. AND, Thursday must be Safeway's senior discount day because the place was packed with blue hairs. Lord! The aisles were clogged with people moving quite slowly, which normally I don't mind, but we were getting close to nap time and I just needed to get the darn grapes for a snack; also, I wasted a lot of time reading 28 jars of olives to see if they were oil-cured. The fun thing about going on days like this (U's Senior Discount Day is Tuesday) is that I get involved in lots of conversations ... because I'm so young and pretty with such supple skin. Ha! Because I have a toddler. This old guy clogged up the works in the exit lane because he needed to talk some nonsense to Sam, who is a good sport and seems to really value the older set. So I'm at the grapes alongside an elderly woman. We're both squeezing the red grapes to see which package to get. I was finding a lot of mushy grapes in sticky bags, so I move over to green.

Me: Hm. They are all a little soft, aren't they?

Lady: And dusty.

Me: That is actually the protective coating on the grapes. All grapes are dusty. It keeps them fresh longer, so you should wash them only right before you want to eat them.

Lady: (interested and definitely thankful voice) Oh, really.

At this point I paused, steadying myself for the "thanks" that was sure to follow, readying my countenance for a magnanimous and gracious smile, as in It's nothing, really, I spread culinary knowledge everywhere. But I was not thanked, and Sam was calling me, so I grabbed my green grapes and headed out satisfied with my good deed for the day.

My Mission: To fight food misconceptions wherever they may be! Join me!

"How you will get fat" and other pearls of wisdom

I think this is how it usually goes, right? It's winter and you eat things that fatten you up a bit. You want to sleep more, too. This is biological. This is the way it's supposed to be!

Then spring hits. You start thinking about bathing suits and tank tops. You start pinching that fat layer that, hey, you kind of liked mid-January, and you think What have I done?

If you have a child, there is an extra twist. I have said it at least twice before: When you make your toddler a meal, you must be psychologically prepared to either toss or eat it if and when it is rejected. Unfortunately, my wee gourmand often rejects carbs.

Now, I am not of the ilk who thinks that all carbs are bad. I certainly do not ascribe to the Atkins philosophy, eschewing fruit and so on. I believe Atkins once said something like "Why would anyone ever eat a banana?" The insidiousness in finishing a muffin here and waffles with peanut butter there is that all these little servings count. But we don't count them, per se. Just like we don't count the glass of wine or the handful of jelly beans. At least, I don't count them.

Enter the words of my mother. She has said this more than once - before I had and definitely after I had a baby. These little pearls stick in my brain somewhere and reappear to make perfect sense later on. Yes, you will certainly gain a bit more than you would have otherwise if you go around cleaning everyone's plate. She also said something about learning to eat really fast when you have kids. I think I do that too.

It doesn't help that this time last year I was quite fit because I was in the middle of my P90X challenge. I measured and weighed everything I ate. I felt good too. There is something satisfying in that dominion over your caloric intake and in all the things you eschew. At least I felt a sort of power ... I think this is part of the psychological profile of eating disorders, actually. Anyway, I certainly don't want to measure everything forever. And no one can live solely on chicken breasts, salad, and protein shakes. And I really love food, a variety of food, interesting food ... dessert food.

And I believe in "cheat days." My brother is a trainer and he has a cheat day. I read an interview with a professional wrestler in Muscle and Fitness Magazine and, when talking about his cheat day, he said he goes so overboard that he doesn't want that food again for months. So, he chooses pizza for his day, eats four of them, pushing his stomach to the edge, and is so revolted by pizza that he doesn't want it for months. Perfect.

So I need to change my current philosophy and practice, which can be summed up in the words of my father: "Well, there are only 14 tater tots left, might as well kill them."

Reclaiming my kitchen

"Our kitchen," Josh would say.

This is what we say, don't we? We married women. As in, "Get your shoes off my couch," and, "She had the nerve to come into my house and treat me that way!" We know that these are shared things, but saying "our" in certain situations takes the power out of the statements.

So, you may have been doing the math. I was gone for THREE weeks, with Sam, to California. That's a long time to leave a man alone ... with a cat ... in my house. So what was it like? No, no, not the trip. What was the house like? You know you want to know. What state of disrepair, what kind of chaos did I encounter? What did the kitchen look like?

