They say that adopted children sometimes take on characteristics of one or both of their parents. I took on Papa’s. We both love football, and basketball, but never could get into baseball except for the World Series. We love to work in the garden; like long walks on crisp autumn days; Love Sunday drives and mom’s beef stew. The tips of our tongues even stick out just a bit when we are working intently. I’m the only one who even looks like my Papa and my 3 other sisters were born to him. Why, we even sound alike.
You can’t get much further away from Southern twang than Portland Oregon, but a twang was what my Papa had. Oh it was slight, but it was there nonetheless. It seemed to get a little stronger when he was in a playful mood. Papa was born in Portland not too much beyond the turn of the past century. He only spent the first six months of his life there however, before his folks up and moved him to Oakland California, where he lived for most of his 89 years.
Wherever he lived, he took his twang with him. He even took it to Connecticut when his job transferred him to the east coast. My twang came from an uncanny ability to mimic any voice I heard. We would travel to different parts of the Caribbean during school holidays and I’d come home sounding like I was a local. We once had a German nanny and for weeks after she left us, folks just knew I’d been born in Berlin.
I have an incredibly vivid imagination which I suppose I have yet to outgrow from childhood since I am a writer. I could make up stories at the drop of a hat and could convince you that the sky was only blue because it reflected off the waters of the earth and the moon was really the sun with the shades pulled down.
Although I had no formal training as a novelist, the writing bug bit me at the age of 5. Having the lead in a Kindergarten production of Sleeping Beauty, I felt that women need not be awakened by a handsome prince's kiss. Being the independent woman that I was, I awoke on my own, declaring that if Prince Charming dared to kiss me with that foul breath, I would not consent to marriage. Needless to say, my writing career in comedy was formed that evening.
I’d give live performances, mesmerizing the neighborhood children with my stories of how my great grandfather was a great general in the Civil war and it was through his courageous efforts that he single handedly won the war for the North.
Once one of my smarty pants neighbors challenged the validity of my story and said that Ulysses S. Grant was the commanding general. Without skipping a beat I declared, “Well I know that you big lummox, but who do you think told him what to do?”
By the end of my 13th summer even the parents would come and sit while I performed some tall tale or another. Sometimes my Papa would sit in on one of my “shows” and just chuckle madly from the back of the room. Of course I had my friends convinced that he was madder than a hatter and to his dismay he could not convince them otherwise.
My Papa would say in his gentlemanly Southern drawl “Linda Jean you sure can spin a yarn.” It wasn't until I was an adult with kids of my own that I realized where I got this “spinnin’ yarn” trait of mine.
My youngest son’s teacher had called me in for a conference one afternoon. “Miss Irwin, Joshua has been telling the students fibs and it has just got to stop. It’s very disruptive. Why just today he told his classmates that his grandfather had been attacked by a wolf and he saved himself with a tennis ball.”
I couldn’t help but smile when I thought of the nine inch jagged scar on my Papa’s thigh. He’d been out hunting and he just happened to be carrying a batch of rabbits he and his Paw had snared only that morning. An eagle had spied him and decided that my Papa had saved him the trouble of hunting and was holding his supper. Well Papa wasn't about to let that old Eagle have the catch he had worked so hard for, so Papa fought him and got that old scar for his troubles.
Or was it the time that he saved the little sister he didn’t really have, from a bear on the rampage? Or maybe it was when he had been drug off by an alligator in the wilds of Wyoming. Papa told a different story to each one of us 4 girls and his 9 grandchildren, never repeating the same story twice. My favorite was the story he told my Josh.
“We were pretty poor you know. I had to walk 6 miles every day in the snow up to the top of the mountain where my school was.” Now let me interject and refresh your memory just a bit. My Papa was from Oakland, California where not only would you not find snow, but you’ll not find too many mountains either.
“One day I got to school a little late and found that my whole class was being held hostage by a pack of hungry wolves.”
Joshua’s listened intently. “Did you turn around and run?”
“Of course not,” my Papa said indignantly. “I had to impress Sally Ann Porter don’t you know, so I fought them all.”
“You did?” asked Josh.
“You bet I did, with nothing more than my old pocket knife. I knocked them eight ways to Sunday, but one of them wolves had a tough old hide and my knife broke when I killed him. There was still one more wolf to fight and he was the biggest meanest wolf of the bunch. There he was, had a tight grip on leg trying to tear it to shreds”
With eyes as big as saucers Josh asked “What did you do Pop-Pop?”
“Well, I just happened to have a tennis ball in my pocket. I reached down and fished it out.” He paused a bit for effect. “I crammed it so far down that old wolfs throat he choked and died on the spot.”
My son’s chest stood out as proud as could be of his Pop-Pop. “I’ll bet that Sally Ann Porter was pretty in-pressed wasn’t she Pop-Pop?”
Papa smiled at him, ruffled his hair and declared “You bet she was in-pressed. Pretty in-pressed indeed.”
Truth be told, Papa and his friends were into a bit of thievery in their younger days, and Papa got caught; literally. Trying to steal the biggest and juiciest watermelon from old Mr. Porter’s patch, Papa got caught on the barbed wire fence which tore his leg up pretty bad and made for some pretty in-pressive stories.
I guess I can stop wondering where this adopted child got her imagination from. By the way, I have a scar just about identical to my Papa’s. Mine came from being bitten by a shark in the Caribbean. Or was it the legendary barracuda Old Joe with the two front teeth as big as a man’s fist? Oh well. I hope my grandkids never know that I stole watermelons too.
When y’all get to heaven come look me up. Oh you’ll know who I am alright. You won’t miss the small circle of child angels. They’ll be listening intently as I sit by my Papa’s side and together well spend eternity spinnin yarn
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To!
I grabbed my robe once again off the hook, and tied it a little harder than necessary. I stuffed my wet feet back into the soon to be discarded slippers and stormed down to the front door. I flung open the door with such force I almost put a hole in the wall behind the door.
I stood there now fuming, with my arms crossed and foot tapping ready to go toe-to-toe with whatever salesman was ringing my bell and interrupting my perfectly good pity party, when to my humiliation and surprise there before me stood the most handsome, muscular, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, suntanned hunk in a UPS uniform I had ever seen.
After a moment or two I picked my jaw up off the floor and while still a bit flustered began trying to straighten my, what I was sure to be, mussed hair. It was then that I realized that the green mask that I had so skillfully applied an hour earlier was now a permanent part of my facial features.
Eventually I stopped screaming. I very calmly looked at him, held up a solitary finger and quietly whispered. “I’ll be back in just one minute.” I gave him an obviously false smile, closed the door, none to gently I might add and leaned against it, my hand clutched to my throat. Had I actually just screamed and was I really standing in my own doorway looking like the Bride of Frankenstein with green goop all over my face while the man of my fantasies was standing on the otherside ready to give me presents?
Okay God. I know you have a sense of humor but sometimes I think it’s a bit twisted. There is some hunk standing at my door and I look like Godzilla mated with the hairball from Alcatraz.
No. It couldn’t be. God wouldn’t do this to me. I had to be imagining things. That had to be the only logical explanation. I was still in bed sleeping and this was just a dream. A nightmare in fact.
I shook the fogginess out of my head, turned and opened the door to prove to myself that he wasn’t really there. I reached out, for God knows what reason. Because I was nuts, that’s why. I wanted to feel for myself if he was real I guess, but I touched the box he held instead. It was real. If it was real then the Fabio look-alike must be real.
I had to be 100% certain. I poked his arm. With my finger still resting on his bicep, (a very muscular bicep at that) I closed my eyes for just a second. “Help,” I said quietly to myself, I thought, but unfortunately loud enough for Mr. Wonderful here to hear me, I assume since he let out a small but quiet chuckle. Without hesitation, I slammed the door in his face. Oh dear Lord don’t let me have broken his nose.
I guess I didn’t because a few moments later I heard a deeper sounding chuckle. He was laughing at me! How dare this gorgeous stud-muffin laugh at me! On second thought I guess I’d laugh too, if I expected to see some middle aged frump and instead found a distant relative of Yoda, chin whiskers and all. I guess I’ll let him off the hook. God I wasn’t so sure about.
“Ms. McPherson?” His voice was just as dreamy as his looks with this Chevalier meets Bogie type thing going on which actually made him sound a bit like the Godfather.
“Yes?” I was talking to a door. The door was talking back.
“Is everything okay?” He was worried about me.
“I’m not feeling very well.”
“You were looking a bit green. I’ll just leave the package at the door.”
I hadn’t lied. I was feeling sick; I was a bit green thanks to Maureen and her Marvelous Mask for Masochists!
I said goodbye to Mr. America and thanked him for leaving the package on the doorstep. I ran downstairs to my bathroom and filled the sink with hot water. I had to get this cement off of my face. I scrubbed as hard as I dare. Why won’t this stuff come off? Was I really going to have to use a hammer and chisel?
It took close to thirty minutes, but I thought I was finally making some progress in removing that evil green parasite. The phone was ringing again and I wish I had kept it on silent. I ignored it this time as my patience was wearing thin. So finally, was the goop on my face. My skin was now clear of the green cement and had taken on a healthy, freshly scoured reddish tone. Maureen’s Marvelous Mask was wrong. Tingle did not begin to describe the way my face felt right now. Was that blood?
I called my friend to tell her I would be late for our previously planned brunch. Did you ever notice that it takes twice as long, to look half as good? I was frantically trying to put on panty hose. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn them and now I know why. I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey. You know big and round to begin with and then filled with a ton of stuffing. Maybe if I just packed a little more here or folded a bit more into this part there. I drew the line at stuffing anything up my…
While trying to catch my breath from the exercise of putting on the panty hose, I decided to wear jeans instead. They were neatly pressed and after adding a nice blouse, I supposed I didn’t look too bad. I took one final glance in the mirror, and acknowledged that not only had I kept my sweet girlish figure, I doubled it.
I looked up to the heavens and confessed that I had not begun my day with prayer. “If I have to endure anything else like the humiliation you’ve already put me through this morning, then you’re coming with me.” Although a bit late in coming, and not quite the way I am sure he wanted to hear it, it was still music to his ears.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets.
BLUEBERRY SYRUP
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 cup Late Harvest dessert wine
2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen
Make the sauce: In a small saucepan stir together the sugar, the cornstarch, and the Late Harvest dessert wine and cook mixture over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Stir in the blueberries and simmer the mixture until the berries have burst (10 minutes). Add the butter and stir until melted. Serve over pancakes, crêpes, French toast.
I stood there now fuming, with my arms crossed and foot tapping ready to go toe-to-toe with whatever salesman was ringing my bell and interrupting my perfectly good pity party, when to my humiliation and surprise there before me stood the most handsome, muscular, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, suntanned hunk in a UPS uniform I had ever seen.
After a moment or two I picked my jaw up off the floor and while still a bit flustered began trying to straighten my, what I was sure to be, mussed hair. It was then that I realized that the green mask that I had so skillfully applied an hour earlier was now a permanent part of my facial features.
Eventually I stopped screaming. I very calmly looked at him, held up a solitary finger and quietly whispered. “I’ll be back in just one minute.” I gave him an obviously false smile, closed the door, none to gently I might add and leaned against it, my hand clutched to my throat. Had I actually just screamed and was I really standing in my own doorway looking like the Bride of Frankenstein with green goop all over my face while the man of my fantasies was standing on the otherside ready to give me presents?
Okay God. I know you have a sense of humor but sometimes I think it’s a bit twisted. There is some hunk standing at my door and I look like Godzilla mated with the hairball from Alcatraz.
No. It couldn’t be. God wouldn’t do this to me. I had to be imagining things. That had to be the only logical explanation. I was still in bed sleeping and this was just a dream. A nightmare in fact.
I shook the fogginess out of my head, turned and opened the door to prove to myself that he wasn’t really there. I reached out, for God knows what reason. Because I was nuts, that’s why. I wanted to feel for myself if he was real I guess, but I touched the box he held instead. It was real. If it was real then the Fabio look-alike must be real.
I had to be 100% certain. I poked his arm. With my finger still resting on his bicep, (a very muscular bicep at that) I closed my eyes for just a second. “Help,” I said quietly to myself, I thought, but unfortunately loud enough for Mr. Wonderful here to hear me, I assume since he let out a small but quiet chuckle. Without hesitation, I slammed the door in his face. Oh dear Lord don’t let me have broken his nose.
I guess I didn’t because a few moments later I heard a deeper sounding chuckle. He was laughing at me! How dare this gorgeous stud-muffin laugh at me! On second thought I guess I’d laugh too, if I expected to see some middle aged frump and instead found a distant relative of Yoda, chin whiskers and all. I guess I’ll let him off the hook. God I wasn’t so sure about.
“Ms. McPherson?” His voice was just as dreamy as his looks with this Chevalier meets Bogie type thing going on which actually made him sound a bit like the Godfather.
“Yes?” I was talking to a door. The door was talking back.
“Is everything okay?” He was worried about me.
“I’m not feeling very well.”
“You were looking a bit green. I’ll just leave the package at the door.”
I hadn’t lied. I was feeling sick; I was a bit green thanks to Maureen and her Marvelous Mask for Masochists!
I said goodbye to Mr. America and thanked him for leaving the package on the doorstep. I ran downstairs to my bathroom and filled the sink with hot water. I had to get this cement off of my face. I scrubbed as hard as I dare. Why won’t this stuff come off? Was I really going to have to use a hammer and chisel?
It took close to thirty minutes, but I thought I was finally making some progress in removing that evil green parasite. The phone was ringing again and I wish I had kept it on silent. I ignored it this time as my patience was wearing thin. So finally, was the goop on my face. My skin was now clear of the green cement and had taken on a healthy, freshly scoured reddish tone. Maureen’s Marvelous Mask was wrong. Tingle did not begin to describe the way my face felt right now. Was that blood?
I called my friend to tell her I would be late for our previously planned brunch. Did you ever notice that it takes twice as long, to look half as good? I was frantically trying to put on panty hose. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn them and now I know why. I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey. You know big and round to begin with and then filled with a ton of stuffing. Maybe if I just packed a little more here or folded a bit more into this part there. I drew the line at stuffing anything up my…
While trying to catch my breath from the exercise of putting on the panty hose, I decided to wear jeans instead. They were neatly pressed and after adding a nice blouse, I supposed I didn’t look too bad. I took one final glance in the mirror, and acknowledged that not only had I kept my sweet girlish figure, I doubled it.
I looked up to the heavens and confessed that I had not begun my day with prayer. “If I have to endure anything else like the humiliation you’ve already put me through this morning, then you’re coming with me.” Although a bit late in coming, and not quite the way I am sure he wanted to hear it, it was still music to his ears.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets.
