FOOD ON THE FOOD

Hint: It's Not Tomatoes

Something was lacking from my CSA pickup today, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  Was it beets?  No, those were there.  Celery root?  Nope.  Got three.  Squash?  I should be so lucky (but at least we’re down to single digits now).  The carrots, on the other hand, haven’t abated.  At six pounds every week, they’re soon to be the new squash.  Potatoes, turnips, rutabagas.  Check, check, check.  Even greenhouse greens.  Plus, I got extra parsnips from a nice guy who was willing to share. 

It took me the whole ride home to figure out what was missing.  Can you guess?

This picture is for Alecto over at Alecto’s Ophelia who was curious about what exactly I get at the farmshare.  This is a light day, so to speak (everything’s way easier to understand in menstrual terms).  Things are starting to run out in the root cellar.  The heavier days earlier in the cycle had WAY more squash, not to mention cabbage, pumpkins, garlic, various radishes, and Brussels sprouts on the stalk (Yes, stalk.  Did you think they dangled from tree branches like Easter eggs, too?). 

My point is, I should have taken a picture in November when the quantity was easily double, but this is still good.  We still have trouble eating it all.

(BTW, while you’re over at Alecto’s, check out her family’s version of What the World Eats.  [Update: Ali at Henbogle did this, too.]  I would follow suit, but then I would have to fess up that I have fish sticks and French fries in my freezer just like everybody else.  It would also require a shopping trip.  Anyone up to the challenge?  Do I smell a meme?)

Percy and the Giant: A Cautionary Tale

Here’s a heart-warming fable I told my kids before bed a few nights ago:

There once was a farmer far, far away, in a magical land called Canada.  Let’s call him Percy, like from Thomas the Tank Engine.  Percy was a good farmer.  None too fancy.  He just liked to grow beans.

Nearby lived another farmer, we’ll call him Gordon.  Gordon, much like the big blue express engine, thought he was very important because, not only was he faster than the other engines/farmers, he also had magic beans.  You could pour Special Poison on top of these beans over and over, and they would never die.  The bugs would die, and all the other plants around them would die, maybe even some animals would die, but the beanstalks from these magic beans would grow and grow until they reached the clouds.

Percy’s plants weren’t very tall, but he didn’t care.  They put out lots of beans.  And he was happy.

One day, the winds were blustery.  The bees at Gordon’s farm were busy carrying sticky pollen from one magic bean plant to another.  Some of the bees got blown over to Percy’s farm and they brought their magic pollen with them. 

Soon, some of the plants in Percy’s fields were growing very tall.  Percy scratched his head.  He didn’t understand where these tall plants had come from.  Since he liked his own plants, from seeds he had carefully saved, he started pulling out the big plants, one by one.  It was hard work.  Still, before he knew it, most of his field was filled with soaring beanstalks. 

Gordon was watching.  Always watching.  He banged on Percy’s door one morning, but there was no answer.  Percy was busy in his fields planting new seeds that would grow only short plants.  When Gordon finally found Percy, he starting calling him names, claiming Percy had stolen Gordon’s big, beautiful bean plants.  Percy was shocked.  He hadn’t stolen anything.  He didn’t even want Gordon’s dumb old plants.  Or any of his Special Poison, either.  Then, Gordon handed him a bill for 5 bazillion dollars. 

That was the last straw.  Percy searched for Sir Topham Hatt who was known far and wide as an autocratic but benevolent dictator.  Gordon informed Percy that Sir Topham Hatt had been crushed in a “tragic boulder accident,” and the only one who could decide who was right was the giant at the top of the beanstalks.

So, they climbed up and up and up.  The giant didn’t tell Percy his name, but he was wearing a shirt that said OTNASNOM, so that’s what Percy called him.  He pleaded his case.  Gordon winked.  Finally, the giant handed down his decision.

“Percy, I can see that you’re a good and decent man,” he roared, “but I can’t let that stand in the way of progress.  Everybody wants magic beans.  Everybody.  They’re magical, you see.  You do believe in magic, don’t you, Percy?  Now, hand over your retirement savings and be quick about it.”

And the giant lived happily ever after.

THE END

Sheesh, no wonder the Toddler didn’t fall asleep until 2:30 am.

Last week, U.S. farmers and consumer advocates filed suit in federal court to challenge the deregulation of genetically modified sugar beets by the USDA.  These beets, designed to be resistant to Monsanto’s patented pesticide, Roundup, will surely cross-contaminate conventional crops and potentially destroy the livelihood of organic and conventional beet farmers in Oregon’s Willamette Valley (and who knows where else).  Just like “Roundup Ready” canola did for farmers in Saskatchewan.