First, there were NO eggs. Who doesn't have at least one egg in the house? Sure, there was one carton of egg whites - that I bought before I left so that Josh had a supply - but no real eggs. Second, NO milk. Oh, I exaggerate. There was about 1/4 cup of skim milk. Uhhhhh, Sam is 19 months and drinks full-fat ... daily. Maybe you would want to have some on hand since we got home in the afternoon and he would presumably go right down for a nap after having some milk? No? Third, there was a lot of laundry. A lot. Like three weeks' worth. That I am doing today.

Fourth, and maybe the best, was that the garbage was really full. I mean, oddly full, since only one person was here. NO! He didn't! I hear you, dear friends. But he did! He forgot to take it out to the curb on garbage day! In his defense, there were three garbage days and I think he only neglected the can on one of those days. I think.... That was a lot of garbage, though ....

The good news: We have a new fan in the bathroom - one that works and doesn't sound like a lawnmower. AND, the furniture in the rumpus room is arranged in a new way that works much better than the old way. AND, the house is generally clean. He even did a load of kitchen towels that were folded and waiting to be put away. (Because I know where they go.)

I can forgive the trespasses, even the grocery oversights. Really, he just shopped in that way that men do ... you know, for things they need like undershirts, protein bars, and tangerines. He can't be bothered with staples or things that would be useful to have when one gets home with a baby. He also can't be bothered to replace things he used almost all of, like perhaps the diced tomatoes that I assumed were still there for my use in Sunday night's dinner. (Lentil and rice soup with Isernio's sausage and kale)

I blame myself. I was out of practice. Out of the anticipating practice. You know, as a wife who does the shopping, you read between the lines and get things and know things. In hindsight I knew that the diced tomatoes were gone because he told me that he made chili and stew. That positively screams at me to check on my spice, bean, and canned tomato supply.

To Josh's credit, he ran out to the store (after I yelled "You can't just use all of something and not replace it!") and bought canned tomatoes.

So it sent me pondering, this episode. The chores have become divided, and the more years that pass, the more specialized Josh and I become at our work. For example, Josh is all about the installation and maintenance and understanding of electronics. If I were a single gal in my own house (wait, it is my house), I would need to do this all myself. But I remain blissfully ignorant because I can be. My specialty is the store run because I plan the meals and I know what Sam and I need for our meals at home during the day. In other words, I know what we need. Josh will volunteer to go, but it's really more than the list, isn't it? You have to be ready to bob and weave when life throws you curve balls like no Arctic char. To send him means that I have to go through the list and be really specific. Also, there is the whole Inspired Shopping element. You know, you are going down the list when you spot *gasp*chocolate covered almonds and you think, Yes, I need those this week. What will I miss out on if Josh goes to the store? There are lots of psychological layers to this shopping thing, is what I'm saying.

I think a therapist would have a field day with his stuff.

Burritos

I'm thinking about burritos as of late. I have had Mexican cuisine five times during this visit, so far. Three out of five times I had a burrito, once I had a chile relleno, and once I had tacos. I still have to get pan dulce one of these days. It is mandatory that I consume at least one burrito whenever I come to the San Francisco Bay Area because (1) they are abundant, and (2) they are good.

I got some flack for a Yelp! review I did of Mr. Villa's, a Mexican family restaurant on Lake City Way, in Seattle. The guy wrote to me to let me know, in a rude and condescending manner, that being from California gave me no authority on Mexican food. I was ticked off, swearing that his charge was off the mark because he is from Seattle and therefore knows not a whit of what he says. But it got me thinking. What gives us the authority, being from San Francisco, and not being of Mexican descent, on Mexican food? Because I'm sure all of us from this area do indeed think we know what we are talking about in the burrito department, the chip department, the salsa department, and so on. So what is it?