BLUEBERRY SYRUP
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 cup Late Harvest dessert wine
2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen
Make the sauce: In a small saucepan stir together the sugar, the cornstarch, and the Late Harvest dessert wine and cook mixture over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Stir in the blueberries and simmer the mixture until the berries have burst (10 minutes). Add the butter and stir until melted. Serve over pancakes, crêpes, French toast.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Life is like a blender and I'm stuck on Frappe!
I was ADHD, dyslexic, and menopausal and yesterday, I was a bitch. I loved parties. I am a party animal. The only party I wanted to have yesterday however was of a pitying nature and it was going to be a doozie. The clock on my nightstand read 4:15 a.m. My inner clock was telling me to ‘Rise and Shine!’ . “Rise and shine? Today I’ll be luck enough to crawl out of bed and glow ever so dimly” I thought to myself.
It was habit, to get up at the butt crack of dawn, since I was used to being up early to fill baking orders. I would much rather stay in bed and feel sorry for my self. There was something about yesterday though, that just felt different. It was nothing I could put my hands on. Just a feeling I had. Like yesterday my life was going to change.
I walked through my door at 5:45 and decided I needed pampering, so I decided to start my day with freshly made crepes and a warm blueberry syrup, along with a couple of slices of brown sugar bacon. Maybe I’d even use real cream in my flavored coffee today instead of the fat-free, taste-free milk, which didn’t do this body any good anyway.
So after I ate breakfast and cleaned the kitchen, I decided I was going to treat myself to a facial mask and a hot bath. The problem was I had bought that tube of mask about eons ago and then proceeded to forget where I had put it. I saw it just the other day. Now where was that?
I searched through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I found all kinds of vitamins and the like, all of which I never remembered to take, but I didn’t find the mask. I looked under all of the sink, and got a knot on the top of my head the size of a meatball, for the effort, but no mask. I looked in the hall closet and under the beds all to no avail. I did find about a million hairballs, a missing slipper, a hairbrush I had been looking for and a mousetrap that still had not been sprung, but was missing the cheese. Apparently, I wasn’t as smart as the mouse however because I now had one very sore thumb.
Now where could I have put it? Maybe it would just be easier to go out and buy a new one. I am dressed already. No. I know me and if I leave the house now, I won’t be back for hours what with all the well wishers on my blog and errands that I would just have to oblige myself to get done since I was out anyway. No, I’ll just skip the mask and go have something else to eat.
I went to the refrigerator to get some comfort food. Knowing I had made a commitment on this blog I hesitated. What I needed was one of those alarm systems for cars that talk, but for my refrigerator. You know the kind that would shout STOP! YOU ARE TOO CLOSE! STEP AWAY FROM THE CREAM PUFFS! Or maybe a talking scale. I’d probably cringe when I actually heard the numbers instead of just seeing them. There’s just something about hearing ‘Okay one of you has to get off’ that would make me sew my mouth shut for the next hundred pounds or so.
As I stood there with the refrigerator door open contemplating what marvelous culinary masterpiece I was going to plaster to my thighs, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a pale beige tube with bold green lettering. I knew I had seen it somewhere! Oh I remember now, I read someplace that the cold does wonders for your pores. Shrinks them up or something. I needed all the shrinking I could handle even if it was only my face. This was supposed to be one of those, all-day face-lifting, gravity-fighting moisturizer with wrinkle filler and spackle masks. I read the tube to myself out aloud. ‘Maureen’s Magnificent Mask’ it stated. ‘Cleanses, exfoliates and moisturizes all in one. Gets your skin tingly clean.’ Might as well try it. I hadn’t had a good tingle in years.
I turned to the tub and turned on the water. I decided to live dangerously and added two capfuls of Channel No. 5 essential bath oils to the water instead of my usual one. It was my pity party after all. As the tub was filling, I opened the chilled facial mask and began applying it to my cheeks. The shock of the cold had me sucking in my breath. Gee. They were shrinking already. Whoever said this was healthier, was a masochist.
After carefully reading the directions and applying this green wonder to my face when I looked up to see the finished result I was shocked to see a rather scary resemblance to Frankenstein’s Bride. I shuddered and turned from that horrid reflection. I had just put my foot in the water when the phone rang. I gave a deep sigh, wrapped up in my beach towel (They were the only ones big enough to fit around this plentiful body of mine) and grudgingly answered the phone.
It was a sales call, telling me I for only $49.95 I could buy this new metabolism increasing marvel that was sure to put a little zip in my life. Well so would George Clooney but I didn’t think that would happen either.
With my shoulders drooping now just about as much as my once sagging breasts, I decided to forego the bath for a little while longer. I put on my old enough to have a driver’s license tattered chenille bathrobe. I stuffed my feet into my puppy mangled slippers (Remind me to get new ones. My puppy is now ready for the geriatric ward at the vets) and went to the kitchen. Again.
I had heard something about a cabbage soup diet, so I decided to go on line and check into it. I figured it would take a while so I made myself a small snack to sustain me in my hour of affliction. Between the phone calls and the scare at the bathroom mirror, I decided I was deserving of this comforting tidbit. Since my food was controlled by my emotions and my emotions were controlled by the mirror, I was going to need a heck of a lot of comforting.
I had some vanilla ice cream in the freezer. How about cookies and ice cream? I could make myself an ice cream sandwich. Naahh. I wanted something yummy and exotic. I know. How about a Virgin colada? I hadn’t had one of those since… last week. That sounded good to me. I gathered the quart of vanilla ice cream, the pineapple juice and cream of coconut and made the enticing cocktail.
I was just about to sit down at my computer to check on the diet in question, when the phone rang again. I could not believe my luck. At least this time however, I had the phone with me. It was a wrong number.
Who could concentrate on research now? The diet would just have to wait until I was in a better mood. What I needed was to take that soak in the tub. That would be relaxing. Maybe that would even cheer me up after the disappointment of not being able to begin that diet I so desperately wanted to get going on. I had to do something about my weight I knew, but what? I’d have to give it some serious thought. Maybe I’ll take a nice hot bath.
I went to my bathroom and for a second time that day I studied my reflection. I don’t know what I expected to see, because the face that stared back at me wasn’t any different than it had been for years. Somehow I thought today, maybe I would look like Kate Winslet. HA!
The water was now barely lukewarm. I refilled the tub with as much hot water as I dared. Once I sat, I added a bit more hot water. I had learned from experience that when you put a body of this proportion in one of those little tiny tubs there was only room for a cup or two of water. Anymore than that and I could cause a tidal wave. I put a cool cloth over my mask covered face that by now had hardened so much I would probably need a hammer and chisel to get it off and sat back with my Big Gulp of pina colada. Gosh it felt nice to relax. Maybe I’ll take a little nap in here.
I was just beginning to drift off into that twilight zone just before sleep hits when I was abruptly and rudely I might add, awakened to the sound of my front doorbell! As I rose to yell at the persistent front door pest, I dropped my drink into the tub and now found myself covered in tufts of pineapple flavored vanilla ice cream. This can not be happening! I WANT TO TAKE THIS BATH WHILE I’M STILL IN MY FIFTIES!
Tomorrow…Part Two of the morning from Hates.
French crêpes
1 cup flour
3 eggs
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind (or a little grated vanilla bean)
2 tablespoons cognac (optional)
2 tablespoons melted butter
1 1/2 cups milk
Whisk together all ingredients until well blended, making sure there are no lumps.
Heat a 10-inch skillet and add 1 teaspoon melted butter, tilting the pan to coat it completely with the butter.
Pour half cup of the batter into the pan, tilting to cover the bottom in a fairly thin layer. When lightly browned on the bottom, (2-4 minutes) turn with large spatula, or flip if you are able to do so. Continue cooking another 2-3 minutes or until slightly browned. As each crêpe is cooked, remove it to a hot platter and keep warm. Re-butter pan as needed.
It was habit, to get up at the butt crack of dawn, since I was used to being up early to fill baking orders. I would much rather stay in bed and feel sorry for my self. There was something about yesterday though, that just felt different. It was nothing I could put my hands on. Just a feeling I had. Like yesterday my life was going to change.
I walked through my door at 5:45 and decided I needed pampering, so I decided to start my day with freshly made crepes and a warm blueberry syrup, along with a couple of slices of brown sugar bacon. Maybe I’d even use real cream in my flavored coffee today instead of the fat-free, taste-free milk, which didn’t do this body any good anyway.
So after I ate breakfast and cleaned the kitchen, I decided I was going to treat myself to a facial mask and a hot bath. The problem was I had bought that tube of mask about eons ago and then proceeded to forget where I had put it. I saw it just the other day. Now where was that?
I searched through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I found all kinds of vitamins and the like, all of which I never remembered to take, but I didn’t find the mask. I looked under all of the sink, and got a knot on the top of my head the size of a meatball, for the effort, but no mask. I looked in the hall closet and under the beds all to no avail. I did find about a million hairballs, a missing slipper, a hairbrush I had been looking for and a mousetrap that still had not been sprung, but was missing the cheese. Apparently, I wasn’t as smart as the mouse however because I now had one very sore thumb.
Now where could I have put it? Maybe it would just be easier to go out and buy a new one. I am dressed already. No. I know me and if I leave the house now, I won’t be back for hours what with all the well wishers on my blog and errands that I would just have to oblige myself to get done since I was out anyway. No, I’ll just skip the mask and go have something else to eat.
I went to the refrigerator to get some comfort food. Knowing I had made a commitment on this blog I hesitated. What I needed was one of those alarm systems for cars that talk, but for my refrigerator. You know the kind that would shout STOP! YOU ARE TOO CLOSE! STEP AWAY FROM THE CREAM PUFFS! Or maybe a talking scale. I’d probably cringe when I actually heard the numbers instead of just seeing them. There’s just something about hearing ‘Okay one of you has to get off’ that would make me sew my mouth shut for the next hundred pounds or so.
As I stood there with the refrigerator door open contemplating what marvelous culinary masterpiece I was going to plaster to my thighs, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a pale beige tube with bold green lettering. I knew I had seen it somewhere! Oh I remember now, I read someplace that the cold does wonders for your pores. Shrinks them up or something. I needed all the shrinking I could handle even if it was only my face. This was supposed to be one of those, all-day face-lifting, gravity-fighting moisturizer with wrinkle filler and spackle masks. I read the tube to myself out aloud. ‘Maureen’s Magnificent Mask’ it stated. ‘Cleanses, exfoliates and moisturizes all in one. Gets your skin tingly clean.’ Might as well try it. I hadn’t had a good tingle in years.
I turned to the tub and turned on the water. I decided to live dangerously and added two capfuls of Channel No. 5 essential bath oils to the water instead of my usual one. It was my pity party after all. As the tub was filling, I opened the chilled facial mask and began applying it to my cheeks. The shock of the cold had me sucking in my breath. Gee. They were shrinking already. Whoever said this was healthier, was a masochist.
After carefully reading the directions and applying this green wonder to my face when I looked up to see the finished result I was shocked to see a rather scary resemblance to Frankenstein’s Bride. I shuddered and turned from that horrid reflection. I had just put my foot in the water when the phone rang. I gave a deep sigh, wrapped up in my beach towel (They were the only ones big enough to fit around this plentiful body of mine) and grudgingly answered the phone.
It was a sales call, telling me I for only $49.95 I could buy this new metabolism increasing marvel that was sure to put a little zip in my life. Well so would George Clooney but I didn’t think that would happen either.
With my shoulders drooping now just about as much as my once sagging breasts, I decided to forego the bath for a little while longer. I put on my old enough to have a driver’s license tattered chenille bathrobe. I stuffed my feet into my puppy mangled slippers (Remind me to get new ones. My puppy is now ready for the geriatric ward at the vets) and went to the kitchen. Again.
I had heard something about a cabbage soup diet, so I decided to go on line and check into it. I figured it would take a while so I made myself a small snack to sustain me in my hour of affliction. Between the phone calls and the scare at the bathroom mirror, I decided I was deserving of this comforting tidbit. Since my food was controlled by my emotions and my emotions were controlled by the mirror, I was going to need a heck of a lot of comforting.
I had some vanilla ice cream in the freezer. How about cookies and ice cream? I could make myself an ice cream sandwich. Naahh. I wanted something yummy and exotic. I know. How about a Virgin colada? I hadn’t had one of those since… last week. That sounded good to me. I gathered the quart of vanilla ice cream, the pineapple juice and cream of coconut and made the enticing cocktail.
I was just about to sit down at my computer to check on the diet in question, when the phone rang again. I could not believe my luck. At least this time however, I had the phone with me. It was a wrong number.
Who could concentrate on research now? The diet would just have to wait until I was in a better mood. What I needed was to take that soak in the tub. That would be relaxing. Maybe that would even cheer me up after the disappointment of not being able to begin that diet I so desperately wanted to get going on. I had to do something about my weight I knew, but what? I’d have to give it some serious thought. Maybe I’ll take a nice hot bath.
I went to my bathroom and for a second time that day I studied my reflection. I don’t know what I expected to see, because the face that stared back at me wasn’t any different than it had been for years. Somehow I thought today, maybe I would look like Kate Winslet. HA!
The water was now barely lukewarm. I refilled the tub with as much hot water as I dared. Once I sat, I added a bit more hot water. I had learned from experience that when you put a body of this proportion in one of those little tiny tubs there was only room for a cup or two of water. Anymore than that and I could cause a tidal wave. I put a cool cloth over my mask covered face that by now had hardened so much I would probably need a hammer and chisel to get it off and sat back with my Big Gulp of pina colada. Gosh it felt nice to relax. Maybe I’ll take a little nap in here.
I was just beginning to drift off into that twilight zone just before sleep hits when I was abruptly and rudely I might add, awakened to the sound of my front doorbell! As I rose to yell at the persistent front door pest, I dropped my drink into the tub and now found myself covered in tufts of pineapple flavored vanilla ice cream. This can not be happening! I WANT TO TAKE THIS BATH WHILE I’M STILL IN MY FIFTIES!
Tomorrow…Part Two of the morning from Hates.
French crêpes
1 cup flour
3 eggs
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind (or a little grated vanilla bean)
2 tablespoons cognac (optional)
2 tablespoons melted butter
1 1/2 cups milk
Whisk together all ingredients until well blended, making sure there are no lumps.
Heat a 10-inch skillet and add 1 teaspoon melted butter, tilting the pan to coat it completely with the butter.