It would be nice if the farmers could win an important lawsuit for a change.

Eating Your Words

So, I have this untested theory (which, I guess, would make it a hypothesis) that people eat the way they read.  Not that they eat what they read (geez, are you even paying attention?), but that they apply the same behaviors to both activities.

For example, I eat at a snail’s pace.  Someone will be setting the table for breakfast (usually me) and I’m still finishing up dinner (convenient!).  That’s also how I read.  Slowly and deliberately.  No skipping words.  No reading diagonally down the page to get the gist.  I ruminate.  I dwell.  If I find my mind wandering, I go back and reread.  I take forever to finish a book, if I finish it at all.  And if the author is especially good, I’ll interrupt the story to pore over the author bio on the jacket and get jealous.  Try to figure out how old he or she is, and why haven’t I written anything good like this.  But I’m getting off track.

I like a good story, so I want to make it last.  That’s how it is with food, too.  Husband can finish a book in the time it takes me to finish a meal.  He reads 10 books to my every one, which makes him appear much smarter than me.  Mr. Smartypants can also finish a meal and then wash all of the dishes in the time it takes me to finish cutting my pancakes the way I like them (cut the edges off the stack and eat those first, then cut the middle, heavily-buttered part into quarters and eat that last).  Which, now that I think about it, makes me wonder what the hell I’m complaining about. 

So, I ran my theory by some friends who had us over for dinner, recently.  Everyone fell into one camp or the other (really, just one camp — the fast one).  Nobody was mixing and matching.  My theory seemed to be holding some water.  Is four a large enough scientific sampling? 

So, I’ll put it out to you, people.  Where do you fall?  Is anyone a speed-reader, but a slow-eater?  Vice versa?  I must have seemed a bit too smug as the only tortoise in a room full of hares because my friend piped in, “Yeah, but you do everything slow.”

Touché.  Spoken like a true BFF.

Holy Ham Steak!

Am I the only one in the world that doesn’t know about ham steak?  About how you don’t need to wait 3 hours for the flavor of fine ham?  You can have it in, like, 8 minutes? 

This may be my greatest revelation since sliced, um…bacon.

Yes, ham steak is an actual cut of meat, not a made-up one like I previously thought.  Just a thick slab of ham.  I received it in my quarter-share from Stillman’s Farm last week.  I wasn’t really sure how to cook it because, did it come from a fresh ham or a cured ham?  Was it previously cooked or not?  Does Stillman’s even cure their own ham?  Don’t make me come over there.

Anyway, I slapped it into a hot pan to see what would happen.  And what do you know, they do cure their own ham.  And it’s awesome. 

Wait, there’s more.

I came across a recipe for bourbon cream sauce (I wonder what attracted me to this recipe?  It’s a big mystery).  And when I tell you that I almost died when I tasted the ham and the sauce together, it’s not because of this:

This was supposed to happen, actually.  Maybe not as high or for as long as it did, but at least it gave me time to get a decent picture out of it.  No, I almost died because, after that taste and others, I took up smoking just so I could have a cigarette afterwards.  It was that good.  And then I fell asleep in my chair and nearly burned the house down.

I had baked and mashed some sweet potatoes to go along with it because, you know, it just seemed like the right thing to do.  But, no, it was the parsnips that sealed the deal.  Because the farmer at Drumlin, apparently, doesn’t want to be outdone.  Something about the sweetness of the parsnips in a tangy mustard glaze next to the sweetly salty meat smothered in creamy bourbon.  Sweet mother of Jesus.  This may be the ugliest meal ever created, but that wasn’t the part I remembered in the morning.

Mustard-Glazed Parsnips

This is good for carrots, too.  Just don’t forget the ham steak.

1 lb. parsnips, sliced on the diagonal, larger ones cut in half
1 Tbsp. butter
3 Tbsp. water
2 Tbsp. brown sugar
2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
Salt to taste
Snipped chives

In a large sauté pan, add parsnips, butter, water, and a generous sprinkling of salt.  Cover and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat.  Cook until parsnips are tender and water has mostly evaporated.  In a small bowl, mix together brown sugar and mustard.  Add to parsnips and sauté until nicely glazed, a minute or two.  Sprinkle with snipped chives.

