FOOD ON THE FOOD

Do-Over

Sometime last week (or maybe it was the week before), it was my wedding anniversary.  Remembering dates is not my strong suit.  Luckily, Husband’s not so good with them, either.  It is not uncommon for both of us to forget the date of our anniversary until several weeks later.  Perhaps this is why we’re still together.  Or maybe we both keep forgetting to file the divorce papers.  Either way.

But this year was our 10th anniversary.  Clearly this marriage thing is turning into some kind of a habit.  We didn’t forget the date altogether this time, but we were both unprepared for the day gift-wise.  Evidently, the appropriate etiquette gift for 10 years of marriage is something made out of aluminum.  That sounds, um, romantic.  Did we ever establish whether or not aluminum causes cancer?  I hope the gift suggestions get progressively better over time. 

Nevertheless, I did a quick aluminum gift brainstorm.  Aluminum siding?  Nah, I’m quite partial to our wooden shingles.  Aluminum pots?  But that would really be a gift to myself.  Plus, you can’t cook anything acidic in them, which is an annoying limitation in a pot.  Aluminum baseball bat?  But Husband already has one, and how many bats does one man need who isn’t on the Red Sox?  I mean, he thinks he’s on the Red Sox.  That much is clear.  But as far as I can tell, he is not actually on the Red Sox and do we really need to encourage the delusions? 

Instead, I decided to show up on our anniversary with a six-pack of beer and two giant steak bombs from Carl’s.  The steak bombs came wrapped in aluminum foil.  It was the best I could do on short notice.  Husband then presented me with a box of ricotta cannoli from Antoine’s Pastry Shop.  They contained no aluminum and I was very offended.  Then we proceeded to eat and eat and eat and eat until we made ourselves physically uncomfortable and the only sentiment verbalized the whole rest of the night was a wincing “Don’t touch me!”  Our moans were not of a sexual nature. 

Looking back over the evidence, it’s unclear who was trying to kill the other first on our anniversary.  It was almost a tie.  If I could do it all over again, I would have celebrated the event with the more anniversary-worthy meal I cooked three days later: grilled pork chops and peaches with balsamic vinegar. 

The locally raised chops were rubbed with basil, oregano, fennel seed, salt, pepper, and olive oil, and were grilled alongside the peaches.  The peaches are great this year, aren’t they?  Once the fruits were appropriately grill-marked, I splashed them with balsamic vinegar, orange juice, and a sprinkle of purple basil leaves.  Grilled pattypan squash and coleslaw on the side.  Sour cherry cobbler for dessert.

It was probably still too much food, but slightly less masochistic, don’t you think?

Local Sources:
Pork chops: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Peaches: Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA
Squash, cabbage, onion, carrots: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA
Cherries: Orbaker's Fruit Farm, Williamson, NY

While Everyone Else Was At Church

On Sunday morning, I had the urge to open all of the windows and clean the kitchen.  My manic cleaning binges are few and far between, so it’s best just to give me a box of steel wool and stay the hell out of my way for a few hours.  As I was organizing the out-of-control recycling situation, Husband dared to walk in:

Me: Hey, let’s concentrate all of the empty beer bottles over here instead of piled up on the windowsill like we’re a couple of college kids.

Him: (No response.)

Me: Is that a yes?

Him: (Clasps hands together, squeezing, to make an unmistakable farting sound)

Me: What was that?

Him: This is how I say ‘yes’ from now on.  (Repeats farting sound)

Me: …

Him: One for yes, two for no. (Demonstrates the two-fart signal)

Me: I’m sorry, but I’m not going to agree to a fart-based communication system.

Him: Why not?

Me: Do I even need to answer that?

Him: I don’t like that you don’t respect my way of expressing myself.

Me: Can we pleeeeaaase act like adults?

Him: (fart! fart!)

Of course we can’t.

Something About An Ark

Did you hear that Massachusetts got some rain a week ago? Like, a wicked lot. More than 10 inches in 72 hours. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures, especially if you’ve been taking them in your own basement and possibly also your yard.

Living on a very steep hill, we got off easy—the water level in our basement never got higher than three inches. Whoever built our house nearly 100 years ago had the foresight to cut a hole in the cellar floor with a drainage pipe that runs underground, down the hillside, and through a retaining wall that opens out to the street. In fact, I remember getting into my car in the pouring rain and noticing how much water was gushing out of that pipe. I briefly wondered where that pipe was draining from, since I had never seen any water come out of it before, then promptly directed my attention elsewhere. Like to my automatic umbrella that kept spontaneously opening inside the car.

Later that evening, when the fire department arrived to pump out our next-door neighbor’s basement (apparently there’s some sort of safety hazard with regard to rising water and the ancient furnaces and water heaters the old houses in these parts have), that’s when it all came together. That’s when we had the pleasure of discovering the raging river right under our feet. Unfortunately, that aforementioned drainage hole is located in the highest area of the basement, elevation-wise, in the corner furthest from the actual leak, and so the whole basement had to fill up before any actual drainage occurred. That is, until Husband and our neighbor busted in some temporary walls and ripped out an old shower stall to access a closer drain. Then the water level started going down despite the fact that water continued shooting in like a fire hose through a hole in the foundation all night long.

One week and 20 industrial-sized garbage bags later, the basement is mostly dry and the damage wasn’t that bad. It’s not a finished basement and most of the important stuff was up off the floor. The things that got wet and ruined were mostly boxes full of crap intended for the trash or a yard sale anyway, old insulation and wallboard we were never going to use, and a couple of rodents that appeared to have met their maker long before things got all biblical.

The basement needed some serious help, anyway. Some demolition, some organization, some decontamination now that both cats have passed on. Maybe now I can get to know my basement a little better instead of avoiding it at all costs. Maybe we can organize a real workshop for Husband. Perhaps cordon off an area that the kids can use as a clubhouse. Maybe there will even be something it in for me? Something besides laundry. What it would be, I don’t know.

Wait a minute. What do we have here?

A little closet-sized room. With three sides exposed to the cold, cold ground. And a door.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Scenes from Christmas

Christmas went without a hitch this year. No disasters to speak of, I’m sorry to report. St. Nick managed to cram himself down our tiny chimney right on schedule to deliver the goods to the children. He took some liberties with the fudge, I noticed, making short work of what we left for him on the mantle and then dipping into my secret stash in the refrigerator (he really is always watching, isn’t he?). You can imagine my reaction when I found the empty pans strewn about in the snow, reindeer footprints all around. I’m willing to let it slide, however, in the spirit of Christmas.

Husband and I kept our gifts to each other to a minimum. We didn’t want to end up in a Gift of the Magi-type situation wherein I relinquish my most precious asset, my gorgeous, flowing hair, only to find out that the measly ¾-inch growth I've accumulated will barely get you enough loose change to buy one and a half fishing lures to replace the dozens that have gotten caught in various trees over the years, not by Husband. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, he would have pawned off his fishing pole to buy me a truckload of barrettes or whatever you call those things that keep your hair out of your eyes. To which I would respond, in language befitting an O. Henry character, “WTF? You know I’m physically incapable of accessorizing.”