Pour half cup of the batter into the pan, tilting to cover the bottom in a fairly thin layer. When lightly browned on the bottom, (2-4 minutes) turn with large spatula, or flip if you are able to do so. Continue cooking another 2-3 minutes or until slightly browned. As each crêpe is cooked, remove it to a hot platter and keep warm. Re-butter pan as needed.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Age is a High Price to Pay for Maturity
As a young adult, I lived life as if it were one big tour de force. I have ridden rodeo as a barrel racer; been thrown off of a Brahma bull; gone white water rafting; scuba diving in the cerulean waters of the Caribbean; explored caves; swam with dolphins, sharks and octopi; earned a living singing Amazing Grace at funeral parlors. I even tried sniffing coke once, but the ice cubes stuck in my nose.
Because of my plucky spirit of adventure, I sometimes found myself in hazardous situations of uncertain outcome. As spine-tingling and downright scary as they sometimes were, these enterprises were invigorating to this probing mind and became fodder for my pencil pushing ingenuity.
My parents had high hopes that someday I would outgrow this keenness for escapade and become normal like them. Normal people have always worried me and while I loved them dearly, it always disappointed me that my family could not understand my bold and usually risky undertakings. Believing me to be a foolhardy ne'er-do-well; the black sheep of the family, I was for years referred to as that “crazy Aunt Linda” but then crazy is a relative term in my family!
I have however, lived these last few decades, cleverly disguised as a responsible adult. Although the gusto that has tinted my life with color has not diminished, it has become a bit iridescent and at times hard to glimpse. Some of the past is beginning to fade and though I once had a photographic memory, every now and then I believe my brains camera is out of film. My mind still works like lightning though; one brilliant flash and it's gone.
I continually love a good challenge; living for the moment and from time to time still living on the edge even if it is only on my bed. I often wonder where life’s journey is going to take me next. Perhaps as I head out on new quests for adventurous exciting new activities like…oh I don’t know…bowling maybe, some of the things on my bucket list can be crossed off. Learn to dance; tour the country in a hot air balloon; ride from the East coast to the West coast on horseback; get married again (who said that?), and tour Italy on a bike. Someday Lord willing they will all come to fruition.
One of the biggest exploits of late however is the commitment made on this blog. Commitments may not have meant what they should have in my younger days, but they mean everything now. Sometimes commitments can be difficult to honor and often times seem like an uphill skirmish. Today is no different.
I have spent these past several days going through each and every can and box in my tiny little pantry. I call it tiny because it truly is. Everything I had could fit in half of most peoples dish cabinet. It took up less than two square feet of space.
After double checking all boxes and cans I had, I discovered I was already eating products that were God given. Perhaps not in their original form as Hal chose to eat but healthy they are. My meager pantry held 2 cans of green Chile and lime refried beans; 1 can of tomato paste and one can of diced tomatoes, none of which had any additives. There was organic chicken broth, and two cans of Dole pineapple chunks in pineapple juice, which I promptly drained and froze in individual serving bags for my favorite pineapple smoothie.
As far as boxes went I had 2 boxes of penne whole grain pasta; 1 box of Oat Bran; 1 box of Multi Grain cereal and 1 of Kashi Autumn Wheat cereal. In my refrigerator you will find various types of cheeses, massive amounts of veggies and fruit along with my coveted milk.
So are these exceptions to the rule or do we again re-invent the wheel and soak beans overnight only to boil them, mash them and re-fry them ourselves? Do we make pasta from scratch each time we have a yen for Italian or do we use take from the arsenal provided by our nearest healthy green grocer?
I say it’s already been invented, so why not use the wheel for the purpose of improvement. By all means eat your favorites that are in the cans; the boxes;the bags, and I know it's painful to hear, but read labels. That is what I find myself doing now each time I walk down an aisle and reach for something I want. Like the coffee creamer I love so much. I won’t buy that anymore and although I certainly prefer the dessert tasting result of those sweet drinkable confections, I realize after doing a bit more research that even if they do contain preservatives, they will only, in the end, destroy the body.
So now that I have this new found knowledge, what do I do with it? If I know I am already eating fairly healthy why am I obese? Psychologists may establish that I am addicted or perhaps even obsessed with food. Let’s look at those options. Am I enslaved to the routine of food because it has become psychologically or physically habit-forming? Am I addicted to such an extent that its cessation will cause severe trauma?
Or are my thoughts and feelings dominated by food so much so, that I eat just because the billboard for Marie Callender's turkey pot pie is luring me even if I'm not hungry? After all inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut her up with chocolate. Consequently, if I kept quiet and let that skinny woman talk, what would she say?
I believe she would confess that almost three decades ago, my spirit of adventure was reduced to rubble by a traumatic series of violent acts. After salvaging what was left of my persona from what should have been my demise, I made the conscious decision that I never again wanted to be attractive to men. Within a year I had gained 100 pounds.
I can not tell you the exact day I realized that the answer isn’t in what I am eating that is keeping me this size. The answer is what’s eating me.
At some point though, in these last few months, I took a good long look at my weight fluctuations and how they came about. I would loose a large amount of weight and begin to feel good about myself. I’d begin looking in the mirror again without sticking out my tongue. And then someone would say “Hey you’re looking great,” and the old fears would come back, and the invisible force field of my weight would no longer be able to keep out the monsters that have kept me victim for more than half my life.
Over this last week, I have blogged about coffee, beef, Jewish Penicillin, Julia Child’s French cuisine, chocolate, and being honestly willing to share the good with the bad. Although it was the Paulie pants that opened my eyes, each of these items are the first “exceptions to the rule” and the beginning of living a healthy lifestyle.
So with the few exceptions of the exceptions, we will continue to learn to live each week, with no bag; no box; no cans and most of all, no more victim.
If you’ve liked what you’ve read, I invite you to become one of my followers and maybe even share it with someone whose lives have been touched by an act of violence. They may need to know they are not alone.
Because of my plucky spirit of adventure, I sometimes found myself in hazardous situations of uncertain outcome. As spine-tingling and downright scary as they sometimes were, these enterprises were invigorating to this probing mind and became fodder for my pencil pushing ingenuity.
My parents had high hopes that someday I would outgrow this keenness for escapade and become normal like them. Normal people have always worried me and while I loved them dearly, it always disappointed me that my family could not understand my bold and usually risky undertakings. Believing me to be a foolhardy ne'er-do-well; the black sheep of the family, I was for years referred to as that “crazy Aunt Linda” but then crazy is a relative term in my family!
I have however, lived these last few decades, cleverly disguised as a responsible adult. Although the gusto that has tinted my life with color has not diminished, it has become a bit iridescent and at times hard to glimpse. Some of the past is beginning to fade and though I once had a photographic memory, every now and then I believe my brains camera is out of film. My mind still works like lightning though; one brilliant flash and it's gone.
I continually love a good challenge; living for the moment and from time to time still living on the edge even if it is only on my bed. I often wonder where life’s journey is going to take me next. Perhaps as I head out on new quests for adventurous exciting new activities like…oh I don’t know…bowling maybe, some of the things on my bucket list can be crossed off. Learn to dance; tour the country in a hot air balloon; ride from the East coast to the West coast on horseback; get married again (who said that?), and tour Italy on a bike. Someday Lord willing they will all come to fruition.
One of the biggest exploits of late however is the commitment made on this blog. Commitments may not have meant what they should have in my younger days, but they mean everything now. Sometimes commitments can be difficult to honor and often times seem like an uphill skirmish. Today is no different.
I have spent these past several days going through each and every can and box in my tiny little pantry. I call it tiny because it truly is. Everything I had could fit in half of most peoples dish cabinet. It took up less than two square feet of space.
After double checking all boxes and cans I had, I discovered I was already eating products that were God given. Perhaps not in their original form as Hal chose to eat but healthy they are. My meager pantry held 2 cans of green Chile and lime refried beans; 1 can of tomato paste and one can of diced tomatoes, none of which had any additives. There was organic chicken broth, and two cans of Dole pineapple chunks in pineapple juice, which I promptly drained and froze in individual serving bags for my favorite pineapple smoothie.
As far as boxes went I had 2 boxes of penne whole grain pasta; 1 box of Oat Bran; 1 box of Multi Grain cereal and 1 of Kashi Autumn Wheat cereal. In my refrigerator you will find various types of cheeses, massive amounts of veggies and fruit along with my coveted milk.
So are these exceptions to the rule or do we again re-invent the wheel and soak beans overnight only to boil them, mash them and re-fry them ourselves? Do we make pasta from scratch each time we have a yen for Italian or do we use take from the arsenal provided by our nearest healthy green grocer?
I say it’s already been invented, so why not use the wheel for the purpose of improvement. By all means eat your favorites that are in the cans; the boxes;the bags, and I know it's painful to hear, but read labels. That is what I find myself doing now each time I walk down an aisle and reach for something I want. Like the coffee creamer I love so much. I won’t buy that anymore and although I certainly prefer the dessert tasting result of those sweet drinkable confections, I realize after doing a bit more research that even if they do contain preservatives, they will only, in the end, destroy the body.
So now that I have this new found knowledge, what do I do with it? If I know I am already eating fairly healthy why am I obese? Psychologists may establish that I am addicted or perhaps even obsessed with food. Let’s look at those options. Am I enslaved to the routine of food because it has become psychologically or physically habit-forming? Am I addicted to such an extent that its cessation will cause severe trauma?
Or are my thoughts and feelings dominated by food so much so, that I eat just because the billboard for Marie Callender's turkey pot pie is luring me even if I'm not hungry? After all inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut her up with chocolate. Consequently, if I kept quiet and let that skinny woman talk, what would she say?
I believe she would confess that almost three decades ago, my spirit of adventure was reduced to rubble by a traumatic series of violent acts. After salvaging what was left of my persona from what should have been my demise, I made the conscious decision that I never again wanted to be attractive to men. Within a year I had gained 100 pounds.
I can not tell you the exact day I realized that the answer isn’t in what I am eating that is keeping me this size. The answer is what’s eating me.
At some point though, in these last few months, I took a good long look at my weight fluctuations and how they came about. I would loose a large amount of weight and begin to feel good about myself. I’d begin looking in the mirror again without sticking out my tongue. And then someone would say “Hey you’re looking great,” and the old fears would come back, and the invisible force field of my weight would no longer be able to keep out the monsters that have kept me victim for more than half my life.
Over this last week, I have blogged about coffee, beef, Jewish Penicillin, Julia Child’s French cuisine, chocolate, and being honestly willing to share the good with the bad. Although it was the Paulie pants that opened my eyes, each of these items are the first “exceptions to the rule” and the beginning of living a healthy lifestyle.
So with the few exceptions of the exceptions, we will continue to learn to live each week, with no bag; no box; no cans and most of all, no more victim.
If you’ve liked what you’ve read, I invite you to become one of my followers and maybe even share it with someone whose lives have been touched by an act of violence. They may need to know they are not alone.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
If the Answer is Chocolate – the Question is Irrelevant
Before I moved from California to Oregon, my best friend; 'Mother V' (as my kids call her), and I spent much of our time touring the local eateries. I am sure the entrees were good, but let’s face it, with both of us being serious last course snobs of sweet ambrosia, we weren’t there for the Etouffée. Thus we ventured forward each week in our quest for the best of the best.
Of course we had our frequent flyers. There was Max’s Opera Café in Palo Alto, with their football sized éclairs; Maurice’s Bakery in Campbell, with their brilliant Bee Hive; the hot apple caramel walnut pie ala mode from Baker’s Square in Log Gatos; and of course our moods often coincided towards those ever so succulent nice, thick, juicy…coffee milkshakes from Swenson’s Ice Cream Parlor.
We used most of our frequent flyer miles however, at Dick’s Bakery in San Jose, with their burnt almond cake. You only had two choices of this heavenly design; chocolate or white…at least until the autumn weather settles and then it was pumpkin all the way! Moist and delicious with brown sugar whipped cream frosting and delicately toasted praline almonds; mmm mmm mmm. My taste buds are saluting right this very minute. Mother V and I never get together without a visit to Dicks. As a matter of fact, I can hear that molded mass of sweet bliss calling our name out now, anticipating our next holiday.
It undeniably doesn’t hurt that Mother V is also my binge buddy, which means when it comes to cakes, half for her and half for me.
We do believe there are only three things in life that matter - good friends, good chocolate and’…oh dear, what was that other one? Oh well.
We have our gastronomic likes and dislikes, and for many of them we were on the same page, when it came to chocolate though we didn’t always agree. Mother V liked her chocolate the way she likes her coffee; light, sweet and milky. I on the other hand like mine the way I like men. Rich, dark and dreamy…I mean creamy. The chocolate I mean.
Seriously though, I love all men. It’s chocolate I’m much more particular about. Now I am not one of those women that use chocolate as a substitute for men, but let's face it, chocolate is far more reliable!
I never could understand why so many "so called" chocolate lovers complain about the calories in chocolate, when all true chocoholics know that it is a vegetable. It comes from the cocoa bean, beans are veggies, 'nuff said. And, have you ever noticed that there is no such thing as Chocoholics Anonymous? That’s because none of us want to quit.
For many of us, chocolate is not a matter of life and death - it's much more important than that! I am a serious chocoholic and for the serious chocoholic, chocolate is better than sex. (If you believe that, you REALLY need to meet that special someone who can change your mind). If you HAVE met that special someone and still believe that, I REALLY NEED to know where you get your chocolate!
Actually I know where to get my chocolate fix from. Does it meet my requirements? Absolutely. Rich- exceedingly; Dark- extremely; and smooth with a voice like velvet. I learned to listen to the crystal clear voice of chocolate at the coffee festival in Seattle. I am sure you all feel as I do. Coffee makes it possible to get out of bed, and chocolate makes it all worthwhile.
I digress. There were many Chocolatiers giving away samplings of their company’s wares. The piece given from the final Chocolatier was about the size of a Hershey’s kiss. I didn’t really want it as I had been eating chocolate for days. (Did I just say that? Not want chocolate!) As I was lifting it to my mouth this chap had the bravado to suggest I should not just eat it. Well what else do you do with it? It took everything in me to follow his advice. But follow it I did.
He recommended I take a sip of cold water which he handed to me in a small paper cup. He explained that he wanted my palate clear of all other flavors before trying this miniscule bite. I couldn’t help but think it was a lot of trouble for just one bite. I was then instructed to take this brunette colored bonbon and break it into quarters.
“Surely you jest?” I thought. No. He was quite serious.
“Place just one piece on your tongue. Save the rest for later. Do not chew. Just let it sit there. Listen to the chocolate. Let the chocolate tell you what to do next.”
I did as bid, but looked around for the hidden shutter bugs of Candid Camera. While searching for these non-existent photographers, I became aware of this new sensation coming from the area of my orifice. My tongue now held the control buttons and I was rapt with every command.