Cookbook Friday: Status Update

Have you ever been in the process of saying goodbye to a bunch of people, but somebody keeps missing the cues?  You’ll be all, “Okay, so, I’ll see you later,” and then someone asks a question that launches a whole new conversation, so then you have to start again from the top, with a few steps back this time, and an “All right, then, thanks again.” 

Well, that’s kind of how I feel about ending the Italian section of Cookbook Friday.  The gas light has been on for a while and all signs point to the next off-ramp, and yet I keep driving right on by.

As my own blog editor, I’m saying we’re done with the Italians.  It’s been almost a year since I started posting excerpts, and prospective publishers say I’m supposed to be making some kind of progress on the manuscript.  I thought the blog would help me stay on track, but now the blog is just distracting me.  Which is fun (la la la laaaaaaaa), but let’s just say the manuscript isn’t writing itself the way I’d hoped it would.

So, let’s do one last recipe from the Italian side next week in homage to Nonni.  Because we all know that the only reason anybody reads this blog is to look at pictures of my hot grandmother.  (Stop looking at her like that.  I’m serious, I’ll kick your ass.)  Then, I’m taking a break from Cookbook Friday so I can rework this $%&*@ book proposal (I was going to say motherfucking, but since this is a family cookbook, I thought better of it). 

If all goes well, we’ll start in with the Appalachians sometime in February.  That’s right, more hot grandmothers coming up.  I know “hot Appalachian grandmother” sounds like an oxymoron, but, guess what, it’s not!  So, ya’ll come back now, you hear.  (Do Appalachians even talk like that?  Maybe I need to do more research.)

What the World Eats

Last year, Time magazine ran a three-part photo essay called What the World Eats, which was taken from Peter Menzel’s book, Hungry Planet.  It is absolutely fascinating to see what, and how much, people in different countries eat.  Also, how much money is spent.  Amazing how much you can glean from a picture.  Go look, right now.  Thanks to Ali at Henbogle.

What the World Eats: Part I, Part II, Part III

One Local Winter

I didn’t really intend to take part in the Dark Days Eat Local Challenge this winter, but it turns out I’ve been doing so without even realizing it. 

Take dinner a few nights ago.  Husband had requested fish and chips, and that sounded pretty good to me.  Except, I wanted onion rings instead.  And Husband knows you really shouldn’t mess with the crazy lady who’s cooking your dinner.

So, I got some local haddock from the fish market.  I sliced some local onions.  I made a beer batter with local ale from Wachusett Brewery.  Then came the frying.  That just left the issue of coleslaw, which is not an optional part of the fish and chips experience, if you ask me.  But, I was out of local cabbage.  They all went into the sauerkraut that’s currently still festering in the corner of my kitchen (update to come). 

However, I did have local celery root.  So, I peeled three small ones, as well as a local carrot, and grated them in the food processor.  Then, I minced a small onion, put in some mayo, and a bit of vinegar and Dijon, salt and lots of black pepper.  And there you have it.  The white trash version of remoulade.  And, look, I even photographed the whole thing on a local newspaper.   

If you had asked me last spring if I thought I’d become an Eat Local convert, I would have said you were smoking something homegrown.  What a difference 273 days make.

Good for Your Heart

I’ve had a lot of baked beans in my life (read: from a can), but I’ve never made baked beans from scratch.  What kind of a Bostonian am I?  A crappy one, I guess.

Number 68 on Food & Wine’s Top 100 Tastes to Try in their January issue was heirloom beans.  In fact, I’ve been hoarding several bags of heirloom beans from local Moraine Farm (sold as Baer’s Best), just waiting for the perfect winter’s day to make them.  That day was yesterday. 

I picked money beans from the stash.  Not because I thought they’d make me rich or anything.  They’re just pretty.  Pretty and, you know, maybe potentially lucrative.  F&W’s accompanying recipe for maple-glazed beans enticed me, if only because of the half-pound slab of bacon nestled in there.  (This might be a good time to mention how much I LOVE the maple-cured applewood smoked bacon from North Country Smokehouse in New Hampshire.)  But, wait, we’re talking about beans.

This recipe takes freaking forever.  I looked it over beforehand and saw the overnight bean-soaking part, and the 1-hour boiling part, and even the 3-hour baking part.  But, I didn’t see the additional 1½-hour baking part.  Nor the subsequent 1½-hour baking part.  Someday, I’ll learn to read.  Seventeen hours later, we were ready to eat. 

Anyway, I’m posting the recipe because it’s just what Boston baked beans ought to be, and I aspire to be a good Bostonian, someday.  One who doesn’t get lost in JP, or at least not trapped in a never-ending series of loops between those confounded rotaries.  The same goes for Roslindale.  Ditto for anyplace in crashing distance of the Big Dig.