My in-laws came over Christmas morning bearing Hole-in-One doughnuts and other goodies. I didn’t knock myself out too much with the meal this year. Just a laid-back brunch with bacon from Chestnut Farms, fresh fruit, and a goat cheese-artichoke strata. Oh, and grapefruit mimosas, but that’s for another post. No spiral hams taking forever to cook or ducks to be trussed or husbands to make vomit. Nope, just a casserole made the night before and shoved into the oven amidst a flurry of wrapping paper (made only slightly more challenging by hastily deployed Lego minefields everywhere). Later on, once food coma set in and everyone cleared out, I took a three-and-a-half-hour nap. That was my Christmas present to myself. I thought baby Jesus would approve.

And that, my friends, was Christmas. How about you?

Goat Cheese-Artichoke Strata
This one’s for my mother-in-law. It’s a good use of leftover cheese from the cheese plate you might have served on Christmas Eve.

1 1-lb. loaf sourdough bread, crusts removed if thick
3 garlic cloves, unpeeled
18 oz. marinated artichoke hearts, drained, 3 Tbsp. or marinade reserved
2 tsp. minced fresh thyme
¾ lb. goat cheese, crumbled
¾ lb. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
8 large eggs
2½ cups half-and-half or milk
1 tsp. salt
¾ tsp. black pepper
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a deep 9- to 10-inch baking dish.

Cut bread into 1-inch cubes. Transfer cubes to a baking sheet, along with cloves of garlic, and toast for about 25 minutes, stirring once or twice, until bread is golden brown and lightly crisp. (Or you could use stale bread and toast the garlic separately.) Peel the garlic, smash the cloves, and add to a medium bowl. Slice the artichoke hearts about ½-inch thick and add to the bowl. Mix in the thyme.

In the baking dish, arrange half of the bread, artichoke mixture, and cheeses, then finish with another layer of each. Whisk the eggs with the half-and-half, salt, pepper, and reserved artichoke marinade. Pour custard over the strata. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight. In my case, I did this Christmas Eve so I could just pop it in the oven Christmas morning.

Remove the strata from the fridge a half hour before you plan to bake it. Preheat oven to 350°F. Drizzle olive oil over strata and bake for 50-55 minutes, until golden brown, puffed, and lightly set in the center. Serve hot.

Source: Adapted from A Real American Breakfast by the Jamisons.

Blizzard Boy Strikes Again

The First Grader turns 7 this week, but we had his party over the weekend. Naturally, a big snowstorm came through that day. Husband was busy finishing up the birthday cake, so I went outside to shovel out some parking spaces. I’m glad I can just copy and paste this same blog entry year after year after year.

Luckily, our friends have caught on and started making secret reservations at their local ski lodge for whatever day the party invitation says. Then they call us up that morning to say they’re totally snowed in, won’t be leaving anytime soon, that’s for sure, barely hanging up before the ski lift deposits them at the top of the powdery slopes.

It may not snow all year, but it always snows on the day we celebrate the birth of our eldest son. He even made the front page of the Boston Herald on Christmas Day 2002 for being born while a sizable nor’easter was bearing down upon us.

(He's the one in the middle. Don't be fooled: he's not sleeping, he's concentrating intently on mobilizing giant weather systems.)

I just assumed kids were born during snowstorms all the time. I didn’t realize this was a sneak preview of his unique superpower. Over the years, Blizzard Boy would prove to have uncanny control over the weather, able to whip the winter winds into a frenzy, dump massive amounts of precipitation onto the surrounding areas, and, perhaps more importantly, enjoy mixing crushed-up candy bars into softened vanilla ice cream anytime of year, even when Dairy Queen isn’t open. (Fear not, Public at Large, he only uses his powers for good, not evil.)

We always manage to have a respectable turnout despite the weather. The parking spaces I clear on the street, while never big enough for actual cars once the plows are through with them, are usually big enough for sled-only parking for the locals. But you know the only reason I bring up these parties is an excuse to show you Husband’s latest cake. This year’s theme was Bakugan. You know, those little plastic balls that get rolled onto magnetic cards that then trigger all these little spring-loaded arms, legs, and horns to explode out of them.

This is Spin Dragonoid all folded up. But Husband designed it so that when you blow out the candles, color-coordinated marzipan appendages shoot out of the cake in three dimensions like a pop-up book. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of charge right at that moment, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Take that, Neighborhood Dads!

Perfect Pumpkin Pie

We had three Thanksgiving dinners this year. One with Nonni on the day, one with my Mom the day after, and then I cooked one for us at home on Sunday. I’ve never cooked a whole Thanksgiving dinner in my life because we’re always away. It occurred to me that this is one of the things I want to do before I die, and that maybe I should start working on that list sooner rather than later.

So, I roasted a giant turkey leg that I had procured the week before from Diemand Farm in Wendell, MA with Annabelle of Calamity Shazaam in the Kitchen and her lovely family. Alongside the turkey leg were roasted carrots from Waltham Fields and potatoes from Picadilly Farm. Then I made oyster and chestnut dressing with Wellfleet oysters (courtesy of Grandpa P), as well as the stale, half-eaten baguettes I’ve been collecting from Russo’s. Finally, I made roasted Eastham turnip with local shallots and apples. Husband followed everything up with a homemade pumpkin pie.

One of the great things about this dinner was that the kids actually ate it. Not only ate it, but liked it. I was definitely not expecting that. The dressing alone was “food on the food” at its worst: many of the ingredients were green (leeks, celery, thyme, sage, parsley), several were gross-looking (chestnuts, oysters), and they were all mixed up with stale bread doused in the drippings of a dead bird. I did not explain it to them in this way, however. Maybe that’s the secret.

After they had eaten every bit off their plate, and my dad had eaten every bit off his plate (yes, including the turnips), they had pumpkin pie and ate every smear of filling right out of the crust. Since when is pumpkin pie popular with kids? Now they suddenly adore it, which means Husband will be even more inclined to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night for secret pie.

Husband’s recipe is as simple as, well…pie. It’s the simplest pie you’ll ever make, put it that way. He makes it with canned pumpkin and a Pillsbury crust, so it’s super-quick to put together. If you don’t already have a standard pumpkin pie in rotation, I’d suggest starting with this one and building off it.

Now, all we have to do is marry his pumpkin pie technique with my homemade lard crust, possibly also real CSA pumpkin or squash, and then there will be world peace.

Someday.

Husband’s Pumpkin Pie

His secret is to mix fresh, grated nutmeg along with the powdered stuff, half and half.

3 eggs
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar, lumps sifted down
1 can pumpkin pie filling (or 1½ cups cooked and puréed fresh pumpkin)
1 Tbsp. flour
½ tsp. nutmeg
½ tsp. allspice
½ tsp. salt
1¼ cups low-fat milk, heated (not boiled)

Preheat oven to 450°F. Let pre-made dough come to room temperature for 15 minutes to unstiffen. Grease the pie plate, line with dough, and crimp.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the sugars. Mix in the pumpkin, flour, spices, and salt. Slowly add the heated milk, whisking all the while, over the course of a minute or so. If you like your pies creamier, you can use whole milk instead or go up an extra ¼ cup on the low-fat milk. However, Husband likes his dark and firm. His words. Hmmmmm…

Bake pie for 10 minutes at 450°F, then lower heat to 350°F and bake 55-60 minutes longer. Let cool, then refrigerate until chilled. Serve with whipped cream or, as Husband prefers it, plain.