“Close your eyes. Feel the texture. How does it feel? Is it grainy or smooth? Savor the flavor. Let it drift past your taste buds into the recesses of your nose; your ears; your brain.”
Forget falling in love - I'd rather fall in chocolate!
As I was leaving this three day binge of coffee and chocolate I found myself inspired, philosophizing “With enough chocolate and coffee, I could rule the world!”
I promise you, the more you ‘listen’ to chocolate; the easier it will be to tell the good from the bad. And you'll never go back. I now go to just about any length for superior chocolate. In fact my family and I make the 173 mile journey from our home in Hillsboro, Oregon to Seattle for that perfect cup of Dilettante hot Chocolate as often as we can.
Research seems pretty mixed up these days as to the health benefits of chocolate. I have this theory that chocolate slows down the aging process....It may not be true, but do I dare take the chance? If it doesn't then, what a way to go. Death by Chocolate! If mother V and I share our chocolate indulgences, then we'll only be in critical condition! Always remember that man can not live on chocolate alone, but women can!
In the mean time, while the experts are doing their research, maybe I’ll volunteer my services and do a few chocolate experiments of my own. Anyone care to help?
The Black Beast – La Bête Noire
1 cup Guinness stout (or other dark beer)
1 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cup cocoa powder
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1/2 tablespoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 large whole eggs
2/3 cup sour cream
3/4 cup heavy cream
8 ounces good quality dark chocolate, chopped
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/3 cup cocoa powder
1/3 cup powdered sugar
Place large glass mixing bowl in freezer.
In a medium sized saucepan, combine Guinness and butter. Over medium heat cook until butter is melted. Whisk in cocoa and mix until smooth. Set aside to cool.
In a separate bowl, cream together beat eggs and sour cream. Add beer mixture and whisk until just combined. Sift in sugar, baking soda, salt. Fold gently until combined. Pour into 2 prepared* 8" inch baking pans. Bake at 350° for about 25-30 minutes or until it passes the toothpick test. Let cool for about 10 minutes before turning out on to cooling rack. Set aside and let cool completely.
In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, bring the cream just to a boil. Remove from heat and immediately add chocolate. Let sit for about 5 minutes. Gently whisk, until smooth. Set aside.
While ganache is cooling, remove glass bowl from freezer. Add remaining cream. Whip until thick but not peak forming or about 4-5 minutes. Add remaining cocoa and powdered sugar. Whip until stiff peaks form or another 2-3 minutes. Place in refrigerator until ready to use.
To Serve: Place 1 cake layer on serving platter. Pour 1/2 cup warm ganache over the top of the 1st layer. Place in refrigerator and let cool for about 30 minutes. When ganache is fairly solid, remove from refrigerator and top with 3/4 of the chocolate whipped cream, spreading evenly over top.
Place second cake layer on top of chocolate cream. Pour remaining ganache over top of cake allowing the ganache to pool on the platter. Top with dollops of the remaining chocolate whipped cream.
*There are two ways to properly prepare cake pans.
1.) Lightly spray the baking pan with cooking spray. Place a piece of parchment paper cut to the shape of the pan on the bottom only. Coat the parchment paper and the sides of the pan with butter.
2.) Coat the bottom and sides of the baking pan with butter. Sprinkle with enough sugar to coat the bottom and sides of the pan. Gently invert pan and tape out any remaining sugar.
Never butter and flour a dessert pan. It leaves a white film, can sometimes taste bitter which sweet should not do and also makes it more difficult to frost. Either of the above eliminates all of those problems.
Chocolate is the greatest gift to women ever created, next to the likes of Paul Newman and Gene Kelly. It's something that should be had on a daily basis. - Sandra Bullock
http://www.savorchocolate.com/chocolate_personality_quiz.aspx
Of course we had our frequent flyers. There was Max’s Opera Café in Palo Alto, with their football sized éclairs; Maurice’s Bakery in Campbell, with their brilliant Bee Hive; the hot apple caramel walnut pie ala mode from Baker’s Square in Log Gatos; and of course our moods often coincided towards those ever so succulent nice, thick, juicy…coffee milkshakes from Swenson’s Ice Cream Parlor.
We used most of our frequent flyer miles however, at Dick’s Bakery in San Jose, with their burnt almond cake. You only had two choices of this heavenly design; chocolate or white…at least until the autumn weather settles and then it was pumpkin all the way! Moist and delicious with brown sugar whipped cream frosting and delicately toasted praline almonds; mmm mmm mmm. My taste buds are saluting right this very minute. Mother V and I never get together without a visit to Dicks. As a matter of fact, I can hear that molded mass of sweet bliss calling our name out now, anticipating our next holiday.
It undeniably doesn’t hurt that Mother V is also my binge buddy, which means when it comes to cakes, half for her and half for me.
We do believe there are only three things in life that matter - good friends, good chocolate and’…oh dear, what was that other one? Oh well.
We have our gastronomic likes and dislikes, and for many of them we were on the same page, when it came to chocolate though we didn’t always agree. Mother V liked her chocolate the way she likes her coffee; light, sweet and milky. I on the other hand like mine the way I like men. Rich, dark and dreamy…I mean creamy. The chocolate I mean.
Seriously though, I love all men. It’s chocolate I’m much more particular about. Now I am not one of those women that use chocolate as a substitute for men, but let's face it, chocolate is far more reliable!
I never could understand why so many "so called" chocolate lovers complain about the calories in chocolate, when all true chocoholics know that it is a vegetable. It comes from the cocoa bean, beans are veggies, 'nuff said. And, have you ever noticed that there is no such thing as Chocoholics Anonymous? That’s because none of us want to quit.
For many of us, chocolate is not a matter of life and death - it's much more important than that! I am a serious chocoholic and for the serious chocoholic, chocolate is better than sex. (If you believe that, you REALLY need to meet that special someone who can change your mind). If you HAVE met that special someone and still believe that, I REALLY NEED to know where you get your chocolate!
Actually I know where to get my chocolate fix from. Does it meet my requirements? Absolutely. Rich- exceedingly; Dark- extremely; and smooth with a voice like velvet. I learned to listen to the crystal clear voice of chocolate at the coffee festival in Seattle. I am sure you all feel as I do. Coffee makes it possible to get out of bed, and chocolate makes it all worthwhile.
I digress. There were many Chocolatiers giving away samplings of their company’s wares. The piece given from the final Chocolatier was about the size of a Hershey’s kiss. I didn’t really want it as I had been eating chocolate for days. (Did I just say that? Not want chocolate!) As I was lifting it to my mouth this chap had the bravado to suggest I should not just eat it. Well what else do you do with it? It took everything in me to follow his advice. But follow it I did.
He recommended I take a sip of cold water which he handed to me in a small paper cup. He explained that he wanted my palate clear of all other flavors before trying this miniscule bite. I couldn’t help but think it was a lot of trouble for just one bite. I was then instructed to take this brunette colored bonbon and break it into quarters.
“Surely you jest?” I thought. No. He was quite serious.
“Place just one piece on your tongue. Save the rest for later. Do not chew. Just let it sit there. Listen to the chocolate. Let the chocolate tell you what to do next.”
I did as bid, but looked around for the hidden shutter bugs of Candid Camera. While searching for these non-existent photographers, I became aware of this new sensation coming from the area of my orifice. My tongue now held the control buttons and I was rapt with every command.
“Close your eyes. Feel the texture. How does it feel? Is it grainy or smooth? Savor the flavor. Let it drift past your taste buds into the recesses of your nose; your ears; your brain.”
Forget falling in love - I'd rather fall in chocolate!
As I was leaving this three day binge of coffee and chocolate I found myself inspired, philosophizing “With enough chocolate and coffee, I could rule the world!”
I promise you, the more you ‘listen’ to chocolate; the easier it will be to tell the good from the bad. And you'll never go back. I now go to just about any length for superior chocolate. In fact my family and I make the 173 mile journey from our home in Hillsboro, Oregon to Seattle for that perfect cup of Dilettante hot Chocolate as often as we can.
Research seems pretty mixed up these days as to the health benefits of chocolate. I have this theory that chocolate slows down the aging process....It may not be true, but do I dare take the chance? If it doesn't then, what a way to go. Death by Chocolate! If mother V and I share our chocolate indulgences, then we'll only be in critical condition! Always remember that man can not live on chocolate alone, but women can!
In the mean time, while the experts are doing their research, maybe I’ll volunteer my services and do a few chocolate experiments of my own. Anyone care to help?
The Black Beast – La Bête Noire
1 cup Guinness stout (or other dark beer)
1 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cup cocoa powder
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1/2 tablespoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 large whole eggs
2/3 cup sour cream
3/4 cup heavy cream
8 ounces good quality dark chocolate, chopped
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/3 cup cocoa powder
1/3 cup powdered sugar
Place large glass mixing bowl in freezer.
In a medium sized saucepan, combine Guinness and butter. Over medium heat cook until butter is melted. Whisk in cocoa and mix until smooth. Set aside to cool.
In a separate bowl, cream together beat eggs and sour cream. Add beer mixture and whisk until just combined. Sift in sugar, baking soda, salt. Fold gently until combined. Pour into 2 prepared* 8" inch baking pans. Bake at 350° for about 25-30 minutes or until it passes the toothpick test. Let cool for about 10 minutes before turning out on to cooling rack. Set aside and let cool completely.
In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, bring the cream just to a boil. Remove from heat and immediately add chocolate. Let sit for about 5 minutes. Gently whisk, until smooth. Set aside.
While ganache is cooling, remove glass bowl from freezer. Add remaining cream. Whip until thick but not peak forming or about 4-5 minutes. Add remaining cocoa and powdered sugar. Whip until stiff peaks form or another 2-3 minutes. Place in refrigerator until ready to use.
To Serve: Place 1 cake layer on serving platter. Pour 1/2 cup warm ganache over the top of the 1st layer. Place in refrigerator and let cool for about 30 minutes. When ganache is fairly solid, remove from refrigerator and top with 3/4 of the chocolate whipped cream, spreading evenly over top.
Place second cake layer on top of chocolate cream. Pour remaining ganache over top of cake allowing the ganache to pool on the platter. Top with dollops of the remaining chocolate whipped cream.
*There are two ways to properly prepare cake pans.
1.) Lightly spray the baking pan with cooking spray. Place a piece of parchment paper cut to the shape of the pan on the bottom only. Coat the parchment paper and the sides of the pan with butter.
2.) Coat the bottom and sides of the baking pan with butter. Sprinkle with enough sugar to coat the bottom and sides of the pan. Gently invert pan and tape out any remaining sugar.
Never butter and flour a dessert pan. It leaves a white film, can sometimes taste bitter which sweet should not do and also makes it more difficult to frost. Either of the above eliminates all of those problems.
Chocolate is the greatest gift to women ever created, next to the likes of Paul Newman and Gene Kelly. It's something that should be had on a daily basis. - Sandra Bullock
http://www.savorchocolate.com/chocolate_personality_quiz.aspx
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Julie, Julia & Audrey
With all the hype about the new sensation Julie & Julia, about a month before the movie came out, I began scouring the internet for anything I could find on Julia Child. My findings not only had me falling in love with this Amazon of a woman, but it had me realizing I wasn't so very different from the great American French Chef herself.
Although I am excellent at what I do, my cooking falls short of Julia’s. Or does it? Now don’t get your knickerbockers in an uproar. I am not saying that I am superior to the great Queen of Cuisine. I do not feel worthy of touching the hem of her signature navy blue skirt. However…the biggest difference between many great chefs and Julia is as she would say “the courage of your convictions”.
My daughter and I, as well as half of Beaverton, went to see the new movie Julie & Julia on opening day. We both found the movie absolutely delightful and, as were all seated in the audience; amongst the sound of grumbling stomachs; ooohs and aaahhhs; and ‘I’m getting hugry’s’, we found ourselves salivating over the visually presented feast.
It was fascinating to watch the famed Julia Child go from gourmand to gourmet. We wept at her tragedies, and laughed at her culinary faux pas. We, as did everyone else in the world, drooled over her gastronomic masterpieces. And we both commiserated with Julie Powell as she lay weeping on the floor after dropping her well stuffed capon on the floor, remembering a turkey dinner or two that met with the same fate.
After deciding the movie was a keeper (meaning it was one that would become a part of my limited video library when available) we both decided Julia Child’s book ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’ would be a book worth buying. Dream on.
Being the internet addict that I am, I did some research and was blown away to discover that used copies of the book were selling for as much as $125.00. Although I know it happens all the time, it still amazes me to find people taking advantage of the success or tragedy of others, but…I’ll leave those thoughts for another day. For today I will say I did unearth copies of the book that could be ordered for much less than $125.00 however there would be a bit of a wait for its delivery.
So…while waiting for Barnes and Noble to announce our long awaited find has arrived at our local location, I thought I’d check the library. In all of Washington county there are 3 copies and 59 people in line to borrow the in demand book. If I am doing the math correctly at 3 weeks per library loan, my turn on that long awaited list would come up sometime around Christmas, 2011.
I sighed with disappointment of course, and as I continued my web search I found that others who had seen the movie, thought just as my daughter and I. If Julie Powell can do it so can we! We all, even world renowned chefs, want to cook like Julia!
Somewhere in the back of my little pea brain I thought I remembered Julia being huge. Well she was. She was 6 feet 2 inches. But she was also slender and carried her weight well, even with all of that butter and cream! I think it was her odd way of moving and her deep unusual voice that gave us the impression she was different than she truly was.
So where are the similarities between Julia and me?
Julia believed that people have become so fearful of elevated cholesterol levels, and other problems of vigor, that they have become obsessed in eliminating butter, cream and salt, which she considered essential ingredients for good quality cooking. She loved food and wasn't afraid of it. Neither am I.
“People are so fearful of what they eat,” Mrs. Child has said, ''they are no longer enjoying food the way they once did, and the dinner table is becoming a trap rather than a pleasure. We should enjoy food and have fun. It is one of the simplest and nicest pleasures in life.''
''In the old days, there was a great deal of exaggeration with cream and butter,'' Mrs. Child said. ''And it was delicious,'' she quickly added with a hearty laugh. Today, if you know how to cook, it is easy enough to make a sauce and swish using only a tiny bit of butter,'' Mrs. Child said. ''Those new sauces, made out of a puree of vegetables, are pretty boring. I like food to taste the way it should. You should enjoy every mouthful.”
I share those same beliefs as does the whole of France.