Will anyone make this recipe?  I doubt it.  But, at least, I’ll feel like a good Bostonian by comparison.  Until I need to borrow your map.

Maple-Glazed Beans

It doesn’t matter whether you use heirloom beans here or not.  You and the beans you walked in with will be heirlooms by the time you’re done with this recipe.

1 lb. dried beans (like yellow eye, navy beans, or money beans), soaked overnight and drained
2 cloves
1 small onion, cut into wedges ½-inch thick
2 small bay leaves
½ pound bacon, fat side scored
½ cup pure maple syrup
3 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp. dry mustard
¼ cup ketchup
2 tsp. kosher salt
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

Don’t forget to soak your beans overnight.  I mention that up there, right next to the beans, but maybe you have the same reading problem I do.  In a large pot, cover the beans with 2 inches of water and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to low and simmer, skimming occasionally, until the skins loosen, about 1 hour.  Reserve 4 cups of the cooking liquid, and then drain the beans. 

Preheat oven to 325°F.  Transfer the beans to a 10x13-inch baking dish.  Stick the cloves into a wedge of onion.  Nestle the onions, bay leaves, and bacon, fat side up, among the beans.  In a bowl, whisk 2 cups of the reserved cooking liquid with the maple syrup, Worcestershire sauce, dry mustard, ketchup, and half of the salt.  Pour over the beans and bake for 3 hours. 

Stir the remaining 1 tsp. salt into 1 cup of the cooking liquid.  Pour over the beans, stirring gently if certain areas are browning too much, and bake 1½ hours longer.  Whisk the remaining cooking liquid with the Dijon mustard and pour over the beans.  Bake another 1½ hours until richly browned.  Let stand 15 minutes.  Discard the cloves and bay leaves.

Source: Food & Wine.  Recipe by Marcia Kiesel.

Meeeeeeaaaaaattt

At long last, we’ve joined a meat CSA.  Wooooooo hooooooo.  My quest for local chicken is over, with the added bonus of beef, lamb, and pork.  And it couldn’t have come a moment too soon.

Yes, we’ve signed on with Stillman’s Farm in Hardwick, MA, together with fellow blogger Karen at Verbatim, in a meat partnership of gargantuan proportions.  Well, maybe that’s exaggerating things a bit.  I mean, we’re splitting a half-share is all.  But, I’m confident that I can work my way up to several full shares all to myself in six to nine months max.

This should spell relief for the farmer at Drumlin.  He can finally get a break from all the poorly crafted poetry I sneak under the crates (There once was a girl from Nantucket…), and I can eat something other than squash once in a while.  It’s nothing personal.  I just need some space to figure out where this relationship is going.  Seeing other people usually helps.  If someone could break it to him gently, maybe kiss away his tears, that would be great.

Meanwhile, Karen has demanded that she be the liaison for the first meat pickup (which is TODAY!!!) so that there aren’t any “misunderstandings” with the farmers.  I told her that nobody is “misunderstanding” anything.  But, she insists. 

No matter.  Bring on the meat!

Clone Wars

We interrupt Cookbook Friday for an important newsflash.

The FDA recently approved food from cloned animals for human consumption!  Yaaaaayyyyyy!!!  It's about time.  I always refer to my steaks as Bessie, and now it really will be Bessie every single time.  Will the clones come complete with a gene for special sauce, I wonder? 

To pile good news on top of good news, the FDA has also said that they don’t expect to require labels specifying that the meat came from a clone.  Which is good because that’s a lot of work.  Seems safe enough, they say, after testing the dietary effects for a whopping 3.5 months.  Wow.  Some of the most dreaded diseases in human history won’t kill you in that time span.  But, thanks.

So, maybe cloned meat is fine to eat.  Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.  But what about meat from a clone of a clone?  Or a clone of a clone of a clone of a clone?  I’m just asking.  Because you know it’s going to come up eventually.  We humans aren’t so good with the setting of the boundaries and the sticking to them.  What if a clone is fed a diet composed entirely of clones of itself?  And what if I had my own clone over for dinner and we ate meat from that clone-fed clone, all while watching Star Wars: Attack of the Clones?  Could happen.  Have you thought about that, FDA?