Is Anyone Hiring a Dictionary Editor?

Sometimes kids can boil things down to their best, most essential parts. Take the other night. Husband made his garlicky chicken and broccoli pasta dish. The 4YO, pleased with the dinner offerings that evening, sat down and said he was going to “enjoy” it. Not simply “like” it, but “enjoy” it. He said he hoped that we would enjoy it, too. He was very proud of his new vocabulary. Then he followed it up with, “Enjoy means you have a family, and you like the pasta. That’s what enjoy means.”

Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Sugar Mama

We’re still working our way through the Halloween candy, if you can believe it. We (the kids, I mean) got an unbelievable amount this year, probably because it was so warm outside that everyone was in a good mood, raining entire bags of candy in the vicinity of outstretched plastic pumpkin buckets.

We’ve been rationing out the loot to the kids if they eat a good dinner: two pieces for them, two pieces for mommy. That means they each get to pick out one for me—their choice—although I have absolute veto power over Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, NECCO wafers, or basically anything that’s not a Snickers, Milky Way, Kit Kat, Twix, Butterfinger, you get the idea. Husband gets an automatic Almond Joy.

As the First Grader was agonizing over what he could possibly spare from his dwindling reserves, the 4YO, who is still unclear on the concept of consequences, handed me a two-pack of peanut butter cups with a smile. Score! Husband looked on in disgust:

Him: (to the First Grader) Watch out. She’ll trick you out of your best candy.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: Notice that she doesn’t deny it.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: She’s got guilt written all over her chocolate-smeared face.

Me: (still chewing) ...

He can say whatever he wants. I know my Miranda rights.

Maybe He’ll Get Free French Fries

Over breakfast the other morning, I was explaining to the kids why we would be seeing a lot more of daddy around the house. I said there wasn’t any more work for him to do at his old job, so he would be looking for a new job. That seemed perfectly logical to the First Grader:

Him: What kind of a job is daddy going to get?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe something the same as what he had before.

(Earnest thinking from the First Grader)

Him: I know what he should be.

Me: What?

Him: A clown.

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

Pilgrim’s Progress

We took the kids to Plimoth Plantation over the weekend during that wonderful spell of Indian summer we just had. (By the way, I don’t think the word “Indian” is offensive in the context of summer, do you? There were signs posted up all over the trails suggesting the use of the term “Native Peoples,” but “Native People summer” gives the impression of overwhelming numbers of native people being around during the actual summertime and so it’s confusing not to mention unwieldy, not unlike this tangent.)

If you’re not from around here and/or live under a rock that’s not Plymouth Rock, Plimoth Plantation is one of the biggest tourist attractions outside of Boston, with a full-scale replica of Plimoth colony circa 1627 complete with walking historians who act out the roles of the actual settlers, as well as a reproduction of a Wampanoag village. Maybe it’s uncool to admit it, but I was kind of excited to go back after all these years. I loved Plimoth Plantation as a kid, sneaking into other people’s homes and snooping through all their stuff. Later, as a teenager, I engaged in the fine art of Pilgrim-baiting (trying to trick the role-players into admitting knowledge of the modern world, as if no one’s ever tried that one before). Now that I’m older and oh-so-very-much-wiser, I couldn’t wait for my kids to have the same peek into 17th century life. And to tell the Pilgrims all about the Internet!

It’s a little bit awkward, though, to interact with the staff at period museums like this (Old Sturbridge Village included). You don’t want the actors to think you yourself are actually fooled by their phony accents and thatched roofs and very convincing daily chores going on around you. You know they’re just acting, and you know they know you know they’re just acting (you hope). But it’s also important to keep the magic alive for the children. What kind of a loser goes to a place like this and then refuses to participate (loud throat-clearing directed at Husband). In this vein, I was happy to aid the First Grader in his earnest quest to locate a young Pilgrim boy named Samuel Eaton he’d read about in a library book. But then maybe you might find yourself getting way too wrapped up in conversation with a possible distant relative of young Samuel to the point of cracking the eggs for her pain perdu while your children wander away.

After a while, Husband had to intervene because the other 21st century folk jammed into the one-room dwelling couldn’t get a word in edgewise:

Me: (to Pilgrim lady) So tell me again what you like to do with all these squashes.

Husband silently leads me out the door by the elbow.

Me: What?

Him: You do know they’re not real Pilgrims, right?

Me: Duh. I know that. I was just playing along.

Him: …

Me: But I was a little offended that she didn’t ask us to stay for lunch. She had three golden opportunities but kept changing the subject to the news from England. I didn’t make all those sausage patties for nothing.

That’s okay. There's always next time. I wonder what my new friends are doing two Thursdays from now?

Biggish Night

So, in a hilarious plot twist, Husband got laid off last week. At least I think it’s supposed to be funny. I keep fake-laughing and looking all around in the hopes that we’ve been punk’d by Ashton Kutcher and he’ll suddenly appear saying it was all a big practical joke so that I can punch him in the face. I’ll have to whip off my wig before the fists start flying to get the full G.I. Jane effect, especially if the cameras are still rolling. I think Ashton would appreciate the irony.

Husband doesn’t appear to be upset about this turn of events and, in fact, has a spring in his step and a song in his voice where previously there was neither. Meanwhile, I seem to be emitting a barely perceptible, high-frequency sound emanating from somewhere within my cranium which is causing all of the dogs in a five-mile radius to howl. It’s not that the layoffs were wholly unexpected. The two surprise unpaid furloughs this summer were as clear a sign as any. It’s just that, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s hard to find a job these days.

I was joking with Husband that we should empty out my piddly IRAs and throw a giant party with the works like what they did in Big Night, one of my top five favorite movies. Have you seen it? You must see it. It’s joyful. In fact, that’s your homework: to watch it if you haven’t already. You can borrow my copy, but you MUST send it back.

A big, delicious food bender with friends and large quantities of spirits sounded good to me, but Husband said he didn’t want to make a big deal about it. Sigh. As a compromise, I blew a cool fifty on wine, bread, cheese, pate, and olives at a local cheese shop and we had that instead. The wine was a Spanish tempranillo called Ultimatum. Perfect! I forgot the cornichons, though. Husband didn’t miss them. I believe his exact words were, “What the fuck’s a cornichon?”

Anyway, the moral of this story is: a) somebody please hire Husband; and b) as far as my job search is concerned, if anybody calls you for a reference, regardless of whether I’m actually qualified for the job at stake, you are to say that, no, I don’t write a blog, you don’t know what they’re talking about; that, yes, I’m healthy as an ox and will not put any sort of strain on their company’s health insurance premiums, no siree; that, yes, I get along well with others, and, in fact, contrary to what they may have heard, I have a very, very sparkling personality. Okay? Practice this ahead of time if you can’t say it with a straight face.

A Simple Matter of Interpretation

A few weeks ago, Husband was on furlough from his job and both kids were at school, so we took that opportunity to go out for Indian buffet at a restaurant that shan’t be named but which was less delicious and far filthier than I remember. As we were talking and shoveling large quantities of mediocre-but-still-somehow-enticing food down our gullets, Husband mentioned how much he loves to swim. Which goes to show that it’s never too late to learn something new about your spouse.