Julia’s trite eccentric sense of humor is much like mine, using dancing chickens; sweeping a dropped omelet from the counter back into the pan, instructing us never to apologize for our culinary mistakes; and of course there is her signature ‘when you’re alone in the kitchen, whose to see?’.
Julia was true to herself and if you didn’t like who she was, well…that’s your problem. She had this go get ‘em personality with this larger than life Joie de vivre. It wasn't that she could do no wrong, but rather she made making mistakes seem like fun. In front of a live audience, she once dropped an entire leg of lamb on the floor and chuckled about it. She failed to carve a suckling pig even while using a hack saw; She un-molded her mousse with a splat. The more she erred, the more the viewers loved and trusted her. Thus Julia gave us permission to do what we were already secretly doing…screwing up! I do that all the time! Screw up I mean. I haven't had too much occasion to saw a suckling pig.
Julia also had the courage and conviction, in mid-life, to go to the most famed culinary institute in the world and even though every one scoffed, no matter what hurtles she had to leap over, she honed her craft as no one else could have or has done since. I mean even the great Emeril Lagasse emulates the great Julia.
And that is where our similarities end. You see, everything I ever wanted to know about cooking I learned from Audrey Hepburn. How can you possibly learn about cooking from Audrey Hepburn you ask?
Do you remember the movie Sabrina? Yeah, I know. Who doesn't? Although if you really don’t, you may want to rent it, and if you haven’t seen it, well…I am so sorry you led such a deprived life. It too is a keeper! Now, if you watch it carefully you will discover that there are really only three things you will ever need to know about cooking.
1.) Any idiot can learn to cook
2.) You can make anything from almost nothing at all
3.) Don’t be afraid to experiment
No I am not nuts. Well, maybe I am actually, but not about this.
Take the scene when Sabrina is trying to learn to crack an egg. She’s the only one in the class who can’t seem to get it right. The cracked egg is oozing in between her fingers onto the floor and the chef is looking at her as if there is no hope. HE IS WRONG!
In just a little while we discover that not only is there hope, but you can make anything in the kitchen if you’re not afraid to try. Remember she tries to show off her newly found culinary skills by making something for Bogey out of just tuna and tomato juice. She wasn’t afraid to experiment and she made something out of almost nothing!
I did go to culinary school and dropped out after first term. I couldn’t wrap my head around paying $34,000.00 to learn proper presentation. Of course I never thought that there was anything else I could learn. I was already an excellent cook. In my arrogance, I had forgotten that I did not know how to de-bone a chicken or a fish. I can not make bread, or should I say patience is not in my vocabulary so having to wait for that yeast is like having to wait for the results of a test. Excruciating!
Anyway, here I am a wedding cake aficionado and I failed roses. Even though my wedding cakes are melt-in-your-mouth delicious, they are ugly as sin! But I did take Julia’s advice on never apologizing for them and that you can always cover your mistakes. I cover the fact that I suck at confection decorating by matching the brides bouquet. Whatever works!
In any case, as Julia desired with her first cookbook, my hopes are, by the end of this blog you too will be able to cook just about anything. Even if you are an idiot.
Julie & Julia
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNpZsL1W1Ho&feature=related
Never apologize. No excuses, no explanations
http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi77595161/
Courage of your convictions:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeSgtWw7zEo&feature=related
The worlds most beautiful chicken
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6Xopz0BpTc&NR=1
Meltdown
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmbUeswpiao&feature=channel
Although I am excellent at what I do, my cooking falls short of Julia’s. Or does it? Now don’t get your knickerbockers in an uproar. I am not saying that I am superior to the great Queen of Cuisine. I do not feel worthy of touching the hem of her signature navy blue skirt. However…the biggest difference between many great chefs and Julia is as she would say “the courage of your convictions”.
My daughter and I, as well as half of Beaverton, went to see the new movie Julie & Julia on opening day. We both found the movie absolutely delightful and, as were all seated in the audience; amongst the sound of grumbling stomachs; ooohs and aaahhhs; and ‘I’m getting hugry’s’, we found ourselves salivating over the visually presented feast.
It was fascinating to watch the famed Julia Child go from gourmand to gourmet. We wept at her tragedies, and laughed at her culinary faux pas. We, as did everyone else in the world, drooled over her gastronomic masterpieces. And we both commiserated with Julie Powell as she lay weeping on the floor after dropping her well stuffed capon on the floor, remembering a turkey dinner or two that met with the same fate.
After deciding the movie was a keeper (meaning it was one that would become a part of my limited video library when available) we both decided Julia Child’s book ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’ would be a book worth buying. Dream on.
Being the internet addict that I am, I did some research and was blown away to discover that used copies of the book were selling for as much as $125.00. Although I know it happens all the time, it still amazes me to find people taking advantage of the success or tragedy of others, but…I’ll leave those thoughts for another day. For today I will say I did unearth copies of the book that could be ordered for much less than $125.00 however there would be a bit of a wait for its delivery.
So…while waiting for Barnes and Noble to announce our long awaited find has arrived at our local location, I thought I’d check the library. In all of Washington county there are 3 copies and 59 people in line to borrow the in demand book. If I am doing the math correctly at 3 weeks per library loan, my turn on that long awaited list would come up sometime around Christmas, 2011.
I sighed with disappointment of course, and as I continued my web search I found that others who had seen the movie, thought just as my daughter and I. If Julie Powell can do it so can we! We all, even world renowned chefs, want to cook like Julia!
Somewhere in the back of my little pea brain I thought I remembered Julia being huge. Well she was. She was 6 feet 2 inches. But she was also slender and carried her weight well, even with all of that butter and cream! I think it was her odd way of moving and her deep unusual voice that gave us the impression she was different than she truly was.
So where are the similarities between Julia and me?
Julia believed that people have become so fearful of elevated cholesterol levels, and other problems of vigor, that they have become obsessed in eliminating butter, cream and salt, which she considered essential ingredients for good quality cooking. She loved food and wasn't afraid of it. Neither am I.
“People are so fearful of what they eat,” Mrs. Child has said, ''they are no longer enjoying food the way they once did, and the dinner table is becoming a trap rather than a pleasure. We should enjoy food and have fun. It is one of the simplest and nicest pleasures in life.''
''In the old days, there was a great deal of exaggeration with cream and butter,'' Mrs. Child said. ''And it was delicious,'' she quickly added with a hearty laugh. Today, if you know how to cook, it is easy enough to make a sauce and swish using only a tiny bit of butter,'' Mrs. Child said. ''Those new sauces, made out of a puree of vegetables, are pretty boring. I like food to taste the way it should. You should enjoy every mouthful.”
I share those same beliefs as does the whole of France.
Julia’s trite eccentric sense of humor is much like mine, using dancing chickens; sweeping a dropped omelet from the counter back into the pan, instructing us never to apologize for our culinary mistakes; and of course there is her signature ‘when you’re alone in the kitchen, whose to see?’.
Julia was true to herself and if you didn’t like who she was, well…that’s your problem. She had this go get ‘em personality with this larger than life Joie de vivre. It wasn't that she could do no wrong, but rather she made making mistakes seem like fun. In front of a live audience, she once dropped an entire leg of lamb on the floor and chuckled about it. She failed to carve a suckling pig even while using a hack saw; She un-molded her mousse with a splat. The more she erred, the more the viewers loved and trusted her. Thus Julia gave us permission to do what we were already secretly doing…screwing up! I do that all the time! Screw up I mean. I haven't had too much occasion to saw a suckling pig.
Julia also had the courage and conviction, in mid-life, to go to the most famed culinary institute in the world and even though every one scoffed, no matter what hurtles she had to leap over, she honed her craft as no one else could have or has done since. I mean even the great Emeril Lagasse emulates the great Julia.
And that is where our similarities end. You see, everything I ever wanted to know about cooking I learned from Audrey Hepburn. How can you possibly learn about cooking from Audrey Hepburn you ask?
Do you remember the movie Sabrina? Yeah, I know. Who doesn't? Although if you really don’t, you may want to rent it, and if you haven’t seen it, well…I am so sorry you led such a deprived life. It too is a keeper! Now, if you watch it carefully you will discover that there are really only three things you will ever need to know about cooking.
1.) Any idiot can learn to cook
2.) You can make anything from almost nothing at all
3.) Don’t be afraid to experiment
No I am not nuts. Well, maybe I am actually, but not about this.
Take the scene when Sabrina is trying to learn to crack an egg. She’s the only one in the class who can’t seem to get it right. The cracked egg is oozing in between her fingers onto the floor and the chef is looking at her as if there is no hope. HE IS WRONG!
In just a little while we discover that not only is there hope, but you can make anything in the kitchen if you’re not afraid to try. Remember she tries to show off her newly found culinary skills by making something for Bogey out of just tuna and tomato juice. She wasn’t afraid to experiment and she made something out of almost nothing!
I did go to culinary school and dropped out after first term. I couldn’t wrap my head around paying $34,000.00 to learn proper presentation. Of course I never thought that there was anything else I could learn. I was already an excellent cook. In my arrogance, I had forgotten that I did not know how to de-bone a chicken or a fish. I can not make bread, or should I say patience is not in my vocabulary so having to wait for that yeast is like having to wait for the results of a test. Excruciating!
Anyway, here I am a wedding cake aficionado and I failed roses. Even though my wedding cakes are melt-in-your-mouth delicious, they are ugly as sin! But I did take Julia’s advice on never apologizing for them and that you can always cover your mistakes. I cover the fact that I suck at confection decorating by matching the brides bouquet. Whatever works!
In any case, as Julia desired with her first cookbook, my hopes are, by the end of this blog you too will be able to cook just about anything. Even if you are an idiot.
Julie & Julia
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNpZsL1W1Ho&feature=related
Never apologize. No excuses, no explanations
http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi77595161/
Courage of your convictions:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeSgtWw7zEo&feature=related
The worlds most beautiful chicken
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6Xopz0BpTc&NR=1
Meltdown
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmbUeswpiao&feature=channel
Sunday, August 16, 2009
To Goop or Not to Goop
Three evenings ago a group of 10 delightful women whom I have come to know and love, just absolutely took it upon them selves to abandon my housemates and I in our hour of need. They had the cheek to leave us with troughs of Almond Mousse, Praliné Brest and La Bête Noire. Although they did take home scraps to their spouses, the portions were barely enough to feed a mouse.
Their pretext in this lapse of manners was because they were afraid it would go their hips! What a wretched excuse! I mean after all, was it reasonable enough for my derriere to be labeled ‘caution wide load’ but not theirs? How selfish of them. Hmmpf.
Well…after my indignation wore off and I began licking these fripperies from my fingers which, coincidentally, just happened to slip into the bowl, I realized the combination of the three flavors was an admirable new creation. Hmmm. What would I call this new potion? I like to toss thoughts like that around in my head for a while so I decided to sleep on it. The thoughts not the creation.
The following day had proved to be a long and tiring one, so after eating leftovers of Chicken Almond, Black Swine and Cucumber tea sandwiches I asked my housemates the customary “Did you have enough to eat?” It seems I am always concerned about the state of my friends’ stomachs. They requested a bit of dessert and so I brought out the three containers of saccharine snippets.
When asked to be reminded of their names I responded with “this is Praline Mousse, this one is Chocolate Mousse and this one is…” I was tired and couldn’t for the life of me remember the word almond. “This one is…I don’t know some kind of white goop.”
So here it is Sunday afternoon and I am exploring the contents of the ice box wondering what I should cook for dinner. I no longer wanted quiche since I had a small piece for breakfast. I had melon and Prosciutto for lunch. Let me see. We have leftover chicken, lots of veggies which would make a great pot of Jewish Penicillin, and…goop. Which one do we partake of?
To Goop or not to goop, that is the question? Do we eat the leftovers that are still fit for human consumption, or do we simply smear them on our thighs since that is exactly where they will end up anyway so why go to the trouble of eating them? I can hear the melodious sounds of Nelson Eddy and Jeannette McDonalds song wafting from the three containers. “I am calling you-oo-oo-oo-oo.” But the voice inside of my head is countering with the Supremes “Stop. In the name of love, before they break your butt. Think it oh-oh-ver. Think it oh-oh-ver.”
Well I thought it oh-oh-ver and the recipe for the day is…..
Jewish Penicillin
3-4 pound ready to eat roasted chicken
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 cups onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups mushrooms, sliced
1/4 cup flour
2 cups carrot, sliced thin
2 cups celery, sliced
2 cups broccoli, chopped
3/4 teaspoon tarragon
1/4 teaspoon thyme
2 cups white wine
1 1/2 cups evaporated milk
It is important to start with a completely roasted chicken. Believe it or not, a cooked chicken is much more flavorful than an uncooked one. Place it in a large stock pot. Add just enough chicken broth to cover it. Put it on low heat, cover and go to the movies, go for a Sunday drive, anything you’d like. Just leave the pot alone for minimum of 4 hours. Don’t even stir it. When the chicken has begin to fall off the bone, you’ll want to remove the chicken, bones and all. Set aside to cool. Continue simmering the broth.
When the chicken is cool enough to handle, separate the chicken from the bones discarding the bones as well as other unwanted parts such as the skin. Return chicken to the pot. Continue simmering.
In a separate skillet, sauté the onions, garlic and mushrooms in the canola oil. Cook them for about 8-10 minutes or until the mushrooms just turn golden. Whisk in the flour. Add to the chicken. Add the remaining veggies, herbs and wine. Simmer for about 20-30 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes or so or until veggies are tender.
Add cooked egg noodles just before serving if so desired.
Post Script. To my Sunday morning cohorts; I do hope you know it is all in jest. I love you dearly and have already forgiven you your blunder. Guffaw, guffaw.
Their pretext in this lapse of manners was because they were afraid it would go their hips! What a wretched excuse! I mean after all, was it reasonable enough for my derriere to be labeled ‘caution wide load’ but not theirs? How selfish of them. Hmmpf.
Well…after my indignation wore off and I began licking these fripperies from my fingers which, coincidentally, just happened to slip into the bowl, I realized the combination of the three flavors was an admirable new creation. Hmmm. What would I call this new potion? I like to toss thoughts like that around in my head for a while so I decided to sleep on it. The thoughts not the creation.
The following day had proved to be a long and tiring one, so after eating leftovers of Chicken Almond, Black Swine and Cucumber tea sandwiches I asked my housemates the customary “Did you have enough to eat?” It seems I am always concerned about the state of my friends’ stomachs. They requested a bit of dessert and so I brought out the three containers of saccharine snippets.
When asked to be reminded of their names I responded with “this is Praline Mousse, this one is Chocolate Mousse and this one is…” I was tired and couldn’t for the life of me remember the word almond. “This one is…I don’t know some kind of white goop.”