Here’s another hypothetical situation.  Have you ever made a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy on a crappy Xerox machine?  The final product turns out a little muddy, kind of crooked, with the bottom cut off.  And it tastes terrible.  I wonder if DNA is built to withstand triple overtime?  Oh, who cares, I bet the flesh of zombie genetic code is delicious AND nutritious.  Mmmmm, the undead. 

But just on the off chance that it’s not, wouldn’t it be nice if that meat had a label?

Sauerkraut Memories

One of the best meals of my life took place in Germany, I shit you not.  I was sitting at an outdoor restaurant alone in Heidelberg overlooking some river.  Ah, the Neckar River (Wikipedia, you’re so helpful.)  How did I get there?  Why, I’m so glad you asked.

I’d been traveling alone for a week or so on my Eurail Pass after studying for the year in Madrid during college.  An ill-fated meal in Belgium had my stomach churning the whole train ride to Amsterdam.  Stop reading here, Dad. 

When I finally arrived (longest train ride of my life), in my feverish delirium, I ended up at the sketchiest of hostels three paces from Amsterdam’s red-light district.  My only requirement: a bathroom.  The accommodations did manage to fulfill that request, but I should have specified “private” bathroom.  Also, “clean” bathroom.

There were six beds to a room in this coed flophouse.  So, after fashioning a crude chastity belt out of the contents of my backpack, I proceeded with my vomit/sleep/ vomit/sleep cycles until I found I pretty much had the room to myself.  Except for one guy in the corner who never moved from his bed the whole time I was there.  I think he died. 

Anyway: Vomit: 12.  Rapists: 0.

As soon as I was mobile, I flipped Amsterdam the bird, and caught the first train out of there.  I woke up in Heidelberg. 

So, I was at this restaurant that I don’t recall the name of, not having eaten in days, and feeling just a wee bit FAMISHED.  I was sitting outside at one of their family-style picnic tables with a gigantic bear of a man, who was doing a bang-up job of ignoring me.  The waitress dropped an enormous crock before him, overflowing with various chopped meats and sausages on top of a huge pile of sauerkraut.  Actually, I didn’t see the sauerkraut until later.  All I saw was the meat.  So when the waitress came around to take my order, I said in my best German-accented English, I’ll have what he’s having.

When it arrived, nothing has ever smelled so good.  I tried each meat, loving each one, but it was the sauerkraut that got me.  Straw-colored, thinly shredded, and flecked with caraway seeds, it tasted NOTHING like any sauerkraut I’d ever had before.  Or since.  It was amazing.  It became my own personal goal to eat at least as much of my meal as that gigantic man.  (It seems I have a competitive streak.) 

Long story short, he bested me.  But, I’m quite sure that I enjoyed it more.  The next day, I packed it in and went home.  Yes, all the way home.  It wasn’t going to get any better than that.

Funkytown

Last week began my adventures in sauerkraut.  Why sauerkraut?  Why not?  I’ve never made it before, and I had somehow collected four cabbages in the fridge, two of which were halfway to kraut, anyway.

I’m only midway through the process, so I’m not going to share any recipes until I’m sure I haven’t died.  But the basic process is this: shred cabbage, mix it with lots of sea salt as well as flavorings (caraway seeds, celery seeds, fennel seeds, juniper berries), pack it hard into a crock, weigh it down with something heavy, and let it sit, covered, at room temperature or cooler for a long, long time.  Weeks, months.  The idea is that the salt draws out the moisture from the cabbage, creating a briny environment in which to ferment into deliciousness. 

Let’s just say we’re not quite there, yet.  Here are my tasting notes from Week 1.

Day 1

Tastes like cabbage.  Really, really salty cabbage.

Day 3

What’s that smell coming from the corner of the kitchen?  I’m afraid to look.

Day 5

Okay, I’d better make sure nothing died in there.  Skimmed the foamy stuff off the top.  Liquid is getting cloudy.  There’s definitely something going on.  Am I really going to taste this?  Yes, I am.  Cabbage is still crunchy.  Tastes very salty (did I put too much salt in there?).  Also, the fizziness is a little disconcerting.  Still doesn’t taste like the European sauerkraut I remember, but I draw the line at sticking my feet in there and stomping around.  A girl has to have her standards.

Day 6

Didn’t vomit from Day 5.  That’s a good sign.

Day 7

My god, the stench.  As the Preschooler said, “That smells yuck.”  Consider not writing about this on your blog so you don’t have to eat it.  Too late.  Tastes very salty followed by a mildly acidic fizzy burn followed by a very weird cabbagy flavor.  Is this going to get good?

Tune in next week.