My flow of consciousness on the matter: California is what, 50% Hispanic? There is even a term used in California, possibly originating in California, definitely found in CA universities as part of the ethnic studies programs, to describe those of Mexican descent: Chicano. I never hear that word in Washington State. Even though I am a white Californian, part of my identity has to include Latinos as my brothers ... sort of ... at least this place has part of its identity as once part of Spain, then Mexico ... that translates to its people somehow. In fact, my neighbor in Seattle says that she is Californian and means that her family is from the time when this was "California part of Mexico," which is an identity of place and people frozen in time. Gosh, flows of consciousness can be messy. Surely, though, we Californians all grow up knowing at least a little Spanish in this state - well, most of us. I'm sure people in Ukiah and McCloud are not well-versed in Spanish, but who knows? maybe they are. The point is that there is a huge Mexican influence in California, especially along the coast in all the cities along El Camino Real, which connected all the missions. Just look at the city names, for goodness' sake. I am from San Bruno, a suburb of San Francisco, which is north of Los Angeles, the other big city that everyone knows. If I want to get family style Mexican food, or pan dulce, or attend church services in Spanish, I have lots of venues to choose from. If I wanted to, I could stop speaking English all together and just speak Spanish and I could perform all my business without a problem. So is that it? I have authority because of the mere glut of Mexican food and the sheer number of burritos I have eaten in my life. Burritos eaten at establishments owned and run by Spanish-speaking peoples who may be Chicanos or Mexican immigrants.

People from Seattle can talk up and down about salmon and coffee and go unchallenged on the source of their authority. They can also go on and on about sushi because of the scads of fresh fish that have come into the harbor since the 1800s. That fish wasn't always slapped onto vinegared rice, but it is now and I don't think that the authenticity of a person's sushi prowess would be challenged just because that person is not from Japan, doesn't speak Japanese, and has never even seen Mt Fuji. Right?

So, I am from California. I know what a good burrito is, what a bad burrito is, and I like my chips thick and lightly salted! Tomatillo salsa needs a little sweet in it; guacamole needs a little acid; and pickled veggies are a must. Your pastor should have some crust and your carnitas should be unctuous, but not over the top. Lard in the beans? I can take it. Why? Because I am from San Bruno! Respect my authority!

I would love to extend this conversation if people have comments and questions and musings of their own.

My Life Sucks, by Jen Sorenson

Josh: Do most bloggers blog every day?
Me: Well, it depends on the blog. The ones I am following, well, yes and no. I suppose one wouldn't be able to keep up with blogs the way people do if every blog was updated every day.
Josh: Maybe you shouldn't blog every day.
Me: I want to write every day. If I have an audience, I will. But, my shoulder and neck are hurting. My forearms, too. Maybe I can do pen and paper and the blog and just alternate.


Then my mom said something about needing more photos to break up so much text. And my dad said the entries are really long.


But here's the thing: If I write in my journal, my usual theme is My Life Sucks, by Jen Sorenson. Isn't that what everyone writes about in their journals? I mean, the whole point is to let it flow sort of therapeutically. I thought. Unless you are traveling, then it's to record. Which reminds me of Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad. He remarks about journaling - something about it being an odious task, but a task you are morally obligated to do. Anyway, if you read my journals you would think I was depressed, angry, ungrateful, and mean. And probably a bitch. Because that's what I write about! To wit: Today, so and so trespassed against me and I will show righteous indignation and then s/he will feel my wrath. The point being, when I write about food I am considerably sunnier. I could try to be so in my journal, I suppose, but who records nothing but joy in a journal? Those habitually happy people don't journal! This blog gets me focused on something other than my existential crises.


Maman est morte.


Don't worry, if you read French. That's just a nod to Camus, an existentialist.


So leftovers:



I have spoken of leftovers before, so I will not dither on the topic. I was going to write a poem, but I was so tired today and I let Sam watch an entire Sesame Street in one sitting ... followed by Julia and Jacques (for me) because I just couldn't think of what game to play and those bristle blocks looked so foreboding. Ug. So no poem today.


Let me just say that Josh figured out how to make the onions work, and they were delicious as leftovers! He is a bit of a savant in the kitchen. He simply doesn't have time, so I am allowed to be the culinary artiste. For the onions, he skimmed the fat layer off the top - since it hardened in the fridge - then boiled the port down. Yummy. The onions still had too much crunch for my taste, but the sauce made them palatable ... more than that, as I said. And you can see the potatoes in the photo! I made them with just a little butter and whole milk, and folded in a tiny bit of sour cream for lightness and a certain je ne sais quois. I definitely do not know how to spell that. And, actually, we do know quois because I just told you: sour cream.