Me: You love to swim?

Him: Yes.

Me: Really?

Him: Of course.

Me: Oh. I didn’t know that.

Him: What are you talking about? I swim all the time.

Me: I can’t remember the last time I saw you swim. In fact, in all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you swim. Do you know how to swim?

Him: That’s completely ridiculous. We go to the beach all the time.

Me: Yeah, on the bay side where the tidal pools are up to your knees. I don’t think that counts as swimming.

Him: We go to lakes and ponds sometimes, too.

Me: Yes, with the kids. I know. But your feet are touching the bottom.

Him: So.

Me: So that’s not swimming.

Him: I know how to swim. If you brought me to a pool right now I could easily float for an hour and half. You can time me.

Me: Float?

Him: Yes.

Me: That’s not swimming, either.

Him: What do you mean that’s not swimming? It’s not drowning.

Me: But you’re not even moving.

Him: I’m not sinking…

Me: So when people say, “Hey, let’s go swimming,” you imagine everyone cannon-balling in and doing the dead man’s float?

Him: Or whatever they wanted. What’s your idea of recreational swimming? Doing laps? That, um, sounds fun.

Me: Well, treading water, at least.

Him: I consider swimming to be anything that’s not drowning. Having water cover most of my body, but not my air holes.

Me: (spitting out my chicken tikka masala) Well, that covers a lot of ground. Does a bath count?

Him: Okay, since you’re such a good swimmer, why don’t you tell your readers about the time you were a camp counselor at the Y and got fired for getting drunk in the locker room before teaching swimming lessons.

Me: That’s not what happened AT ALL. I didn’t even teach swimming lessons.

God, doesn’t anyone fact-check these posts?

On Track

The 3YO completed his transformation into a 4YO over the weekend, right on schedule. If you’re imagining a change of Incredible Hulk-type proportions, you’re not that far off. It’s hard to grow up. There’s a lot of roaring and vein-bulging and turning strange colors. A good deal of throwing things that you thought were pretty well anchored-down, not to mention clothes fitting one minute and falling off in shreds the next. The 4YO’s growing pains are legendary, causing him to wake up in the middle of the night yowling, “My bones are breaking.” The kid is growing like a tenacious weed (but a weed that’s finally out of diapers, praise Jesus).

Another year means another birthday party, so Husband got to flex his cake- decorating muscles once again. This year, the theme was trains. Not trains with faces, though. Don’t be silly. The 4YO is WAY beyond Thomas the Tank Engine, he’ll have you know, even though I still catch him playing with them once in a while. No, non-anthropomorphized trains were the order of the day, and Husband (an engineer in his own right) delivered:

You have to admit it’s pretty cute. Each boxcar is a double-layered cake with Life-Savers for wheels. I was initially turned off by the thought of a wintergreen/ chocolate frosting combination, but Husband got the orange-flavored ones and the combo wasn’t half bad.

Husband’s creations seem to have sparked a vicious game of one-upmanship among the dads in the neighborhood (if, by vicious, I mean delicious). Tractors and treasure maps have recently been rendered out of cake and icing to the delight of children and wives alike. I wonder what feats of engineering are in store for us next year?

Thank heaven for little boys!

Pancakes (and Parentheses)

I haven’t cooked that much this week due to a looming deadline I foolishly thought I’d be up for.  (Note to self: Get your life in order first.  You have all the time in the world for this kind of stuff later.  Maybe.) 

Happily, Husband made his famous Eat Local blueberry pancakes (along with Codman Farm bacon) for dinner last night, or “brinner” as the First Grader likes to call it.  I always find the act of eating pancakes to be not only delicious but therapeutic.  My ritual has been the same for as long as I can remember:

Place pat of butter on top of each warm pancake, preferably on a stack three high, to induce at least partial melting (soft, partially melted butter is always better than fully melted butter; cold, hard butter is unacceptable).  Pour maple syrup over the stack, making sure most of it drips down the sides forming pools for dipping.  Gravity has never let me down so far. (Over the years, I’ve settled on the dipping strategy because dry pancakes with the syrup already soaked in might as well have no syrup at all.  You can keep pouring more syrup on top, but it’s just going to keep soaking in.  How big is your maple syrup budget?  My rule of thumb is, if the piece of pancake I’m about to eat doesn’t shine with syrup, then there’s not enough syrup.  (Hence the dipping.)). 

One side of the stack at a time, cut off the edges, dip them, etc. (I tend to cut them into smaller pieces to make the process last as long as possible).  That leaves me with a square stack of interior pancakes soaked with maximum butter, which gets cut into four equal squares (NOT triangles) to mop up the syrup until it’s gone.  Add more syrup to finish off squares.  Note remaining syrup.  Get more pancakes to finish off syrup.  Repeat.  (Pancake-to-syrup ratio is similar to the milk-to-cereal ratio discussed in previous guest post.)

You could analyze this all sorts of different ways, about saving the best for last or trying to exert some control over one’s environment, but I think it’s just that I really like butter and maple syrup.  Needless to say, my manner of pancake consumption drives Husband crazy.  For me, it’s comforting because it reminds me of who I am.  This becomes increasingly important the less physically recognizable I become.  And, who I am, apparently, is someone who likes to subject herself to alternately stressful and euphoric manic writing binges with unreasonable deadlines. 

(And pancakes.)

 

Blueberry Whole Wheat Pancakes

I’m reprising this recipe from a post a few years ago, it’s such a favorite.

4 eggs
2 cups milk
¼ cup vegetable oil
6 Tbsp. butter, melted
1¼ cup whole wheat flour
1¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. maple sugar
1 tsp. salt
1½ cups frozen blueberries, defrosted

Beat eggs in a large bowl until light and foamy.  Add milk, oil, and butter, and whisk to blend.  Sift dry ingredients over wet ingredients in bowl, and whisk until combined.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium heat until hot (test by flicking some water into the pan; the water droplets should sizzle vigorously and disappear).  Pour batter into pan in the size you prefer, and sprinkle blueberries over the batter.  Let the pancakes get some color, then flip.  Repeat with remaining batter.  Apply butter and maple syrup, and you’re good to go.

Local Sources:

Eggs, bacon: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA

Milk: Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Maple sugar: The Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)

Blueberries: Wyman’s, Milbridge, ME

Maple syrup: Butternut Mountain Farm, Morrisville, VT

Ch-Ch-Changes

My birthday was on Saturday and the best present ever, in addition to this decadent chocolate cake my BFF made me, is feeling like a real person again, not the hollowed-out husk of a human being I was a month ago.

Last week saw me back on my bike, pedaling through crispy leaves over to my kid’s school where I’m now a volunteer librarian.  I can run up my stairs again instead of crawling.  Literally crawling.  Precious, hydrating spring water no longer tastes like the dregs of the Charles River.  I’ve ceased to approach my meals like an entire pack of hungry wolves, desperate to fill the gaping void in my stomach and my soul.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I still do that.) 