So here it is Sunday afternoon and I am exploring the contents of the ice box wondering what I should cook for dinner. I no longer wanted quiche since I had a small piece for breakfast. I had melon and Prosciutto for lunch. Let me see. We have leftover chicken, lots of veggies which would make a great pot of Jewish Penicillin, and…goop. Which one do we partake of?
To Goop or not to goop, that is the question? Do we eat the leftovers that are still fit for human consumption, or do we simply smear them on our thighs since that is exactly where they will end up anyway so why go to the trouble of eating them? I can hear the melodious sounds of Nelson Eddy and Jeannette McDonalds song wafting from the three containers. “I am calling you-oo-oo-oo-oo.” But the voice inside of my head is countering with the Supremes “Stop. In the name of love, before they break your butt. Think it oh-oh-ver. Think it oh-oh-ver.”
Well I thought it oh-oh-ver and the recipe for the day is…..
Jewish Penicillin
3-4 pound ready to eat roasted chicken
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 cups onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups mushrooms, sliced
1/4 cup flour
2 cups carrot, sliced thin
2 cups celery, sliced
2 cups broccoli, chopped
3/4 teaspoon tarragon
1/4 teaspoon thyme
2 cups white wine
1 1/2 cups evaporated milk
It is important to start with a completely roasted chicken. Believe it or not, a cooked chicken is much more flavorful than an uncooked one. Place it in a large stock pot. Add just enough chicken broth to cover it. Put it on low heat, cover and go to the movies, go for a Sunday drive, anything you’d like. Just leave the pot alone for minimum of 4 hours. Don’t even stir it. When the chicken has begin to fall off the bone, you’ll want to remove the chicken, bones and all. Set aside to cool. Continue simmering the broth.
When the chicken is cool enough to handle, separate the chicken from the bones discarding the bones as well as other unwanted parts such as the skin. Return chicken to the pot. Continue simmering.
In a separate skillet, sauté the onions, garlic and mushrooms in the canola oil. Cook them for about 8-10 minutes or until the mushrooms just turn golden. Whisk in the flour. Add to the chicken. Add the remaining veggies, herbs and wine. Simmer for about 20-30 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes or so or until veggies are tender.
Add cooked egg noodles just before serving if so desired.
Post Script. To my Sunday morning cohorts; I do hope you know it is all in jest. I love you dearly and have already forgiven you your blunder. Guffaw, guffaw.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Traveling with Paulie Pants
How did this blog come about you ask? Well…I’ll tell you. I looked in the mirror one day about 6 months ago and I realized there was nothing frivolous or feminine about me anymore. Oh I had bursts of being a lady now and then, but they didn’t last very long. I wore a daily attire of jeans and an oversized man’s flannel shirt. Weighing in at 297 pounds, dresses and I didn’t get along very well. With my broad shoulders and men’s haircut, I usually ended up looking more like Frankenstein in drag.
I tapped at my chin, both of them in fact and they seemed to be progressing nicely. I stripped and gave an even rarer glance at my 53-year-old reflection. A moment or two was about all I could handle. I was beginning to resemble Shamu the killer whale. In my late twenties, early thirties, I had a Marilyn Monroe shaped body. You know, the proverbial hourglass figure where the sand sifted through, measuring 60 minutes worth of time. Oh I still had the same shape, but now my hourglass measured time by the year.
I had, at what point I can not remember, come to realize that middle age is God’s way of showing a sense of humor. I did not particularly find it amusing to discover that middle was when everything started to wear out, fall out or spread out. I did not chuckle when I discovered my clothes no longer fit and I was the one who needed the alterations.
I knew when I retired I was going to travel, but I noticed one day that my body parts began to travel without me. My arms seem to have grown their own wings so no matter what part of the country I was in, I could do it without benefit of train, plane or automobile. My behind didn’t know which way it wanted to go, so it just went east and west.
My triple I breasts began heading South in my late thirties and by this time were at the equator heading for the South Pole. I shouted at my breasts almost on a daily basis “go North you idiots go North!” But alas! They, like most teenagers, never did listen. I gave a deep sigh and tried to remember a time when I had small lively little breasts, when my breasts were high, firm and there was cleavage! I canceled my walk down memory lane when I realized it was too much like exercise and I began getting a headache. “I think tomorrow I will just go out and buy one of those new, lift those bosoms like they're filled with helium bras,” I thought to myself.
It was then that I realized if I wore one of those new fangled things, I’d have a chin rest. A couple of years ago, my doctor had told me to get some exercise, but I told him then, ‘Look Doc, just pushing middle age, is exercise enough.’ I also told him that my idea of weight lifting was simply standing up. I had decided not to take up jogging the year before, when briskly walking caused my thighs to rub together and set my pantyhose on fire. I wasn’t fond of the black eyes either. The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are very good friends.
On March 20th of this year, I had a breast reduction with the hopes of easing chronic back pain due to an injury I had recieved one year ago today. My equator bound breasts were now sprightly little petite C cups. I do believe the last time I saw a C was on the top of a paper I had written in junior high! The problem was these perky newly improved chest protrusions looked a bit awkward on my deluxe edition sized body. I began cutting back a little on what I ate. I didn’t change what I ate but I did cut back. Miraculously I lost 33 pounds, only 10 of which was breast.
Being out of work for this past year did a lot of damage financially and unfortunately along with the weight, I lost almost everything else as well. My beloved Francis was the first to go. Although Francis and I had only been acquainted for a year she and I grew very fond of each other very quickly. She carried me everywhere my queen sized heart desired and I in turn lubricated her chasse, rotated her tires and changed her oil every 4 months like clock work.
When I lost my home in June, some very dear friends offered theirs to me as well as their hearts. There was no catch to this offer. None whatsoever. They loved me and wanted to do for me what they felt Jesus would have done. As my contribution to their household I appointed myself as their personal chef and it seems that they have enjoyed with exuberance whatever I have created to date.
This very dear friend whom I now have the pleasure of living with loves to sew. She sews everything from wine holders to doll clothes to one size fits almost everybody pants. I call them Paulie pants. They are the most comfortable looking, lounge around the house or dining in the best of restaurants pants; all in the most delightful colors and patterns that fit every personality, every character and every shape there is. Every shape but mine that is, for I did not fit into the 'almost everybody' category. I was mortified when my measurements were taken and my Paulie pants were made by taping two patterns together.
With this said...I had been thinking about doing a blog for sometime, but I thought no one would really want to listen to my thoughts on politics, religion or the shape of the world. Since I decided after being presented with my own pair of Paulie Pants, as shockingly wonderful as they are, I knew then and there that my love of food had to take a turn for the better or I would take a turn for the worse. I also know me well enough to know that if I just say it and don’t make a commitment to someone else then I won’t really do it. So here it is.
But why publicly? Well, I got to thinking that I may not be the only one whose thoughts generally focus on food. Nor am I the only one who needs to get healthy despite ourselves. If by my sharing my life, my world and my size publicly, help will be brought to even one person then I must do exactly that. So…no matter what your size, hopefully we will all learn together. I’d love to hear your thoughts, insights, complaints, fears and I hope recipes you care to share.
If you’ve liked what you’ve read, I invite you to become one of my followers and maybe even share it with someone whose jollies could use a good chuckle or two now and again.
I tapped at my chin, both of them in fact and they seemed to be progressing nicely. I stripped and gave an even rarer glance at my 53-year-old reflection. A moment or two was about all I could handle. I was beginning to resemble Shamu the killer whale. In my late twenties, early thirties, I had a Marilyn Monroe shaped body. You know, the proverbial hourglass figure where the sand sifted through, measuring 60 minutes worth of time. Oh I still had the same shape, but now my hourglass measured time by the year.
I had, at what point I can not remember, come to realize that middle age is God’s way of showing a sense of humor. I did not particularly find it amusing to discover that middle was when everything started to wear out, fall out or spread out. I did not chuckle when I discovered my clothes no longer fit and I was the one who needed the alterations.
I knew when I retired I was going to travel, but I noticed one day that my body parts began to travel without me. My arms seem to have grown their own wings so no matter what part of the country I was in, I could do it without benefit of train, plane or automobile. My behind didn’t know which way it wanted to go, so it just went east and west.
My triple I breasts began heading South in my late thirties and by this time were at the equator heading for the South Pole. I shouted at my breasts almost on a daily basis “go North you idiots go North!” But alas! They, like most teenagers, never did listen. I gave a deep sigh and tried to remember a time when I had small lively little breasts, when my breasts were high, firm and there was cleavage! I canceled my walk down memory lane when I realized it was too much like exercise and I began getting a headache. “I think tomorrow I will just go out and buy one of those new, lift those bosoms like they're filled with helium bras,” I thought to myself.
It was then that I realized if I wore one of those new fangled things, I’d have a chin rest. A couple of years ago, my doctor had told me to get some exercise, but I told him then, ‘Look Doc, just pushing middle age, is exercise enough.’ I also told him that my idea of weight lifting was simply standing up. I had decided not to take up jogging the year before, when briskly walking caused my thighs to rub together and set my pantyhose on fire. I wasn’t fond of the black eyes either. The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are very good friends.
On March 20th of this year, I had a breast reduction with the hopes of easing chronic back pain due to an injury I had recieved one year ago today. My equator bound breasts were now sprightly little petite C cups. I do believe the last time I saw a C was on the top of a paper I had written in junior high! The problem was these perky newly improved chest protrusions looked a bit awkward on my deluxe edition sized body. I began cutting back a little on what I ate. I didn’t change what I ate but I did cut back. Miraculously I lost 33 pounds, only 10 of which was breast.
Being out of work for this past year did a lot of damage financially and unfortunately along with the weight, I lost almost everything else as well. My beloved Francis was the first to go. Although Francis and I had only been acquainted for a year she and I grew very fond of each other very quickly. She carried me everywhere my queen sized heart desired and I in turn lubricated her chasse, rotated her tires and changed her oil every 4 months like clock work.
When I lost my home in June, some very dear friends offered theirs to me as well as their hearts. There was no catch to this offer. None whatsoever. They loved me and wanted to do for me what they felt Jesus would have done. As my contribution to their household I appointed myself as their personal chef and it seems that they have enjoyed with exuberance whatever I have created to date.
This very dear friend whom I now have the pleasure of living with loves to sew. She sews everything from wine holders to doll clothes to one size fits almost everybody pants. I call them Paulie pants. They are the most comfortable looking, lounge around the house or dining in the best of restaurants pants; all in the most delightful colors and patterns that fit every personality, every character and every shape there is. Every shape but mine that is, for I did not fit into the 'almost everybody' category. I was mortified when my measurements were taken and my Paulie pants were made by taping two patterns together.
With this said...I had been thinking about doing a blog for sometime, but I thought no one would really want to listen to my thoughts on politics, religion or the shape of the world. Since I decided after being presented with my own pair of Paulie Pants, as shockingly wonderful as they are, I knew then and there that my love of food had to take a turn for the better or I would take a turn for the worse. I also know me well enough to know that if I just say it and don’t make a commitment to someone else then I won’t really do it. So here it is.
But why publicly? Well, I got to thinking that I may not be the only one whose thoughts generally focus on food. Nor am I the only one who needs to get healthy despite ourselves. If by my sharing my life, my world and my size publicly, help will be brought to even one person then I must do exactly that. So…no matter what your size, hopefully we will all learn together. I’d love to hear your thoughts, insights, complaints, fears and I hope recipes you care to share.
If you’ve liked what you’ve read, I invite you to become one of my followers and maybe even share it with someone whose jollies could use a good chuckle or two now and again.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Wild Brewed Yonder
Coffee. Is there anything more decadent than that first pot of coffee in the morning? The rich aroma of those darkly roasted kernels of instant energy being deluged for our aphrodisiacal enslavement?
It is certainly my drug of choice. It’s not that I can’t start my day without that first sip, but more that I choose not to. There is something comforting about holding that freshly brewed cup of battery acid in my hands, letting the aroma open my baby blues before that black pungent yet tantalizing liquid passes these withered middle aged lips.
I was raised on coffee milk in the 50’s and 60’s thinking it quite the treat to have a cup ‘o’ Joe with my folks. It of course was more like the new McCafé version of coffee with an exuberance of sugar and milk, but it was a grown up drink therefore I was cool, hip, with it.
My tastes haven’t really changed all that much, in as much as I do enjoy cream and sugar in my coffee. I also enjoy the flavored coffees. Coconut, hazelnut, butternut and every other nut flavor there is. Then we move on to the fruitier blends of chocolate raspberry, cherry cordial and even a blueberry cream.
And how do you know which type of ‘roast’ to buy? I mean this decision isn’t like choosing a cut of meat. With meat you basically have, rib roast, ribeye roast or tenderloin roast, round tip or eye round. Five choices from melt in your mouth tender to a bit tougher but if done right can be superb.
With coffee however you have a dizzying array of types available. Different roasts come with wildly different tastes and nuances. There is light roast, medium roast and dark roast. Then we have American roast, French roast, Vienna roast, European roast, Turkish Roast, Italian roast; and the list goes on to assure you that you have a world of coffee in every cup. Next decision is do you want these caf, decaf or extra caf.
STOP! I just want a cup of coffee. I do have to say however as I start my second pot in 90 minutes, nobody’s…not even the jolly green giant’s can compare to an authentic Italian cappuccino, in which milk is brought to a dense-textured, soupy froth and then poured into a single serving of espresso. Aaahhh.
I am an avid participant in the Coffee Fest held in Seattle each autumn. There in the confines of the Seattle Convention Center you will find not just a handful but more than 100 of the country’s top coffee roasters. I have learned by experience that when I go (last year was the first year I have missed in 6 years) bring a rolling suitcase with you.
The powers that be hand you this little grocery sized bag as you walk through the door and your first thought is “Oh goodie. I get to go home with a lot of useless information.” NOT! You not only don’t go home with a lot of useless information but you do go home with pounds of free coffee. Yes that’s right, I said pounds! From Caffe D'Arte to Zoka Coffee Roaster & Tea Co., you will go home with a suitcase of free half pound to full pound samplers.
Now…although this may have sounded like a plug for Coffee Fest, it’s truly a plug for a coffee addicts blissful long weekend coffee spot. I mean what could be better than to spend 72 glorious hours drinking that marvelous legally addictive stimulant. This is where I discovered that divine Italian Cappuccino.
Now that we have tasted (even if only by osmosis) from all of those fabulous around the world roasters, and decided which coffee will gratify our morning fix, we must then decide do we want cream, sugar, or one of those delightfully flavored cream substitutes that contain no God made ingredients except sugar.