Josh and I decided that the two English short rib recipes that we have from Mark Sorenson's Recipes are superior to this one from Best Recipes! One involves onion soup mix. Can't go wrong with onion soup mix.

The Refrigerator

We need a new fridge. You cannot get this thing totally clean. I actually contemplated removing the transparent plastic part of the drawers, even though it's pretty obvious that they are not made to pop on and off, because there is mildew and rotifers in a crevice that I can't get at! Why would that crevice even exist if you can't clean it?! A man designed these drawers. I even thought, "Hey, if I can't get them back on, no biggy." Then I realized I was crazed. How does all that grime even get in there? Mildew and rotifers! IN MY FRIDGE. I busted out a toothbrush and still couldn't get it all. So, we need a new fridge.

I decided to clean my fridge on Thursday. You know, you have that moment when you open the door and say, "No more." How does hair get in there anyway? And where do those crumbs come from? Was someone eating crackers in the fridge? I used to (a mother's code for in my pre-child days, hereinafter referred to as PCD) stay on top of my kitchen. At least once every other month I scoured my refrigerator. And we're not talking just wiping the shelves, either. I pulled every drawer and shelf out to wash in the sink, then towel dry. I also washed off all the bottles AND their caps. Yeah. Hard core. But this fridge has not been cleaned since we moved in ... that would be June, people. Well, let's be fair: the end of June. I of course wiped up spills and glaring messes. I picked out hairs. But the gathering crumbs and hardened drips and other debris was always told to wait until I have a chance. "Oh, when I have a chance, I will clean the heck out of you, Fridge." You have chances. I had cahnces. But you let it be Good Enough, don't you? Good enough, until you say No More. Oh yeah! and when the husband makes a comment, you know it has gone too far. Josh, king of "I have a higher tolerance for dirt than you do." Well, since we are no longer in the PCD, the edge of my Good Enough butts up against the beginning of his Higher Tolerance - and there the twain shall meet.

And since we're discussing husbands and the kitchen, take a look at this:

Josh: Why did you take a picture of the dishes?

Me: Did I?

Josh: Are you going to write about me on your blog?

Me: Write about you?

You will note that this oblique language neither admits fault, nor nods to intent. I'm like a politician. The critics will say, "But she said she wouldn't publish it." Did I? Let's look at the transcript.

So this dish pile reminded me of college days - perhaps this is just for those of us who lived with boys at one time during our very early twenties. While living with these roommates - and I saw this repeated in other houses, so it wasn't just us - the unspoken goal was to add your clean dishes to the pile in the strainer without knocking them all over. If yours didn't fit, or made everything come crashing down, you had to put all the dishes away. It was only fair. The pile in the photo is not that bad. I just laugh because when I put the dishes away, I dry the tupperware. I like all the work to be done at once. I hate coming back to the kitchen to find a continuation of what I started earlier because, at that point, I have already physically and emotionally moved on. Luckily for Josh, he makes this pile and I put it away later.

Once, during my junior year in college, my roomate, Benoit, left his dirty dishes in the sink for three days. But this was Davis, and we had ants and roaches if we were remiss in our housework. I did not think it fair that Suzie and I suffer because of his injudiciousness, and I sure as hell was not going to do his dishes for him (what a precedent!). So I took his dirty pots and plates and put them on his bed. Typical Benoit, he just moved them back without a word when he got home and cleaned them the next day ... because he wanted to, not because of my psychological experiment.

Now, when you are a Cleaner, you get a certain satisfaction ... no ... contentment out of cleaning. I actually feel happier knowing that something that was once filthy is now spotless. But there is a trap in this identity. As a Cleaner, you almost shouldn't even embark on cleaning unless you have two full days to devote to a given project. What happens is that as you are working on a microscopic level in a filthy area of the house, like your fridge or any given spot in the kitchen, you start out feeling good within the boundaries of that job. But then you catch sight of a little filth next to the area you started on. You think, Well, if I'm doing the fridge, I might as well do the floor by the fridge and the wall and the cabinets beside the fridge ... and and and your reach extends. It doesn't stop. Pretty soon you are thinking that, yes, you can, and should, pull the entire refrigerator out all by yourself. And the stove. You have to actually cut yourself off. I allowed myself to scrub the floor around and a little under the fridge and then made myself throw the sponge away. But while I was down there I saw splatter that may or may not have been made during our brief tenure in this residence. I wanted to clean it so bad.