Unusual Uses for Squash

It doesn’t matter how many different kinds there are — it’s still squash.  Squash in the kitchen, squash in the bathroom, squash on the coffee table right next to the stack of Bibles I received in the mail last week. (Thanks, everyone.  I could use a refresher.) 

For the times when you just don’t think you can eat another bite of squash, here are some other ideas:

1. Bowling

                        

Butternut squashes make excellent duckpins, especially when you have so many.  Any round-ish squash will work as a bowling ball, but you’re virtually guaranteed to win with a Hubbard.

STRIKE!!!

2. Coaster

It doesn’t get more unobtrusive than a Queensland Blue.  And when you’re done with your drink, it doubles as a cake pedestal.

3. Shot put

No, not acorn squashes.  That’s cheating.  Think kabocha and buttercup squash.  Again, extra points for Hubbards.

(No photo of this one.  I’m not strong.)

4. Butt of your jokes

                        

Any other ideas?

Cookbook Friday: Yankee Stadium

My dad, employing his usual tact, mentioned that I forgot to post the story he wrote about his first trip to Yankee Stadium as a kid.  And it’s true.  I did forget.  This was supposed to go with his other stories about growing up in New Haven in the 1950s: bringing home the Italian bread, the cherry tree in his backyard, and his love affair with baseball cards. 

But, the Internet is a flexible and forgiving medium, so I’m posting it out of order.  I’m sure we’ll all survive.  Well, all except, perhaps, a certain Red Sox fan who shall remain nameless.  Here it is:

New England is Red Sox country.  Or, at least, most of it is.  But, if you were a 10-year-old boy growing up in southern Connecticut in the late 50’s and the only baseball games your outdoor TV antenna could pick up were Yankee games, well, you tended to be a Yankee fan.

I loved baseball.  My dad who had played some amateur ball in his younger days also loved the game but hated the Yankees (they were too successful!).  His hatred of my team and his well-known reluctance to part with money always tempered any hopes I had that I might ever see a Yankee game other than on television.  So, it was with shock, exhilaration, and pure joy that I received his news one summer day in 1958 that we were going to a Yankee game at Yankee Stadium that weekend. 

What a day that was!  We traveled by train and I remember my excitement at seeing the facade of Yankee Stadium for the first time.  As my dad took me around the outside of the park, I thought he was giving me a tour.  I soon realized that he was looking for an opening in the perimeter fence through which he could sneak me in and save the cost of a ticket (did I mention that my dad was tight with a buck?).  I was mortified.  All I could see was my being arrested and thrown in jail!

Fortunately, the Yankee organization wasn’t one to allow for dilapidated fencing around the park, so after a while, my dad resigned himself to paying for two tickets.  With the turnstiles and the fear of incarceration behind me, I walked up the ramp into the light of the grandstand area.  I can never hope to better Billy Crystal’s description of a kid’s first glimpse of the field at the stadium.  And, yet, even Billy’s words don’t really do it justice. Words like “majestic” and “marvelous” come to mind before they are unceremoniously discarded as inadequate.

I don’t remember who the Yankees were playing that day but I do know that they won the game, and that I came away with both a Yankee pennant and a Yankee cap.  As for my dad and me, we, unfortunately, were never as close as a father and son could hope to be.  But, our love of the game was the one thing we always had in common.  And the memory of that one golden day in the Bronx!

Freddie Donroe
New Haven, CT – Worcester, MA
1948 –

Next Recipe: Tortiere

     (Previous Recipe: Beanie Weenies)

Wanted: Toddler Translator

The Toddler hardly talked at all until he turned two.  I thought he was going to grow up to be practically mute like me.  We got through those early years through a combination of wild gesticulations and some sort of Toddler Morse Code of Screaming.  Basically, a painful process of elimination. 

But, within just a few months, his vocabulary mushroomed and he started forming whole sentences.  My mind still can’t seem to wrap itself around this concept of him speaking.  I hate to say it, but I think I may have accidentally gotten in the habit of ignoring him.  Not the best way to win hearts and minds, I’ll admit.  When I finally snap back to the program, my translations are terrible.  A 25% success rate would be generous.  How is it that I was a language major, exactly?

We were at the grocery store the other day, heading from produce at one end of the store to dairy on the other, when he launches into this long monologue that I can’t understand a word of.  Then, he demands that I repeat it back to him, verbatim.  My response, of course, isn’t right.  Not even close, which causes him to start shrieking his incomprehensible syllables…much…slower…this…time, yet at an ear-splitting pitch.  That is, until a stranger rushes up to me, “He says he wants to go see the lobsters.  Lobsters are red.  Lobsters can swim.  You idiot.”