Other changes: the children aren’t required to talk in whispers and sign language anymore (I foolishly lifted the ban on screaming only to promptly reinstate it).  Scrolling down a web page doesn’t make me nauseous.  Everything else doesn’t make me nauseous.  The vomiting has stopped, except for the other day when I suddenly threw up for no apparent reason right as I was walking out the door (what was up with that?), but then I felt better.  Normal everyday activities don’t seem like impossible, monumental chores.  Except for vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms, which always seem like impossible, monumental chores. 

But how I really knew things were taking a turn for the better was a few mornings ago when it was time to get up, but I refused, and Husband laid his arm across me and started applying gentle but unmistakable pressure about the bladder area.  Then, when I protested and rolled over, he lovingly placed his foot in the small of my back and slooowwwwwly extended his leg all the way out until I slumped onto the floor.

Yup, things must be getting back to normal around here!

It’s That Time of Year, Again

Did you know that the Eat Local Challenge is in October again this year?  How did I not get that memo?  I thought I had conveniently missed it.

As you know, October is my very favorite month for the Eat Local Challenge because it coincides with the winter squash-a-thon that marks the end of the summer and the beginning of our return to the frozen tundra.  Husband and I had to discuss whether or not we would be participating this year:

Him: What do you think?

Me: I don’t know, what’s the quota for crying in any given year?

Him: Maybe we could do it for a week. 

Me: It would have to be one of the non-squash beginning weeks.  Which, according to my calendar, start way too soon. 

Him: Or we could just do an Eat Local side dish.

Me: A side dish?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Pfffft.  That’s not even a challenge.  I could do that with two hands tied behind my…(yawning).  Is it bedtime, yet?

Him: It’s quarter of 6.

Me: Goddamn the hands of time.

I was happy that Husband was so gung-ho about it.  Still, in the interest of not stressing the shit out of myself during what’s supposed to be my recovery period, we’re going to pass this year.  If you’re really depressed about it, you can re-read the posts pertaining to our moderately successful Eat Local Challenge of September 2007 and the train wreck that was the ELC of October 2008.  But I don’t think you’re depressed about it at all. 

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll do a few Eat Local posts next month just for fun.  Who knows?  Maybe even an Eat Local side dish!

Salt-N-Pepa’s Here

Tricked you.  They’re not here. 

BUT.  Husband and I got the most beautiful anniversary gift from our Uncle Bob (aka Robert Spellman), an incredible artist out in Boulder.  It’s a painting of a set of turquoise salt and pepper shakers with antiqued crowns standing separate but together and strong.  Oh, look, here's a pic:

And here’s some other stuff I lifted from his web site:

                                       

Pretty.  There's more, too.  Go on and look, I'll wait.

I’m thinking maybe nine years is the charm for marriage because not once since we got that painting have Husband and I argued over who gets to be salt and who gets to be pepper.  It’s almost as if it doesn’t even matter.

(Except for the part where I’m salt.)

Snap. Crackle. Poop.

Recently, Husband came home from the store with this:

My first thought, in my chemo-weakened state, was that he was breaking up with me.  That maybe this was a Dear John letter in cereal form, fortified with extra vitamins and minerals to help me cope with the news.  Things have been getting a little too weird around here and maybe we should just be friends.  “Good” friends.  But only friends.

Then I looked more closely at the box.

Just look at her face.  They’re clearly not just friends.  Not even “good” friends.  They’re most definitely friendly enough to be enjoying breakfast together the next morning, and most likely breakfast in the vicinity of an event that nearly BLEW THEIR MINDS.  It wasn’t the cereal that blew their minds.  That I can tell you with certainty. 

But what sort of event would that be?  Perhaps the insanely happy expression on their faces has something to do with second chances and unexpectedly finding new love in later life.  (I’m guessing that they’re newly entangled because couples who’ve been married for 40 years do not wear that particular expression on their faces except for very special occasions.  And breakfast is not one of them.)  So it could be the love thing, but it’s not.  Could it be the residual glow of unspeakable carnal pleasures that took place between two people who bring a combined 80 years of experience (at least) to the table (or wherever)?  Tempting to assume, but, again, you would be wrong.  It’s something much, much more than that.   Something that can only be had after waiting a really, really long time for something really, really big.  And I think you know what I’m talking about. 

Dumps. 

Maybe simultaneous dumps.

That is the only explanation for the look on their faces.

“Good Friends” promises 50% fiber and my guess, based on the picture alone, is that it delivers.  I really hope so.  I’m still waiting.  Many important friendships depend on it.

Chemo, Part I

You may be wondering how Husband was able to drag me to my first chemo appointment yesterday.  Because it’s hard to psyche yourself up for a good poisoning.  It’s the polar opposite of the Eat Local Challenge.  Well, except for the local part.  And the challenge.  Perhaps I’ll rename it the Eat Local Poison Challenge.  Tasty, tasty poisons.  Naturally, Husband had his work cut out for him, so he pulled out the big guns:

Him: Put on something nice.  I’m taking you out to dinner.

Me: Shut up, you are not.

Him: Yes, I am.  Now hurry up and get ready.  Our reservation’s in less than an hour.

Me: But it’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Him: The chef makes his own hours.

Me: Really?  Is it like an underground supper club or something?

Him: …Yes.  Yes it is. 

Me: Oooooooo.  But there’s booze, right?  No BYO?

Him: He definitely mentioned something about special cocktails. 

Me: Weeeeeeeeeeee.  Really?  Crap, what am I going to wear.

Him: Find something fast.  You have five minutes.

After 20 minutes of yelling and swearing at the contents of my closet, I’m looking stupid in the stupid outfit I picked out and we’re finally in the car heading towards the city. 

Me: So what kind of food is it?  Are we talking French or Indian or something with weird foams and shit?

Him: Interesting you should ask.  He’s doing this innovative thing where you inject the food directly into your bloodstream.  Ruth Reichl was raving about it on NPR.

Me: Ruth Reichl?  Are you sure?

Him: Yeah, she said it’s all the rage in certain New York circles.

Me: What circles?  Junky circles?  Where’s the fun in that?  How do you taste anything?

Him: She said that instead of the flavors expressing themselves on your taste buds, you feel the sensations…other places. 

Me: Other places?  Like where?  Like (leaning in, whispering) down there?

Him: Maybe there.  Wherever.  The chef personalizes the meal for each diner so everyone gets a unique experience.

Me: (fanning myself)

We get off the Pike at the Pru and I assume we’re going to the South End, but then he keeps missing all the turns, I’m noticing.  Probably because he’s so used to driving me all the way to Longwood for my goddamned appointments.  Wait a minute.

Me: Where are we going again?

Him: I said it’s a surprise.

And that’s when we pulled up to the Dana-Farber building and Husband was exposed as the traitorous traitor he really is.  Needless to say, I didn’t get the chemorgasm I was promised.  (I faked it so the chef wouldn't feel bad, though.)  Next time, I’ll wear a better outfit.

I’m Baaa-aaaaack

We really were on vacation, by the way.  That wasn’t just code for chemo.  Chemo starts tomorrow.  Hip hip horraaaaaaaayyhackhackhhhhuuuuurrrrllll.  I hope you liked the guest posters because there may be a few more of those coming up (if anyone would like to write something, just let me know).