I have a limited time for chores like this because Sam doesn't want Mommy cleaning while he is awake. So I try to cram chores, eating, blogging, and everything else into his two-hour nap. I tell myself that this is why I let things go so long ... why I let them get so gross. It's because I want to devote a good chunk of time to doing it right. But I think there is another reason. I let the house get gross in places because I like to feel that little obsessive surge of energy that makes me keep cleaning, and then the complete joy when something is spotless. Maintenance cleaning just doesn't give me a rush.

So cleaning is more than an exercise in ... cleanliness. Perhaps this is how it is next to godliness! Because you meet your subconscious! You explore your Self. How far can I push myself? Can I control my reach? How far is too far? When is it Good Enough? Can I go for Greatness today? You are one with the whole and God and Everything.

Or, it's just a clean fridge.

Bummer

If today had gone as planned, I would not have time to write. You may recall that we had to cancel our Walker dinner last week because of my tummy issues. We rescheduled. I should be right now dazzling everyone with my repartee. Foiled again! This time by a possibly sick little boy. So sad. We rescheduled again - for next week - so that is when I will go on and on about my trip to the store, my prep, my menu, etc.

But don't fret! There have been culinary happenings. First, my trip to Uwajimaya today was awesome, as usual. I went a little later than I normally do. Normally, I like to arrive right away. I get to park where I please, lolly-gag around the aisles, have my pick of the freshly cut meats and stocked produce. If they open at 9, I'm there at 9:01. This is probably some sort of obsessive thing that combines my dislike of crowds and my like of early mornings and determining my own schedule and pace. Plus, this is the time when the produce stocking is happening at island tempo and the older employees are happy to engage in conversation. I got a couple recipes last time from one guy. I still have to try those out: one for Brussels and one for parsley and steak! But today I was at the store at 11! Holy gangs of shoppers, Batman! Lots of people increase my human interaction, as well as the probability of me having a disagreeable encounter. Arg! So, most people at U are smiley and seemingly happy to be shopping there ... perhaps I'm projecting, but that's what it feels like. Today I ran into out-of-towners that made me grumpy! I could tell they were not from these parts because they cut off my shopping path (gasp) without an "excuse me" (bigger gasp), and when I made eye contact with the dad (there was a toddler in the cart), he looked immediately away, so I turned to the mom and smiled only to get a scowl. Wow. That's not what we do here. Show me those pearly whites and tap into your inner politeness. Woe is me; where can I go to feel safe and warm again? Why, the meat counter, of course.

I used to be afraid of butchers. I guess "intimidated" is more accurate. I guess I thought I should have a solid grasp of animal anatomy, know all my cuts, and be able to order while projecting meatly confidence. So I always went straight to the plastic-wrapped section. The plastic-wrapped section is great and all, but you are limited in your cuts and sizes. And sometimes you should see a big, dead slab of meat getting cut up. Plastic allows us to separate ourselves from the fact that, yes, that was an animal. And, yes, it was slaughtered for consumption. If people have to think that the slice of red all wrapped up grew on a tree, just like that, in order to feel okay about eating it, maybe they shouldn't eat it. Did I just get way off on a tangent? Yes. My fear of butchers .... Thanks to the Food Network and my cookbooks and magazines, I can now saunter right on up to my meat men and tell them what I'm making and what I think I want. The difference between then and now is certainly more knowledge about the animals I consume, but more importantly a recognition of the fact that butchers are the ones who know the animal backwards and forwards and are there to help a starry-eyed waif such as me. And, frankly, I find the butchers at U awesome in all their blood-splattered glory, cutting up God's creatures for our gustatory delight.

I got lamb shanks, by the way. More on that when I put them to use.

Second, I went out last night! Mommy had a night out with her girlfriend, Jackie (shout out!). We went to Quinn's, which is a newish (?) gastropub. Speaking of meat, this place believes in it! Jackie ordered lamb ribs and I got house-made linguica with lentils de puy. Holy moly! Dare I say Great? If you have not had lentils and sausage as a combo before, I highly recommend giving it a try - they are made for each other. And the lamb. Oh, the lamb. The spice rub definitely had cinnamon in it, and coffee, cloves, and a host of other things that reminded me of cookies and BBQ, somehow making sweet music together. I washed everything down with a Drink. I usually drink beer at these types of establishments, but I thought I would start with some liquor. I started and ended with it because it was a large glass and I am not accustomed. It was delicious: calvados, chartreuse, something else and a sugar rim. Thank you. I have been thinking about it ... wanting another one.