(sigh)

Ever get the feeling that half of the world’s frustration is caused by the feeling that nobody understands you?

A Conversation with Myself

You wouldn’t know it by the warm weather we’ve been having the past few days, but last week’s farmshare pickup was FRIGID.  The thermometer said 12°F, but between the wind and my cold, cold heart, it felt more like 6 below. 

The Farmer had to work out there in an unheated bay for five hours, which, I think we can all agree, sounds pretty awesome.  As I was weighing the onions, I started to feel guilty about the nice, warm car I’d soon be driving away in.  Here was my approximate train of thought:

Me: Offer him your coat.

Me: No, then I’ll be cold.  Plus, no farmer is going to take a girl’s coat.

Me: Offer him some hot cider, then.

Me: The cider’s right there.  I think if he wanted some, he’d just get it himself.

Me: At least see if he wants to sit in the car for a few minutes.

Me: That man would rather die a thousand frostbitten deaths than have to suffer through more stilted conversation.

Me: Um…conversation?

Yeah.  So.  I opted to just say nothing.  That was probably for the best.

Winter White

       

After the Great Fudge Date Rape of 2007 (no means no), I decided I needed something sweet yet restrained to cleanse my psychological palate in this newest of years.  Something to lead me staggering back to the path of the righteous.  Or thereabouts.

So, I thought, what’s the opposite of fudge?  I know.  Grapefruit pie.

One of my favorite octogenarian relatives sent me a big box of local-to-her Texas grapefruits for Christmas.  And I do so love the occasional grapefruit, despite all those pesky food-miles.  This recipe is a twist on summery key lime pie, but I think grapefruit works any time of year.  Plus, who wouldn’t love a slice of frozen pie in the dead of winter? 

 

Grapefruit Pie

You can use any kind of grapefruit: Ruby Red, pink, white.  But, I happen to like it best with the tart whites, which are increasingly hard to find these days.

3.5 oz. sleeve Goya plain Maria cookies (In the Latin American section of the supermarket.  They kind of taste like animal crackers, which you could also use.  Or graham crackers, of course.)
4 Tbsp. butter
14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
¼ cup grapefruit juice (from ½ grapefruit)
2 grapefruits worth of zest (Yes, you’ll be left with some bald grapefruits.  Just have them for breakfast the next day)
½ cup heavy cream
1/3 cup sour cream
3 oz. cream cheese

In a blender or food processor, whiz the cookies into crumbs.  Dump into a bowl and, with your fingers, work the butter into the crumbs until it’s uniformly incorporated.  Knead until you end up with something dough-like.  Press evenly into the bottom of a 9-inch pie plate.  I don’t bother bringing it up the sides because you never know how high the filling is going to come up, and it just ends up looking stupid.

Using a mixer with a whisk attachment, blend the rest of the ingredients in a large bowl until the lumps are gone.  It can take a while.  Okay, you can get away with a few lumps.  Pour into crust, cover with a plate, and freeze until set, I’m guessing at least 6 hours.  I stopped paying attention by this point.  I like it best before it gets to Popsicle consistency, though.  Slice it right before you intend to serve it, otherwise a few sexy drips will turn into a significantly less attractive puddle.

View from the Kitchen Window

You know you’re getting old and soft when you start to care about the birds that come to your feeder.

Cardinal.  (Oh, you already knew that one?  How about this one…)

Woodpecker.  (Or as the Toddler calls it: Peacocker.)

Close enough.

Cookbook Friday: Beanie Weenies

It has come to my attention that my Dad gets jealous when I write about anyone else but him on this blog.  This includes my “no-good husband.”  As well as “complete strangers.”  And especially doesn’t rule out “girly vegetables.”  How you can be jealous of a parsnip is beyond me.

So, fine, Dad, I’m writing about you.  You who gave me life and a conscience that burdens me daily.  Thanks a lot.

I was trying to spare you this next recipe from the family cookbook, but my dad feels it’s important.  In fact, it will probably give you some insight into how I might have inherited my love of hot dogs.  It might also give you a frightening peek into the life of a bachelor.  That’s right, ladies, all this can be yours.  You can put your phone numbers in the comment section.

So, without further ado, here's my Dad.

This is Freddie Donroe, third from the left, as a navigator on a (what kind of a plane is that?) in the Air Force in the early 1970s. 