Our trip, during which we rent a cottage on Cape Cod for a week each summer, had been planned since February and there was no way I was going to let cancer fuck it up.  Because I think you can guess when chemo was scheduled to start.  Vacation week.  Of course it was.  Until I told them I’d rather die of cancer than spoil our family vacation with chemo.  They didn’t find that as funny as I thought they would, but they did agree to change it, so that’s what counts. 

Last week was a much-needed eye in the proverbial storm.  The weather, in case you didn’t notice, was amazing.  Could it have been more perfect? No, I think not.  We waded in tidal pools and built sandcastles and fished. 

We collected and freed polliwogs. 

We saw seals in the waters off beautiful Nauset, where it pours bean green over blue.  (Which Husband refused to harpoon.) 

We mini-golfed and majorly gorged on ice cream.  We barbecued and went out to eat at the Brewster Fish House and got fried fish at Arnold’s and lobster rolls from Maurice’s. 

I took 45 outdoor showers.  I read books and decoded many a quote from Einstein and Descartes out of the cryptogram book Husband gave me.  Because I’m a cryptogram addict.  Forget sudoku.  Sure, there’s logic to sudoku, but there’s no art.  If Scrabble is the apple pie of word games then cryptograms are pot brownie sundaes with hot heroin sauce, whipped amphetamines, sprinkled with crack-nuts, and topped with a bourbon-soaked cherry.  I love them so.  Decode this: DYV UEDIORYP PDQQRGO UD RYWDYV ZED CGAYLO HV UEAO OIYPRV PIGAYL MEVHD.

One of the days during vacation, I managed to work bacon into every meal.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast, BLTs for lunch, grilled bluefish for dinner with a tomato and bacon vinaigrette as seen in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.  Yes, that’s right, we even bought a newspaper.  There was no Internet connection, you see.  Not that I didn’t try to hijack one, as I wandered around the perimeter of the yard with my laptop, holding it over the fence into the surrounding properties.  Whatever.  The point is: it was a fabulous vacation.  I forgot my troubles and my troubles forgot me.  Now I feel as though I’m ready for absolutely anything, though I would never dare say such a thing.  That would be stupid.

Sauerkraut Scorecard

Okay, so the results of my third batch of sauerkraut are in, and here’s what the tally looks like so far:

Batch 1: Awesome.  Amazing.
Batch 2: Rotten.  Total crap.
Batch 3: WAY TOO SALTY

Curses!  It’s become abundantly clear just how much of a role beginner’s luck played in my successful first attempt.  The second time, I’ll admit, I got cocky.  True, you can be somewhat negligent with sauerkraut, but not that negligent.  This most recent time, though, I thought I had done everything right.  I followed the same script as the first time, with the exception of adding more caraway seeds and stuff, or at least that was my memory of it until Husband started asking questions.  Questions meant to help, he insisted, but which I was sure were actually intended to incriminate and/or persecute, and so I was very careful to be as evasive and defensive as humanly possible.  Until he disarmed me with some clever joke, which caused crucial information to slip and he was able to determine the source of the problem like a big jerk.  (Jerk.)

As you may recall, the reason my second attempt at sauerkraut failed was because too much water evaporated from the crock.  The protective brine receded and left the cabbage exposed and ripe for spoilage.  And spoil it did.  This time, I was careful to monitor the brine level and when it appeared to be getting dangerously low, I proceeded to add more salt water to bring the volume back up.

Scientific types will recognize my mistake right away, as did Husband, who had to refresh my memory on the principles of evaporation.  When water evaporates, the salt doesn’t evaporate along with it.  If it did, then rainwater, evaporated from the world’s oceans, would be salty, and April showers would bring dead flowers and screams of “MY EYES, THEY BURN” when you get caught in the rain, post-piña colada.  No, the salt remains where it is, which is how we have come to enjoy the various forms of crystalline sea salt from hither and yon.

So, in the Case of the Evaporating Brine, the volume of water had gone down, but the salt remained in a now-much-higher concentration.  You want to add fresh water to dilute it back to its original concentration and bring the volume back up to cover all of the cabbage.  If you add more salt water in the amount of 1 tablespoon per 1 cup of water, as I did, the result will offend even the most salt-loving taste buds and, even if you manage to choke some of it down, will turn you into a shriveled prune for the remainder of the evening.  For future reference, Self, once you establish a baseline level of brine in the first few days of fermentation, meaning enough to cover the cabbage by a good half-inch or so, any water loss over the subsequent weeks should be replaced with fresh water only. 

I tried to rectify this disappointing turn of events by cooking the sauerkraut with a ton of potatoes to try to spread out the saltiness.  It didn’t work.  Then, I tried soaking the sauerkraut in several changes of cold water and then draining it.  Still, the salty torment continued.  I still eat it, though.  I just line up five big glasses of water in a row in front of my plate.  The actual flavor is really good, if you can hone in on it through the electricity coursing through your head. 

But if you think I’m through with fermentation, you’re more than a little mistaken.  I plan on fermenting the crap out of my CSA produce this year, including but not limited to any extraneous bok choy that may find its way into my possession.  After all, how many more ways can there possibly be to screw up this process? 

The count continues.

The Mason Jar Argument

Ever wondered what it would be like to be a fly on the wall on a typical morning in our household?  Not that we have flies.  We don’t.  But if we did, that fly might be treated to some pretty interesting shit.  Like this:

Me: Why don’t you bring some borscht for lunch.

Husband: Okay.  (fumbling around for containers and coming up with only lids) Are there any containers left?

Me: We might be out.  Just use a Mason jar.

Him: I’m not bringing my lunch in a Mason jar.

Me: Why not?  What’s the difference? 

Him: It’s a Mason jar.  I might as well carry my books in a strap and roll a hoop all the way to work.  Lalalaaalalaaaaaa….

Me: It’s just a container. 

Him: I’m not bringing borscht in a jar.

Me: So you’re going to spend money to buy lunch we already have because you don’t want your coworkers to make fun of you?

Him: I’m already the laughing stock. 

Me: Well, you can hardly blame me for that.  Look, just pour it into a bowl when you get there.  You can do it in your office, all secret-like.

Him: Where are all these bowls you’re talking about?

Me: Surely, given the modern technology you claim to espouse, you have bowls at work.

Him: That’s right.  I walk through the door and suddenly I’m tripping over bowls, there are bowls coming at me from every direction.

Me: …

Him: Why don’t you buy 365 Mason jars and just freeze my lunches for the whole year.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: I hope you put this on your blog because the only one who’s going to look bad is you!

The End.

So.  Who’s right?

Ah, Public School

The Kindergartener has been adjusting very well to his new school environment.  I was worried he would be completely overwhelmed.  There’s a big difference between two days of preschool per week and five days in a row of full-day kindergarten, but he’s handling it like a champ.  He loves riding the school bus and seeing his friends, four of which ended up in his class.  He loves art and music and recess.  No word yet on how freaked out the teacher is about his college-level reading skills, but with 23 kids to one teacher, she probably won’t notice until February.