I still have to Yelp! this place. I'm torn, though. I want to go back again before I give it a grade. I was going to hit it with 5 stars, but think that I should sample more items. I also think my five might be unduly influenced by the enjoyment that went on at the table next to us. They ordered plate after plate and shouted things like: "Keep that coming!" and "More of that!" I think they kept a menu on the table for reference and rounds of gluttony. Juxtapose that to the table on our other side of two guys (on a date, I believe) who pretty much listened to us the whole night. I would have too! We talked about religion, books, family, marriage, kids, old friends, institutionalized racism, the suburbs. No sports.

So I didn't cook yesterday. I will be cooking tonight, however, so we should have some photos tomorrow. I kicked myself for not bringing my camera to Quinn's last night. I'm not ready to give away my blogging and Yelping identity quite yet, however.

Oven is beeping its readiness. Time to go.

Cornbread muffins

Surely the Pennsylvania Dutch invented cupcakes. Seems like something genius they would think up. I have five different muffins in my freezer right now: Peanut butter, blueberry, crazy grain, pumpkin, and corn. I make a batch, keep a few out for Sam and me for the week, and toss the rest in the deep freeze. I also have cupcakes - mocha. The thing is, Sam goes through phases where he loves and then rejects the same muffin. PB with jam is good today, whereas tomorrow, he will turn his nose up. Josh asked, "Why are there so many different muffins in here? Why do you make so many?" Your son and his fickle tastes, that's why.

The ones pictured above are the batch that I made using "How to Cook Everything," by Mark Bittman. This was yet another of his recipes that left me wondering why I ever turn to any cookbook except my Best Recipes. The muffins above were disgusting. Inedible and disgusting. There was a sour aftertaste, AND they were like rocks. I thought the dough looked rather thick, but I was like, "Oh, thick is good. These will really rise and ..." Do I even know what I'm talking about? No. So corn flavored hockey pucks. The sourness could have been my doing, I realize. The recipe calls for buttermilk or yogurt or soured milk. I go for the yogurt. I only had a cup of yogurt, but I needed 1/4 cup more. So I figure, Hey, sour cream is similar in texture. Now, if you're a baker you know that this was not an inane pull from the fridge shelves. There are plenty of cakes, cupcakes, and breads that call for sour cream as the viscous fat component. Not weird for me to think of this. Smart for me to think of this. And yet, I can't help but think that my 1/4 cup decision had something to do with the fact that I have thrown out TWO things in the past week. A record, for sure.

Did I mention that this was my first attempt to make cornbread muffins from scratch? I know. I know. I am a baking maven. I bake my own bread, for goodness sake. First time? Yes, friends, yes.

Those of you in the know about the cookbook I used are scolding me right now, aren't you? I hear you: "I saw Bittman on 'Spain: On the Road Again,' and know that he is not a chef." Yes, I saw him, too. He writes a column! It's like Padma Lakshmi having a cookbook (she does). I have, however, found some fabulous recipes in his book: waffles, pickles, and celeriac-potato mash. So, the jury is still out. I won't put him on the trusted list of cookbooks just yet.

So after I ditched the corn pucks I did two things: (1) I bought the failsafe cornbread mix from Trader Joe's. (2) I found a recipe in New Best. Below is the NB, and they are delicious! Funny, though, because this recipe calls for sour cream and, after I used 1/4 cup for the crap pucks, I was just a bit shy. So I used yogurt to make up the scant difference. Ha.

I'm wondering if I didn't make a mistake in taking Bittman's "bread" recipe and translating it to muffin form. But I've done that before, right? You can do that, right? Hm.