Then, it was off to Vietnam.  Despite his nickname, Wrong-Way Al, he didn’t die.  (YAY!!!!)

I was born at some point after his return.  I’m a little fuzzy on the details of my birth, but I know it took place at a naval hospital in Kittery, Maine.  I imagine the accommodations were luxurious.  I didn’t think the Navy would let the Air Force use their hospitals, but I guess even hardened military men are afraid of laboring women. 

The rules at the time were that the dads were not allowed in the delivery rooms.  No siree, they were required to do the manly men’s work of smoking cigars in the waiting room.  But, not my dad.  They tried to kick him out but he refused, and when push came to shove, he pulled rank.  The doctor was a measly lieutenant or something, while my dad had worked his way up to Even More Important Guy.  As a reward, he got to stay and witness that living hell.  I’ve been a Daddy’s girl ever since.

Here’s his signature dish. 

Beanie Weenies

Can of beans
Hot dogs (preferably thawed)

Open can.  Pour contents of can into microwaveable dish.  Cut hot dogs into half-inch sections and put into dish.  Stir until you achieve a lumpy consistency.  Microwave on high for about 4 minutes.  Remove Beanie Weenies from center of dish, avoiding the burnt layer around the edges.  Add ketchup to taste.

Freddie Donroe
New Haven, CT – Worcester, MA
1948 –

Next: Yankee Stadium

     (Previous Recipe: Seven-Layer Cookies)

Fudge Follow-up

Seriously, though, I cannot overstate how bad things got with the fudge.  I think the sugar affected me even more than usual because of all the stupid vegetables I’ve been eating of late.  That’s right, Vegetables, I’m blaming you.  Based on my recent behavior, I think it’s safe to say I should never, ever have even a single forbidden taste of the sweet, sweet cocaine.

In the end, dear readers, it was you who helped me to break that vicious cycle.  Care to know how?  By suggesting that I make halva, an Indian fudge-like confection made of pumpkin.  After reading that comment, I practically flung myself down the stairs because my legs weren’t transporting me to the kitchen fast enough.  I love fudge, you see (did I mention that?).  And, as luck would have it, I had three pumpkins at my disposal. 

Long story short (and I mean a very long story with profanity written in all caps), I hated it.  HATED.  IT.  I was clawing at my face, trying to scrape all remnants of it off my tongue, much like the Toddler does with just about everything.  I’m disappointed, too, because I’m pretty sure that Madhur Jaffrey isn’t going to want to be Facebook friends with me now, even though I love practically everything else in the Indian culinary repertoire.  Just please, for the love of god, no more vegetables in my fudge.

So, to thank you for getting that monkey off my back so decisively, here’s that penuche recipe a few of you requested.  Good luck.  I’ll see you in rehab round about next year.

We Interrupt this Hangover…

Hey, did you know it’s 2008? 

If you don’t have a resolution, yet, let me make one for you: Don’t waste cheese. 

Ever.

Sounds simple enough, no?  So, why are you just sitting there with the lights off and an icepack on your forehead when there are various cheeses in your refrigerator getting moldier and moldier by the second?  I mean, even moldier than they’re supposed to be. 

Get up.  Yes, now.  Go downstairs and spread out all of your cheese on the counter.  Maybe you have some leftover Great Hill Blue or Westfield Farm Capri or Old Chatham Camembert from the local cheese plate you recently put together.  Perhaps, you were also seduced by a Spanish Idiazabal.  So sue me. 

But don’t feel limited to the snobby cheeses.  Got some sketchy cream cheese?  The middle is probably still good.  Monterey jack?  Polly-O string cheese (that shit lasts forever and it kind of freaks me out)?  You'll want about a pound of cheese in all.  Get out your food processor and throw it all in there in big hunks.  Then…

Peel three or four cloves of garlic by wacking them with something (your throbbing head works).  Throw those in.  Grab that uncorked, half-drunk bottle of white wine that was abandoned in the dining room and pour a bunch in (maybe 5 glugs?).  Grind fresh black pepper over the top until it seems like way too much.  It’s not.  Then pulse.  Pulse until it goes from watery to creamy, but it’s still kind of chunky.  The consistency might remind you of something, but I’m not going to say it because this is a classy blog.

Scoop this unholy concoction into several oven-tolerant ramekins or mini casserole dishes, then freeze.  The next time you have unexpected guests, just pop one into the oven until bubbly and starting to brown.  Serve with crusty bread.  You'll be so glad you did.  There, don’t you feel better?

Okay, fine, go back to bed.