Still, the Kindergartener’s happy when the weekend arrives.  Everything returns to normal.  The bickering between the children resumes.  I return to my cranky self.  Husband antagonizes me.  It’s a familiar and comforting routine.  Like this past Saturday when the kids were eating their lunch and I was standing by the refrigerator filling my cup with filtered water, which drips out at a rate of approximately one molecule per second.  Husband snuck up behind me and licked the whole side of my face.  (Normally, I keep these kinds of things to myself, but it’s important to the story.)

I was about to punch him in his tender man-parts but the kids were sitting right there.  Instead, I shrieked, shoved him ineffectively, and muttered a bunch of stuff, careful to keep everything PG-rated and within the boundaries of the behavior I’m supposed to be modeling 24 hours a day. 

But the Kindergartener didn’t miss a beat, and proclaimed, “Daddy’s a cock!!!”

When it comes to profanity, all the modern parenting books say the same thing.  Just ignore it.  Go with the flow as if he had just said “apple tree.”  They’re just experimenting with language and gauging the reaction.  But the Kindergartener could not have expressed more concisely exactly what was going through my mind at that very moment, and so, of course, I did the exact opposite thing you’re supposed to do, which was burst out into a constant stream of laughter until I got a cramp.

Since I had already ruined the moment and all the parenting experts were shaking their heads in unison, I dedicated myself to figuring out what he had meant to say.  Believe it or not, “cock” isn’t in our everyday profanity repertoire, so I doubted he was parroting us.  I wanted to blame it on public school, but I went to public school and I didn’t start saying things like that until third grade (okay, maybe the summer before). 

My mind ran through all the potential meanings of cock.  A male rooster?  The stuff you pipe into cracks in the walls?  No, it turned out that he had extrapolated it from the word “cocky.”  He had deduced that someone who’s cocky must be a cock, and I think we can all agree that you’d have to be pretttty cocky to go up to somebody and lick her face like that.  Therefore, I deem it to be proper and appropriate usage.  Give the kid a diploma.

Bicycle, Bicycle

Over the weekend, on our way to Belkin Family Lookout Farm with the kids, we drove by two nice-looking bicycles out by the street with a "free" sign on them.  My first instinct was to fling open the door, roll out of the moving car, then dart across traffic on what really isn’t a very busy road at all.  Free bikes!!!  And they looked new.

In reality, I restrained myself.  We were already late to meet our friends, and the back of the car was filled with crap, as usual.  Plus Husband doesn’t enjoy these kinds of pit stops and he hadn’t had his morning coffee, yet, which meant we were bound to have a big fight about it.  About stupid bikes.  I had to ask myself if this was going to ruin the whole tone of the day.  I agreed to let it go.  If one of the bikes was still there when we got back, I reasoned, then I was meant to have it.

But, the bikes were not there when we got back.  Of course, they weren’t.  Who’s going to pass up free bikes?  I glared at Husband.  Without even realizing it, I had spent much of that morning’s drive charting my prospective bike routes around town.  How I could get to Russo’s by just taking the bike path along the Charles.  Ditto for DePasquale’s on the other side of the river.  Then I would hitch a double-wide trailer to the back and head out on 117 to the farmshare and really piss people off on their evening commutes.  I could do all my shopping by bike during the month of October, leaving a virtually untraceable carbon footprint, and then I would finally be crowned the winner of the Eat Local Challenge!

Not anymore.  I can’t help but think that fate got it wrong this time.  One of those bikes was supposed to be mine.  Somebody, probably in my very own neighborhood, maybe even right this minute, is riding it.  Smiling, no doubt.  And I’m mentally thrusting a stick through the spokes of the wheels riiiiiiiight…….now.

Vacation in a Nutshell

We had a really great time last week.  This is actually the second year we’ve had a good vacation, so I think the karmic debt owed to us after the Great Vacation Disaster of 2006 has been settled at long last. 

We rented a small cottage in Brewster, not far from where we got married, with just a short walk to the beach.  The weather was perfect the whole time, raining only at night, and we never ran out of things to do with the kids: fishing at Nickerson State Park, mini-golf, checking the lobster traps on Grandpa P’s boat.  And, of course, the beach.

Husband had fun building vast sandcastle compounds with serpentine waterways and canals.  This is not the most elaborate one he made.  The kids would then populate it with moon snails, hermit crabs, and little fish they found in the tidal pools.  I particularly enjoyed the spectacle that would occur when we threw an empty snail shell into the hermit crab pool and they would squabble over the new real estate.  As hermit crabs grow, they need bigger shells.  Once one wins the epic battle for the trophy house of his dreams, he switches.  Then, another shell becomes available and it’s chaos all over again.  It was recycling at its most hilarious.  Later, the tide would reclaim them all as it inched its way back in.

An oyster farm, only visible at low tide.  It seemed like the folks at family-run Brewster Oyster were out there every day tending their charges.  Oysters take about three years to reach market size.  They sell locally to restaurants like the Brewster Fish House, a favorite spot where we got to have dinner one night without the kids.

This place only has about a dozen tables, but we try to come here every year despite the wait.  Their lobster bisque is unlike any other: a little bit spicy, a little bit sweet, and chock full of meaty chunks of lobster instead of being puréed into oblivion.  Now I’m spoiled forever.  Thanks a lot, Brewster Fish House.

We caught frogs and polliwogs at Flax Pond at Nickerson.  We did not eat them.

In Eastham, we noticed a sign for fresh-picked corn from Log Cabin Farm.  Corn in Massachusetts in the second week of July?  I don’t think so.  I gave them the third degree despite my limited farm knowledge.  They weren’t lying, though.  Their farmer covers 15 acres of his corn with black plastic to create an outdoor greenhouse.  The woman running the stand said they had corn on July 4th weekend.

So, of course, I had to buy some.  What we didn’t eat that night, I stripped from the cob and made into a corn and bean salad to eat with grilled striper the next day.

The most successful meal of the vacation.  The kids loved it just as much as the adults.  Earlier that afternoon, I had made my way to Breakwater Fish & Lobster on what turned out to be only the second day of the commercial fishing season for striped bass.  The woman at the counter winked at me and asked, “What took you so long?”

I wonder how long it will be before this post-vacation glow disappears?

One Fish, Two Fish

Lately, I’ve been taking the kids fishing on the Charles.  One of the benefits of my by-now-long-forgotten jogging regimen is that I was able to scope out some nice fishing spots.  You wouldn’t normally think to look behind your supermarket, and yet, at least where I live, you’d be surprised by what you find back there. 

The Preschooler has his own little fishing pole with an easy push-button reel and a bobber.  I think we got it at Target.  For bait, we use hot dogs from the conveniently located grocery store.  We stand on a dock or the riverbank, plunk it in, and just wait for something to happen.  And when nothing does, we resort to watching the cormorants sun themselves, counting ducklings, and looking for turtles.  We catch nothing, but I don’t really care because it’s fun.

Sometimes I use Husband’s fancy-schmancy fishing rod and cast out with a lure, reeling it in with a rhythm that mimics nothing in nature, and praying to God that I don’t get the line tangled up in something, as I’m wont to do.  Then, I’d have no choice but to cut the line, and I have no idea how to rig that thing back up again so Husband won’t notice that I’ve been messing with his stuff. 