I mean have you read the labels of any of these enticing concoctions? Water; sugar; partially hydrogenated soybean and/or cottonseed oil and less than 2% of sodium caseinate.
Then of course we can not forget about those delightful ingredients that make you glow in the dark; dipotassium phosphate; disodium phosphate; mono and diglyceride, cellulose gel and cellulose gum (as if I haven’t got enough of those wrinkly little unwanted dimples in my thighs already), color added, natural and artifical flavors and last but definitely not least carrageenan.
Okay, think I will take Hal's advice and switch to something natural like milk.
OREGON FILBERT CAKE
2 1/3 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/2 cups sugar
2/3 cup butter
3 large egg yolks
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup strongly brewed coffee
1/2 cup filberts (hazelnuts)
In a large mixing bowl, sift together the first 4 ingredients. Set aside.
In a separate medium sized bowl, cream together, sugar, butter, and vanilla, until thoroughly combined. Beat in egg yolks and blend until light and fluffy or for about 2-3 minutes more. Pour into lightly buttered & sugared 9 X 13” rectangular pan.
Bake at 350° for 30—35 minutes or until toothpick inserted comes out clean. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before serving. Top with freshly whipped cinnamon laced cream
It is certainly my drug of choice. It’s not that I can’t start my day without that first sip, but more that I choose not to. There is something comforting about holding that freshly brewed cup of battery acid in my hands, letting the aroma open my baby blues before that black pungent yet tantalizing liquid passes these withered middle aged lips.
I was raised on coffee milk in the 50’s and 60’s thinking it quite the treat to have a cup ‘o’ Joe with my folks. It of course was more like the new McCafé version of coffee with an exuberance of sugar and milk, but it was a grown up drink therefore I was cool, hip, with it.
My tastes haven’t really changed all that much, in as much as I do enjoy cream and sugar in my coffee. I also enjoy the flavored coffees. Coconut, hazelnut, butternut and every other nut flavor there is. Then we move on to the fruitier blends of chocolate raspberry, cherry cordial and even a blueberry cream.
And how do you know which type of ‘roast’ to buy? I mean this decision isn’t like choosing a cut of meat. With meat you basically have, rib roast, ribeye roast or tenderloin roast, round tip or eye round. Five choices from melt in your mouth tender to a bit tougher but if done right can be superb.
With coffee however you have a dizzying array of types available. Different roasts come with wildly different tastes and nuances. There is light roast, medium roast and dark roast. Then we have American roast, French roast, Vienna roast, European roast, Turkish Roast, Italian roast; and the list goes on to assure you that you have a world of coffee in every cup. Next decision is do you want these caf, decaf or extra caf.
STOP! I just want a cup of coffee. I do have to say however as I start my second pot in 90 minutes, nobody’s…not even the jolly green giant’s can compare to an authentic Italian cappuccino, in which milk is brought to a dense-textured, soupy froth and then poured into a single serving of espresso. Aaahhh.
I am an avid participant in the Coffee Fest held in Seattle each autumn. There in the confines of the Seattle Convention Center you will find not just a handful but more than 100 of the country’s top coffee roasters. I have learned by experience that when I go (last year was the first year I have missed in 6 years) bring a rolling suitcase with you.
The powers that be hand you this little grocery sized bag as you walk through the door and your first thought is “Oh goodie. I get to go home with a lot of useless information.” NOT! You not only don’t go home with a lot of useless information but you do go home with pounds of free coffee. Yes that’s right, I said pounds! From Caffe D'Arte to Zoka Coffee Roaster & Tea Co., you will go home with a suitcase of free half pound to full pound samplers.
Now…although this may have sounded like a plug for Coffee Fest, it’s truly a plug for a coffee addicts blissful long weekend coffee spot. I mean what could be better than to spend 72 glorious hours drinking that marvelous legally addictive stimulant. This is where I discovered that divine Italian Cappuccino.
Now that we have tasted (even if only by osmosis) from all of those fabulous around the world roasters, and decided which coffee will gratify our morning fix, we must then decide do we want cream, sugar, or one of those delightfully flavored cream substitutes that contain no God made ingredients except sugar.
I mean have you read the labels of any of these enticing concoctions? Water; sugar; partially hydrogenated soybean and/or cottonseed oil and less than 2% of sodium caseinate.
Then of course we can not forget about those delightful ingredients that make you glow in the dark; dipotassium phosphate; disodium phosphate; mono and diglyceride, cellulose gel and cellulose gum (as if I haven’t got enough of those wrinkly little unwanted dimples in my thighs already), color added, natural and artifical flavors and last but definitely not least carrageenan.
Okay, think I will take Hal's advice and switch to something natural like milk.
OREGON FILBERT CAKE
2 1/3 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/2 cups sugar
2/3 cup butter
3 large egg yolks
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup strongly brewed coffee
1/2 cup filberts (hazelnuts)
In a large mixing bowl, sift together the first 4 ingredients. Set aside.
In a separate medium sized bowl, cream together, sugar, butter, and vanilla, until thoroughly combined. Beat in egg yolks and blend until light and fluffy or for about 2-3 minutes more. Pour into lightly buttered & sugared 9 X 13” rectangular pan.
Bake at 350° for 30—35 minutes or until toothpick inserted comes out clean. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before serving. Top with freshly whipped cinnamon laced cream
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Live Life or Die Trying
My mom God bless her was a lousy cook. Her idea of Swedish Meatballs was taking ground beef and rolling it into little balls; pouring milk over them and boiling it until the milk was curdled, if there was any left in the pan, and the beef resembled something the cows had dropped in the field. So I learned at a very early age to cook as a matter of survival.
I became an accomplished cook to impress a guy. I didn’t get the guy but I got a great career. So for the last 20 plus years I have been earning a living making people happy with food. With that said…I served High Tea for 10 (four of the guests could not make it) this evening which turned out to be more of a dinner than tea, but it was well received and there were music to my ear ooohs and aaahs throughout the evening.
I am proud to say that almost everything did not come in a bag, a can or a box, but I kind of figured it would not have been too fair of me to have forced my Nutritional Therapy 101 class on an unsuspecting group of ladies.
Along with various scones, teas and the quiche from this morning’s blog, I served everything from fresh fruit and cream to hot Black Swine sandwiches and a Praliné Brest for dessert with freshly made gold dust. I think the only thing that wasn't on the menu was beef.
Let me tell you now that I am a huge beef fan, which by the way comes wrapped in cellophane so that does not count towards the no BBC plan. Last year after the last of my kids had moved out and was no longer living with me, beef seemed to be miraculously affordable again. I do believe it was because of me alone, that the stock in the National Cattleman’s Beef Association went up.
My youngest likes his beef well done. So well done that he cooks his own now till it looks like my grandfathers’ old army boots. Me? Just walk the cow past the table and let me point to which piece I want. Served on a plate all by itself. No potatoes; no veggies; Maybe an occasional onion or two but not often. Nope. I can just smell those 32 ounces of hot, crimson, essence of Bovine oozing blood from every orifice.
What do you mean but beef isn’t good for you? Who says? They? Who exactly are they anyway? First they said beef will make you strong. Then they said it will make you fat. Then they said don’t eat it but they really didn’t give you a reason, but because this advice came from some government official we believed him. What is the definition of insanity again?
They even checked the fat content of beef and compared it to chicken and turkey. Well let’s do just that. Depending on the cut of beef, it can be less or very close to most poultry. Chicken breast: with skin, baked; 170 calories; 7.0 g fat; 2.0 g saturated fat; 70 mg cholesterol; 25 g protein. Beef sirloin steak: trimmed of visible fat, broiled; 170 calories; 6.0 g fat; 2.0 g saturated fat; 75 mg cholesterol; 26 g protein.
Now why do we take all of the visible fat off of the beef and not the chicken? Cuz the beef will still be incredibly flavorful, tender and moist without the visible fat, whereas the chicken will look and taste like, my grandmothers old army boots.
Okay. My all time favorite reason they say to no to eating beef. What about mad-cow disease you ask? What about it? Let’s look at the symptoms.
1. Anxiety – I am 53, soon to be 54, out of work and menopausal…what have I got to be anxious about?
2. Depression - I am 53, soon to be 54, out of work and menopausal, and my kids don’t call as often as I would like them to, my friends don’t call as often as I would like them to but hey…Why should I be depressed?
3. Memory loss – If I have mad cow disease and one of the symptoms is memory loss I won’t know I have it and if I do I won’t remember it, so what's the big deal?
4. Impaired thinking – I’ve been a single mom for 28 years. Of course my thinking is impaired.
5. Impaired muscle coordination – Does the term over the hill mean anything to anyone?
6. Blurred vision – I can see just fine. I like wearing my orange and grey plaid pants with the purple and pink polka dot top. Remember the 70’s
7. Personality changes – And again I say, I am 53 and menopausal…do the math.
8. Insomnia – With all the problems mentioned above could you sleep?
9. Speech impairment – My speeth hath not been effected at thith time in my life.
Silly I know, but my point is you have a much better chance of dying in an airplane crash or being struck by lightning than you do of contracting Mad Cow disease so why worry? So enjoy that all you can eat rib joint, that you've been salivating over for years. Have fun and dig in. Not to worry that you'll have ear to ear barbecue sauce. Everyone there will understand. I know do!
HARVEST CHILI
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 cup red onion
1 cup carrot
1 cup green beans
1 cup red bell pepper
1/2 cup green bell pepper
1 clove garlic
1 pound ground sirloin
3 cups canned tomatoes with green chiles*
1 3/4 cups canned pumpkin*
1 3/4 cups tomato sauce*
15 ounces canned black beans*
1/2 cup green chili peppers
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
* Exception to the rule only if all natural ingredients)
In a large dutch oven, over medium-high heat, saute onions, peppers and garlic in oil, for about 5-7 minutes or until just tender. Add sirloin. Continue cooking for about 6-8 minutes or until no longer pink, crumbling the beef as you cook.
Add the remaining ingredients. Mix well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer 45 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes or so.
Top with shredded cheddar cheese and sour cream, if so desired.
I became an accomplished cook to impress a guy. I didn’t get the guy but I got a great career. So for the last 20 plus years I have been earning a living making people happy with food. With that said…I served High Tea for 10 (four of the guests could not make it) this evening which turned out to be more of a dinner than tea, but it was well received and there were music to my ear ooohs and aaahs throughout the evening.
I am proud to say that almost everything did not come in a bag, a can or a box, but I kind of figured it would not have been too fair of me to have forced my Nutritional Therapy 101 class on an unsuspecting group of ladies.
Along with various scones, teas and the quiche from this morning’s blog, I served everything from fresh fruit and cream to hot Black Swine sandwiches and a Praliné Brest for dessert with freshly made gold dust. I think the only thing that wasn't on the menu was beef.
Let me tell you now that I am a huge beef fan, which by the way comes wrapped in cellophane so that does not count towards the no BBC plan. Last year after the last of my kids had moved out and was no longer living with me, beef seemed to be miraculously affordable again. I do believe it was because of me alone, that the stock in the National Cattleman’s Beef Association went up.
My youngest likes his beef well done. So well done that he cooks his own now till it looks like my grandfathers’ old army boots. Me? Just walk the cow past the table and let me point to which piece I want. Served on a plate all by itself. No potatoes; no veggies; Maybe an occasional onion or two but not often. Nope. I can just smell those 32 ounces of hot, crimson, essence of Bovine oozing blood from every orifice.
What do you mean but beef isn’t good for you? Who says? They? Who exactly are they anyway? First they said beef will make you strong. Then they said it will make you fat. Then they said don’t eat it but they really didn’t give you a reason, but because this advice came from some government official we believed him. What is the definition of insanity again?
They even checked the fat content of beef and compared it to chicken and turkey. Well let’s do just that. Depending on the cut of beef, it can be less or very close to most poultry. Chicken breast: with skin, baked; 170 calories; 7.0 g fat; 2.0 g saturated fat; 70 mg cholesterol; 25 g protein. Beef sirloin steak: trimmed of visible fat, broiled; 170 calories; 6.0 g fat; 2.0 g saturated fat; 75 mg cholesterol; 26 g protein.
Now why do we take all of the visible fat off of the beef and not the chicken? Cuz the beef will still be incredibly flavorful, tender and moist without the visible fat, whereas the chicken will look and taste like, my grandmothers old army boots.
Okay. My all time favorite reason they say to no to eating beef. What about mad-cow disease you ask? What about it? Let’s look at the symptoms.
1. Anxiety – I am 53, soon to be 54, out of work and menopausal…what have I got to be anxious about?
2. Depression - I am 53, soon to be 54, out of work and menopausal, and my kids don’t call as often as I would like them to, my friends don’t call as often as I would like them to but hey…Why should I be depressed?
3. Memory loss – If I have mad cow disease and one of the symptoms is memory loss I won’t know I have it and if I do I won’t remember it, so what's the big deal?
4. Impaired thinking – I’ve been a single mom for 28 years. Of course my thinking is impaired.
5. Impaired muscle coordination – Does the term over the hill mean anything to anyone?
6. Blurred vision – I can see just fine. I like wearing my orange and grey plaid pants with the purple and pink polka dot top. Remember the 70’s
7. Personality changes – And again I say, I am 53 and menopausal…do the math.
8. Insomnia – With all the problems mentioned above could you sleep?
9. Speech impairment – My speeth hath not been effected at thith time in my life.
Silly I know, but my point is you have a much better chance of dying in an airplane crash or being struck by lightning than you do of contracting Mad Cow disease so why worry? So enjoy that all you can eat rib joint, that you've been salivating over for years. Have fun and dig in. Not to worry that you'll have ear to ear barbecue sauce. Everyone there will understand. I know do!
HARVEST CHILI
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 cup red onion
1 cup carrot
1 cup green beans
1 cup red bell pepper
1/2 cup green bell pepper
1 clove garlic
1 pound ground sirloin
3 cups canned tomatoes with green chiles*
1 3/4 cups canned pumpkin*
1 3/4 cups tomato sauce*
15 ounces canned black beans*
1/2 cup green chili peppers
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
* Exception to the rule only if all natural ingredients)
In a large dutch oven, over medium-high heat, saute onions, peppers and garlic in oil, for about 5-7 minutes or until just tender. Add sirloin. Continue cooking for about 6-8 minutes or until no longer pink, crumbling the beef as you cook.
Add the remaining ingredients. Mix well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer 45 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes or so.
Top with shredded cheddar cheese and sour cream, if so desired.
Nutritional Therapy 101 - A little self-indulgence is good for everyone
Day 1 of the journey to smaller and better things like jeans that fit, or a bathing suit I don't look like a beached whale in. No box, bag or can. Hmmm. How can I do this?