All this baking means I've got it together. I mean, if I bake then I am in control of my destiny. I am making It and doing It as a stay-at-home-mom, right? I think these little corn muffins are some sort of outward recognition that I am Okay. Because sometimes you don't feel Okay. Like when your son refuses to nap, so you sit and listen to him cry during "rest time," while you type a blog entry. Because, hey, 30 minutes in the car do not a nap make. And, hey, why fight it? And, hey, Mommy needs some rest, too, and crying in the car for five minutes doesn't count. And, hey! when the house and you look like crap because neither are clean, but muffins are there making the house smell good, then everything is good.

Right?

Leftovers

The only thing I made yesterday was hot chocolate. It sounded good. I really wanted Mexican hot chocolate, but it requires a blender and Sam was sleeping.

So, leftovers. Sam is finishing the almond cake for breakfast. You know when your child eats an eensy weensy amount and you're like, "That can't be enough." But you don't want to push it or judge it because heaven forbid the kid get a complex and lose the ability to judge what is enough. We know our bodies! As we steadily work toward adulthood we sort of detach from them ... and healthy emotional expression ... what was I saying? Yes, Sam was eating the leftover almond cake because dessert for breakfast is sometimes okay. He liked it and it had eggs and almonds, both of which are good for you. The refined sugar, not so much.

I read somewhere - probably in something by Elson Haas - that refined sugar is the single worst thing to happen to human health. Wow.

I know a place where cookies are a perfectly acceptable breakfast. That place is Spain. When I lived in Barcelona, my abuela (grandma) saw me running off to class and cornered me. "Did you eat?" I stammered and looked at the floor, mumbling that I ate cookies. I readied myself for the back of her hand. Instead, she said, "Oh, good. I thought you didn't eat breakfast." Cue angelic music. This is the best place on earth.

So, really now, leftovers. Let me say that I am not opposed to them. I know people who won't eat them, which puts a lot of pressure on the cook. I have to cook exactly enough for two people? Hard. In addition, that means that you have to make your own lunch every day. I recall my teaching days. I looked forward to lunch when I knew there were leftovers waiting for me. I ran to the lounge in order to get the microwave first - you have to run just in case someone dares to bring a frozen meal that takes 7 minutes to heat up. What?! Get to the back of the line with that crap! This will take me 45 seconds! Normally, my lunch was yogurt, fruit, carrots, and some stale bread. I tried to make too much most nights for dinner. "Ah, well. I guess someone has to eat these leftovers." There was certainly no way I was buying a lunch from the cafeteria. Surely you jest.

Today I had leftovers from the Morgan dinner. Last night I had the very same combination of leftovers: bulgar-spaghetti with carmelized onions, roasted root vegetables, and trout. Last night, it was fine; today, uh, it's getting peaked. Trout becomes fishier with the passing days. I removed the lid on the tupperware that the whole fish was sitting in, and bam!, so much fish stank. It's not pleasant. I don't think I will hold on to this one until tomorrow's lunch. And I can't give it to Sam because of tiny bones that I might miss. Hm. My cat might like it.

Last Night: Revisited

I cannot, for the life of me figure out this photo thing. Arg. I can do it on my cat's blog. Hm. I'll have to work on this.

Last night's adventure in the kitchen:

I made the dessert, almond cake, in the morning, so that it was done. When people are coming over, I do a timeline of the evening, so that dinner can be on the table when I want it to be ... although last night we were off, weren't we. Anyway, part of the timeline is always "Morning" and then an extensive list of the dessert and sauce and chopping prep. So, I made the dessert in the morning - this was after my grocery shopping, of course - and it came out super. I love this almond cake. It's perfect for people with wheat or dairy restrictions because it doesn't have those things in it. And it's lovely with sorbet, namely Blackberry-Cabernet and Blood Orange, by Ciao Bella.

Next is the appetizer: Bruschetta with rosemary-white bean spread, and red onion and arugula (dressed with balsamic vinegar), by The New Best Recipe. It was really good! I also rubbed the toasts with garlic and painted on some olive oil, so there was lots of flavor. The roof of my mouth is all torn up today, though. Do I have the softest palate in the world?

The salad, fish, and vegetables (not pictured) were out of "Earth to Table: Seasonal Recipes from an Organic Farm." It's our new cookbook. The salad was delicious: Winter Salad, to be precise. Those greens were so refreshing in their bitterness, and the carmelized nuts (also on the Morning list) and cheese were perfect with the dijon vinaigrette (Morning). Of note is the fact that Jason Morgan does not like walnuts. AND he didn't know what a pecan was, but decided that he didn't like those, either. He said it is a "texture thing." What? It's not Spam. It's crunchy, which is a universal happy texture. I said, "They're covered with sugar, man!" No dice. He didn't take any cheese, either. Good thing I make a mean vinaigrette.