Husband is the fisherman in the family, having fished with his grandfather since he was a kid.  Years ago, he offered to teach me how to fish and I could barely contain myself.  Fishing seemed like the perfect activity for me.  You can get lost in your thoughts for hours at a time while still getting credit for doing something productive.  Plus, you get to be outside, and, if you’re lucky, you’ll end up with dinner. 

But bad things happen when spouses try to teach each other anything.  God forbid we actually learn something from one another at this point in our marriage.  For example, I should be learning how to listen carefully and follow instructions, instead of doing what I damn well please.  Meanwhile, he should be learning how to be patient, but at the same time not be condescending, which, apparently, is very difficult to do.  We always end up driving home in a huff.

However, the whole family went fishing last weekend at Spy Pond in Arlington.  The kids had a blast wading in the most-likely-quite-unsanitary water, Husband caught a couple of fish, and I caught my first.  See?  I can learn things.  So, yesterday, I brought the kids back to the banks of the Charles with my newfound confidence, and guess how many fish we caught? 

THIRTEEN!  Twelve sunfish and a bass.  All were dehooked and released (I’m not eating any Charles River fish).  The kids are going to get entirely the wrong idea about fishing, but we still had the best time.

 

Kitchen Update

Let’s see, on my supposed “blog vacation,” I ended up posting four times instead of the usual five to 10.  Good job, Tammy.  Way to enforce some boundaries. 

Anyway, I thought you might be interested to know how the kitchen is coming along, as if you couldn’t already guess.  The kind of progress I make is very hard to measure, but this conversation with Husband ought to give you an idea:

Me: Wow, I’ve used two whole tubes of caulk so far.  Does that seem like way too much caulk for one room?

Him: I don’t think there’s any such thing as too much caulk.

Me:  Really?  But maybe caulking in the gap between the baseboards and the floor was a little extreme.

Him: Extreme caulk may be the best kind of caulk.

Me: Are we talking about the same thing?

Him: Caulk in the kitchen, right?

Me: Right.

Him: Oh, yeah.  Your appetite for caulk is insatiable.

Nice.

(Hi Dad!)

Caught on Video!!

Shockingly, that CBS piece on supporting local farmers does seem to have run, though it appears it was demoted from national news to local Oregon news.  Which is fine by me.  I only know a few people in Oregon. 

The segment came out much better than what I was envisioning, that’s for sure.  The idea of eating locally was not portrayed as completely wacko, but rather somewhat sensible, which is a refreshing change of pace in the mainstream media.  I must reluctantly extend props to CBS. 

You'll find the video here, but you are under no obligation to watch it.  If you do, just remember what I said about the hair.  I could have brushed it, sure, but then I would have been misrepresenting myself.  I’m just keeping it real. 

Other notes: Only bacon could make me forget that I was on camera.  Thankfully, they cut the orgasm part out.  The Toddler was so sweet and well-behaved that day that it appears that I've been lying about his daily antics.  I am not.  But, I'm glad we have some smiles to save for posterity.  And at the end, the great food discovery they made mention of me making in my own backyard was this: I’m a shitty gardener.  I pulled the only three red tomatoes off of the only three surviving plants in my yard that weren’t weeds.  But, shhhh.  I think you’re supposed to draw a different conclusion.

So, that's my moment of fame.  Let’s just stick to print from now on, shall we?  Speaking of which, the written transcript of the segment is entertaining if you enjoy the butchery of the English language as much as I do.  Points for finding all the typos (hint: there’s more than two).  Also, they gave Husband my maiden name (I win!).

[Update 6/9/08: It did run nationally.  Here's the proof.  Well, I'll be damned.]

Furthering Diplomatic Relations

So, I haven’t started painting, yet.  Some might say I’m procrastinating.  Some might say I’m just doing an extra good job with my prep work.  Cleaning, spackling, sanding, caulking.  Who doesn’t love caulk?  Still others might say it was just too glorious of a long weekend to stay indoors.  All good theories.  All correct. 

Since the painting hasn’t officially started, I figure I can cheat on my forced vacation.  Also, because the Preschooler was in his usual good form at lunch the other day, and I don’t want to forget.  Per Husband’s transcription service:

Him: Daddy, why does the sky get dark?

Husband: You mean at night?

Him: Yes.

Husband: Well, the earth is turning all the time.  During the day, the place we live on the earth is facing the sun, so it’s bright.  But then the earth turns around so we’re facing away, like in a shadow, so it’s dark.  And for people who live on the other side of the earth, like in China, it’s daytime for them.

Him: (long pause and pondering) You mean the China people only come out at night?

Yes, son, exactly.  That’s why we lock the doors.

Sweet and Sour

As I mentioned before, I’m making an effort to be nicer to my husband.  To relive the early days of romance when, if he asked for a bowl of rice pudding, for example, I would immediately leap into action and return with 16 bowls of rice pudding balanced atop my head.  Instead of plopping a bag of rice down in front of him. 

(Why is new love so unreasonable?)

Last week, I made Dorie Greenspan’s lemon poppy seed muffins with dabs of jam inside.  Husband loved them despite the fact that he usually doesn’t like lemon- flavored things, which I had forgotten when I decided to make them (Strike 2).  Anyway, he liked them so much that he commanded me to make them again.  His exact words were: “I command you to make these again.”  It’s sort of a joke between us because he knows how well I respond to commands.  How the mere implication touches off an internal struggle in my brain between wanting to do the nice thing, and wanting to DENY anyone anything that is commanded of me.  (I’m the kind of woman that religious extremists dream of oppressing.  Except that nobody can oppress me better than me, so the joke’s on them!)

But, I still haven’t made the muffins, again.  Geez, Tammy, can’t you take a joke? 

Maybe not.

Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins

I broke my local rule so I could sneak some of my favorite jam into these muffins.  It’s Bonnie’s Black and Blue.  Blackberry and blueberry jam.  Together.  In one jar.  And it even has the local berry farmer’s name on the label: Pio Angelini.  How sweet!

2/3 cup sugar
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
¾ cup sour cream
2 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 stick unsalted butter, melted cooled
2 Tbsp. poppy seeds
¼ cup blackberry jam

Preheat oven to 400°F and center rack in oven.  Butter a regular-sized muffin pan and set on cookie sheet.

In a large bowl, rub the sugar and lemon zest together with your fingers until the sugar is moist and strongly scented of lemon.  Whisk in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  In a medium bowl, whisk the sour cream, eggs, vanilla, lemon juice, and melted butter together until well blended.  Pour the wet ingredients over the dry ingredients and, with a rubber spatula, gently but quickly stir to blend.  Stir in the poppy seeds.  Do not overmix.

Fill muffin cups with batter to the halfway mark.  With the back of a spoon, push a depression into the batter for a teaspoonful of jam.  Divide remaining batter between the cups and, using a clean spoon, push down the batter around the edges to seal in the jam.  Bake about 20 minutes or until the tops are golden.  Let cool in pan at least 5 minutes before removing them.

Source: Adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From My Home to Yours.  And by the way, I’ve just joined the Tuesdays with Dorie baking club, so you’ll be seeing a lot more from her starting next week.  And maybe then my dad will stop complaining that we never have anything good in the house.