At first I was thinking that breakfast was going to be difficult. I mean most breakfasts come in boxes right? Fruit Loops; Cocoa Puffs; Granola bars; Pop-Tarts; Oreos; even Carnation instant breakfast or Slim Fast (the latter of which by the way goes great with the pop-tarts, Oreos and granola bars). They all come in boxes!
Actually what’s difficult for me is remembering to eat the meal at all. I am usually busy working on this project or that; sending out resumes to places I’d really rather not work but need the job; working on one of the books I’m writing which is the toughest thing for me cuz I have an incredible imagination and am always coming up with new stories, but the hours in each day are not increasing to accommodate all those thoughts swimming around in my head.
Anyway, by around 11:00 AM and 5 or 6 cups of coffee later, my stomach reminds me, none so gently I might add, that I have forgotten it yet again. By the way I’m not so good at punctuation so if I have a participle dangling off the page somewhere, please forgive me.
So...back to breakfast.
Eggs; The perfect meal unto itself. Whether scrambled, poached, fried or baked you can eat this little protein miracle that comes in its own cute little container, all by itself. So for today, since I am preparing the food for a High Tea for 14 this evening and quiche will be served, I think I am going to make an extra one just for me. After all I'm worth a little indulgence now and then aren't I? Aren't you worth it?
Okay. So maybe you can't make it just before you herd your six kids and a harried husband out the door so you can put in 10 hours behind a desk, while daydreaming of the tropical island you found for sale and wish you were on, on The Write Way to Travel web site, but you can make it this weekend right? I mean the kids can forgo the 4-H judging at the county fair this one year, right? Besides, you're not going to eat the whole thing, so however many slices are leftover, they can be individually wrapped and frozen to be taken out any morning of the week when you feel a little self-indulgent.
Basic Pastry Dough
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon sea salt
1 cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut in small pieces
2/3 cup chilled water
Place the flour and the salt in the bowl of a food processor and process to mix. Cut the butter in chunks and add it to the flour. Process it, using pulses, until the butter is incorporated into the flour and the mixture looks like coarse cornmeal.
With the food processor running, add the water and process briefly, using pulses, just until the pastry beings to hold together in large clumps. Divide the pastry into two equal portions, placing one of the halves onto a floured work surface and gather it into a ball. Proceed with the following recipe:
Quiche au Fromage
12 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream or crème fraîche
1/3 cup sour cream
2 cup milk (preferably whole)
6 ounces each gruyère, brie, and extra sharp cheddar
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg - optional
Roll out the pastry to fit a 10-1/2 inch glass or metal pie plate (NOT removable bottom). Crimp the edges, poke the bottom with a fork or the tip of a sharp knife, and place the pastry in the freezer for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line the pastry with aluminum foil and pastry weights (a bag of beans will do in a pinch, but please take them out of the plastic bag they came in!) and bake in the bottom third of the oven until the pastry is golden at the edges, or about 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and take off the aluminum foil and pastry weights (or beans). Return the pastry to the oven to bake for an additional 5 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside.
In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, and the milk until thoroughly blended. Season with the salt and pepper, then add the cheese and stir until it is blended. Divide the mixture evenly between the pre-baked pastry shells, and spread evenly over the bottom of the pastry. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg and bake in the center of the oven until the filling is golden and puffed, and is completely baked through, about 30 minutes.
To test for doneness, stick a sharp knife blade into the center of the filling and if it comes out clean, the quiche is done. Remove the quiche from the oven and serve immediately.
Now...if this seems like an awful lot of quiche...it is. Remember I was making quiche for 14, but the recipe actually makes enough for 20, so feel free to divide the recipe in half if you just want one.
Oakie Doakie. Talk to you guys later.
At first I was thinking that breakfast was going to be difficult. I mean most breakfasts come in boxes right? Fruit Loops; Cocoa Puffs; Granola bars; Pop-Tarts; Oreos; even Carnation instant breakfast or Slim Fast (the latter of which by the way goes great with the pop-tarts, Oreos and granola bars). They all come in boxes!
Actually what’s difficult for me is remembering to eat the meal at all. I am usually busy working on this project or that; sending out resumes to places I’d really rather not work but need the job; working on one of the books I’m writing which is the toughest thing for me cuz I have an incredible imagination and am always coming up with new stories, but the hours in each day are not increasing to accommodate all those thoughts swimming around in my head.
Anyway, by around 11:00 AM and 5 or 6 cups of coffee later, my stomach reminds me, none so gently I might add, that I have forgotten it yet again. By the way I’m not so good at punctuation so if I have a participle dangling off the page somewhere, please forgive me.
So...back to breakfast.
Eggs; The perfect meal unto itself. Whether scrambled, poached, fried or baked you can eat this little protein miracle that comes in its own cute little container, all by itself. So for today, since I am preparing the food for a High Tea for 14 this evening and quiche will be served, I think I am going to make an extra one just for me. After all I'm worth a little indulgence now and then aren't I? Aren't you worth it?
Okay. So maybe you can't make it just before you herd your six kids and a harried husband out the door so you can put in 10 hours behind a desk, while daydreaming of the tropical island you found for sale and wish you were on, on The Write Way to Travel web site, but you can make it this weekend right? I mean the kids can forgo the 4-H judging at the county fair this one year, right? Besides, you're not going to eat the whole thing, so however many slices are leftover, they can be individually wrapped and frozen to be taken out any morning of the week when you feel a little self-indulgent.
Basic Pastry Dough
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon sea salt
1 cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut in small pieces
2/3 cup chilled water
Place the flour and the salt in the bowl of a food processor and process to mix. Cut the butter in chunks and add it to the flour. Process it, using pulses, until the butter is incorporated into the flour and the mixture looks like coarse cornmeal.
With the food processor running, add the water and process briefly, using pulses, just until the pastry beings to hold together in large clumps. Divide the pastry into two equal portions, placing one of the halves onto a floured work surface and gather it into a ball. Proceed with the following recipe:
Quiche au Fromage
12 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream or crème fraîche
1/3 cup sour cream
2 cup milk (preferably whole)
6 ounces each gruyère, brie, and extra sharp cheddar
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg - optional
Roll out the pastry to fit a 10-1/2 inch glass or metal pie plate (NOT removable bottom). Crimp the edges, poke the bottom with a fork or the tip of a sharp knife, and place the pastry in the freezer for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line the pastry with aluminum foil and pastry weights (a bag of beans will do in a pinch, but please take them out of the plastic bag they came in!) and bake in the bottom third of the oven until the pastry is golden at the edges, or about 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and take off the aluminum foil and pastry weights (or beans). Return the pastry to the oven to bake for an additional 5 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside.
In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, and the milk until thoroughly blended. Season with the salt and pepper, then add the cheese and stir until it is blended. Divide the mixture evenly between the pre-baked pastry shells, and spread evenly over the bottom of the pastry. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg and bake in the center of the oven until the filling is golden and puffed, and is completely baked through, about 30 minutes.
To test for doneness, stick a sharp knife blade into the center of the filling and if it comes out clean, the quiche is done. Remove the quiche from the oven and serve immediately.
Now...if this seems like an awful lot of quiche...it is. Remember I was making quiche for 14, but the recipe actually makes enough for 20, so feel free to divide the recipe in half if you just want one.
Oakie Doakie. Talk to you guys later.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
REAL Women DON'T Diet
Have you ever really taken a good look at all the hundreds of diets out there and thought...surely you jest?
I have heard it said that you are what you eat. Let me just say that if you sink your hard earned money into one of these ‘we’ll get you skinny if it kills you’ diets, then you are probably a rump roast.
I mean come on, there's Jenny Craig...LA Weight Loss...Nutri-system...Bob Greene…to name an insignificant few of the ones that cost you the most amount of money per pound.
And let us not forget of course the oh so ever popular Oprah Diet of the month club. I mean get real. If Oprah can't get it right who can? I'm not knocking Oprah. Believe me I'm not, but if Oprah with everything she has at her disposal can not loose weight and keep it off, then how do we, the average Jane, know which will work for us? Eeny, Meany, Miny, Moe?
Do you choose the one where you not only have to weigh yourself in front of another human being who is not dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around her neck, but you also have to weigh every morsel that passes your lips or count each item in the fat-free, taste-free category…I HATE SCALES...I don't have time for scales...When it comes to snack time, by golly, if I want fruit, I am going to eat more than just 12 raisins, I don't care if that is a full serving.
There's the one that matches your personality. Well…I’m fat and sassy and I don’t know about you, but most diets stay away from fat and I have never heard of a sassy diet.
One where you eat only grains and no protein…I tried that one once and gave it up when I started whinnying.
If all else fails, there is a diet that caters (no pun intended) to your blood type...Well what if you don't know your blood type? But I did so I looked into it anyway, and it said I should eat nothing but grains. Once more, I am not a horse.
And of course there is the constantly in the news, all you can eat beef, pork or chicken diet...Oh PULEEZE! Again you can eat a pound of bacon but you can’t have an apple. Make sense to you or am I the only idiot who doesn’t get it?
So what now? I have no clue but I will tell you about something someone said to me years ago that I have never forgotten.
I had a customer come into my store every single day. A little guy from Korea; Just the cutest thing; Anyway…He would buy his one item, pay for it; bow and leave.
One day he came in and as he was paying for it he said “It’s my birthday today.”
“It is? Well happy birthday.”
“Tell me how old am I missus.”
I am horrible at the age game and I didn’t want to offend him. What if I was wrong? Oh well. I’d give it the old college try.
“52 maybe?” I cringed thinking perhaps he was one of those old looking 45 year olds. He just smiled, so I knew I had under guessed by a few years.
“I have lived 84 years today,” he beamed.
“Yeah right” I said. There was no way I was off by 32 years. He just smiled and nodded and I knew he wasn't lying. “What’s your secret?” I asked.
“I eat only what is given from God.” Well, I am not really sure what that meant but it’ always stuck with me just the same.
So here I am six years later, an overweight, out of work pastry chef, creating a blog that probably no one will read, wondering what do I do with the rest of my life?
Do I start one of those ‘I’ll try it, but will more than likely forget about it by the end of the week’ fad diets anyway? Probably not. Do I binge on the half gallon of homemade Piña Coloda ice cream I have hidden from my roommates in the freezer? Probably shouldn’t.
The truth is I love food too much to diet. I am not disciplined enough to diet and have absolutely no desire to go on a diet.
So tomorrow maybe I'll try to start getting younger.
I don't know if this is really what the old man meant (by the way, his name is Hal), but my take on it is…if it comes in a bag, a box or a can, you shouldn't eat it. Of course there are exceptions to even that rule for me. I mean I am a huge milk drinker and as much as I am an animal lover too, I can’t just bring home an udder. Ya know? But we will learn about these as we go along.
Tomorrow, August 13th, 2009 this 5 foot 8 inch 264 pound chef is going to give up everything that isn’t real. For the next 107 pounds I will share the good the bad and the ugly with you as well as the recipes I’ll create ‘out of the box’.
I have heard it said that you are what you eat. Let me just say that if you sink your hard earned money into one of these ‘we’ll get you skinny if it kills you’ diets, then you are probably a rump roast.
I mean come on, there's Jenny Craig...LA Weight Loss...Nutri-system...Bob Greene…to name an insignificant few of the ones that cost you the most amount of money per pound.
And let us not forget of course the oh so ever popular Oprah Diet of the month club. I mean get real. If Oprah can't get it right who can? I'm not knocking Oprah. Believe me I'm not, but if Oprah with everything she has at her disposal can not loose weight and keep it off, then how do we, the average Jane, know which will work for us? Eeny, Meany, Miny, Moe?
Do you choose the one where you not only have to weigh yourself in front of another human being who is not dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around her neck, but you also have to weigh every morsel that passes your lips or count each item in the fat-free, taste-free category…I HATE SCALES...I don't have time for scales...When it comes to snack time, by golly, if I want fruit, I am going to eat more than just 12 raisins, I don't care if that is a full serving.
There's the one that matches your personality. Well…I’m fat and sassy and I don’t know about you, but most diets stay away from fat and I have never heard of a sassy diet.
One where you eat only grains and no protein…I tried that one once and gave it up when I started whinnying.
If all else fails, there is a diet that caters (no pun intended) to your blood type...Well what if you don't know your blood type? But I did so I looked into it anyway, and it said I should eat nothing but grains. Once more, I am not a horse.
And of course there is the constantly in the news, all you can eat beef, pork or chicken diet...Oh PULEEZE! Again you can eat a pound of bacon but you can’t have an apple. Make sense to you or am I the only idiot who doesn’t get it?
So what now? I have no clue but I will tell you about something someone said to me years ago that I have never forgotten.
I had a customer come into my store every single day. A little guy from Korea; Just the cutest thing; Anyway…He would buy his one item, pay for it; bow and leave.
One day he came in and as he was paying for it he said “It’s my birthday today.”
“It is? Well happy birthday.”
“Tell me how old am I missus.”
I am horrible at the age game and I didn’t want to offend him. What if I was wrong? Oh well. I’d give it the old college try.
“52 maybe?” I cringed thinking perhaps he was one of those old looking 45 year olds. He just smiled, so I knew I had under guessed by a few years.
“I have lived 84 years today,” he beamed.
“Yeah right” I said. There was no way I was off by 32 years. He just smiled and nodded and I knew he wasn't lying. “What’s your secret?” I asked.
“I eat only what is given from God.” Well, I am not really sure what that meant but it’ always stuck with me just the same.
So here I am six years later, an overweight, out of work pastry chef, creating a blog that probably no one will read, wondering what do I do with the rest of my life?
Do I start one of those ‘I’ll try it, but will more than likely forget about it by the end of the week’ fad diets anyway? Probably not. Do I binge on the half gallon of homemade Piña Coloda ice cream I have hidden from my roommates in the freezer? Probably shouldn’t.
The truth is I love food too much to diet. I am not disciplined enough to diet and have absolutely no desire to go on a diet.
So tomorrow maybe I'll try to start getting younger.
I don't know if this is really what the old man meant (by the way, his name is Hal), but my take on it is…if it comes in a bag, a box or a can, you shouldn't eat it. Of course there are exceptions to even that rule for me. I mean I am a huge milk drinker and as much as I am an animal lover too, I can’t just bring home an udder. Ya know? But we will learn about these as we go along.
Tomorrow, August 13th, 2009 this 5 foot 8 inch 264 pound chef is going to give up everything that isn’t real. For the next 107 pounds I will share the good the bad and the ugly with you as well as the recipes I’ll create ‘out of the box’.
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