Now we get to the aioli, as promised. Pictured is the second batch of aioli made. The first, I whipped by hand. It was super thick and a gorgeous yellow. I was so proud. Then, I tasted it. Nasty! There was a metallic finish and a raunchy bitterness. Ug. No salvaging that crap. I went back to the recipe and noticed what I had mocked before: "Use only fresh garlic from the local farmers' market." But the book doesn't say why. It doesn't say, "Heed this advice or your aioli will be completely unpalatable." Simultaneously, Josh looked on the handy dandy interweb and found Rosemary-Thyme Aioli, from Cook's Illustrated - so trusted, so true, so thorough in their explanations. To wit: "Remove the green germ in the garlic ...; [it] will give the aioli a bitter, hot flavor." AND, CI implores you to use regular olive oil, NOT extra-virgin. So my sins were two-fold, it would appear. I threw out the disgusting aioli (that's the smell in the garbage right now! tmi?), and replaced it with the velvety, delicious one pictured. This one I made in the mini-chopper. Holy Moly, that mini-chopper will complain if you use it for more than a minute. As the smell of burning motor filled the air, I tried to reason with it: slowly add the olive oil! Slowly! Please, don't explode!

The trout! I believe I mentioned that I went to get Arctic Char. That was the second time that I went with one thing in mind, only to find that I couldn't have it. And, for the second time, I thought I could rely on my fishmonger to help me. I guess I have watched too many "Good Eats" episodes, with Alton Brown addressing his butcher by name and casually asking how said meat-man likes to prepare his dead flesh. The butcher always has an answer! Well, my fishmonger did not have an answer, and his smile faded real quick when he put the second fish back that I asked to look at. (I tabled the idea of asking to smell the trout he was wrapping up.)

So the trout worked out swimmingly (ha ha), but the incident brought up a whole host of thoughts about my identity as a cook. I decided that I am a Home Cook. The "home" is an important adjective - just as important as the "cook," note: not "chef." (I like the colons today.) What this means is that I cook from cookbooks - recipes written by others. Yes, I can put my own mark on things and I know some technique and how to experiment. But I am not too bold with experimentation or new territory, and I am shy with the spices. I definitely don't garnish. I make my list of ingredients and I go to the market to seek them out. If I were a Chef, I would go to the market, sans list, and let the produce speak to me. I could probably also better stick to my timeline! I know that I make good things, but I get really bent out of shape when what I make is not good, especially if it's for company. I think a good goal for the serious Home Cook is to migrate into chef territory little by little. Summer is good for experimentation - there is glut of good stuff out there to work with. In Seattle there is a Farmers Market every day of the week full of organic this and sustainable that. AND the vendors cook what they sell, so can give guidance.

So little by little. For this week, however, I already shopped with my list.

Tonight's dinner: leftovers. There are two whole fish in the fridge.

Happy New Year

My cat writes a blog. I need a blog.

Something I want to do for myself in 2010 is write. Every day. This is a big task, and will be even bigger when I go back to work, but a writer writes, right? And if I think I can do it, then I need to cultivate it. Yes. Cultivate.

I was motivated by the movie "Julie and Julia." I thought it would be fun to do something similar. Not revolutionary. It's all been done before. And Holy Moly, there are a lot of food blogs out there. So, maybe this one just sits with few fans ... no fans. But I am cultivating, so that's okay.

I thought I would start focusing on what I make every day. Because I am in the kitchen ... making things ... every day. I want to put photos up, too. Our iPhoto has a serious lag issue, so I am not sure about that working out.

Of course, I will throw in my musings on life. My thoughts on the roads here in Seattle will probably feature prominently. But food will be the lens, or the in, or the impetus, or the jumping off point!

So, today, I have made two cookies: peanut butter kisses and pfeffernuesse. The PBs are good. The others need more pfeffer. I can taste the cloves and nutmeg, but I want more kick from the pepper. I was shy on my grind. Need to be bold in 2010!

Photos to follow ... maybe.