FOOD ON THE FOOD

A Stunning Series of Blonde Moments

Where to begin?

I guess we'll start with baseball. Somehow, I became assistant coach of the 7YO's Little League team, which is hilarious since I barely know the rules of baseball. I can hold my own in a recreational setting, but only because Husband staged an emergency intervention in my mid-twenties. Basically, he couldn't be seen with a girlfriend who played the way I did. I'm very grateful for his tutelage and only wish that any one of my gym teachers could have taken a minor interest in my athletic development because I think I could have had a future in baseball. (Maybe.)

Anyway, I was promoted from "helpful parent" to "coaching staff" mainly for my disciplinarian tendencies—meaning my willingness to yell at kids for the most minor infractions, like climbing the fence of the dugout and rifling through the garbage cans. Things naturally progressed to whacking each other with their gloves and hats, whipping bottles of Gatorade at each other, and spouting language that would make this sailor-girl blush. I did politely ask them to stop, for the record. Their response: "We don't have to listen to you! You're not the coach!" Emboldened, three of the other boys yelled, "Yeah! We don't have to do what you say!!" and then proceeded to kick the bats down off the fence one by one.

At this point, my son distanced himself from the pack and wisely put his hands over his ears after which I unspooled a verbal lashing the volume and length of which set a new personal best for me (and perhaps for any military personnel in attendance as well). This was in the middle of a game, by the way. When I was done, everyone in the field, bleachers, and surrounding playground was frozen, our whole team was sitting quietly on the bench, eyes glued to their cleats, and the coach of the opposing team had peed his pants. Our coach quietly came over and placed the team's baseball cap on my head and I've been a fixture in the dugout ever since. I haven't had to raise my voice again.

That brings us to yesterday. We had a game against a tough team earlier in the week and got absolutely routed. We lost by several powers of ten. The kids were pretty disappointed. To raise their spirits, I decided at the last minute to make some blondies for their next game. There wasn't much time, but I figured I could get them in the oven, run up the street to meet the kids at the bus stop, be back to get them out of the oven with time to spare, let them cool, package them up, and go. That was the plan. I checked it backwards and forwards. Satisfied, I threw the batter into a pan, shoved the pan into the oven, and ran out the door.

Without my keys.

I heard the lock click just as I realized my fatal error. Ugh! That's okay, I thought, there's still 26 minutes to go before they're done. Longer still before they start to smoke. How much longer, I wasn't sure, but surely the bus wouldn't be late. (The bus was late.) Surely, there would be some open windows on the first floor when we got back. I always have some open windows on the first floor. (There weren't. Only second floor windows were open—all of them.) Surely, my neighbors, who have a copy of our key, would be home. (They weren't.) And so on and so forth through all of my usual backup plans, even though I don't think I've ever locked myself out of the house even once previously.

Eleven minutes and counting.

I called Husband to notify him that he married a dumbass. He could be home in an hour at the earliest. Crap. I was going to have to call the fire department like we did that other memorable time. There was no way around it besides breaking a window and risking lacerations. I'm not good with blood. I phoned our friend up the street, who's a firefighter, and asked if he had any tips on breaking and entering one's own home. He said he was calling in a truck.

Me: No, wait, I think I know where a ladder is!

Him: You don't need to be climbing any ladders. I'll call in a truck.

Me: Oh, god. Not again.

Him: It'll be fine, Tammy.

Me: Okay, maybe just a small truck.

Long story short, a BIG truck (and the cops!) arrived within minutes with their fancy ladders, broke in through a second floor bedroom window, and unlocked the front door just in time for me to pull the blondies out of the oven perfectly done. I thanked them sheepishly and promised them no more last-minute baking. I'm pretty sure they've heard that one before. (Plus, my fingers were crossed.) Thanks again, Waltham Fire Department! I really mean it!

So, how does the story end, Tammy? Did the kids win their baseball game and savor their victory over a pan of moist, delicious blondies?

No. They lost by one point. And one of the players had a nut allergy I didn't know about so the blondies never made it out of the car. (WHY DID I PUT NUTS IN THE BLONDIES??? NO ONE KNOWS!!)

The kids played a great game, though. Afterwards, I drove the whole plate of blondies over to my firefighter friend instead. Next time, I'll just pick up some brownies at the store on the way to the game. Or maybe just stay in bed that day.

[P.S. The blondie recipe will be in my forthcoming cookbook, but try this blondie recipe in the meantime. Keep your keys nearby!]

Supermarket Sniper

I was in a bad mood the other day, so Husband sent me out of the house to get some fresh air and a gallon of milk. In one of the aisles of the grocery store, I saw a little boy sitting in a shopping cart.

He stared at me.

I smiled brightly and waved.

He held up a package of wooden spoons.

I made expressions indicating I approved of his treasure.

He winked.

I was charmed!

He was still winking when he made a sort of clicking noise with his mouth. Then I heard a tremendous explosion, masterfully improvised, as he fired his makeshift weapon at my face.

My eyes went from soft, wide doe-eyes to the razor-thin slits of an angry snake as I registered the betrayal.

He appraised me with a look of smug victory.

I was suddenly filled with white-hot rage. My muscles began twitching under my poofy winter coat. A feeling of suffocating tightness came over me as I realized my body was expanding at an alarming rate. The seams of my coat burst. The fabric shredded all around me to reveal skin that was now a sickening shade of green. I had the sudden urge to rip those wooden spoons out of his hand and snap them over my muscular knee. I wanted to grab his Hostess cupcakes out of the carriage, tear open the package, and squeeze them until the creme and mangled cake crumbs extruded greasily between my fingers. I wanted to pull all of the six-packs of soda off the shelves and smash them onto the floor so hard that they exploded into hundreds of angry geysers. Then, amid the spray and chocolate wreckage, I would stand over his terrified little face and say in a very slow, very low voice:

Don't.

Do that.

Again!!

But instead I kept on walking. Walking, walking down the aisle with my milk and my tattered clothing dragging behind me, walking right by his mother who didn't seem to mind that my virtual brains were splattered all over Aisle 7. Which is too bad, because he's likely to do that again, and I'm one of the saner individuals at my supermarket.

Fever Pitch

After being out of school for two days and throwing up on as many stuffed animals as possible, the 7YO tested positive for the flu. He got himself a nice course of Tamiflu and it worked great. Meanwhile, I didn't have a fever, so I was convinced I was fine even though I was feeling crappier by the day. Nothing to see here. Just giving the ole immune system a workout.

By the 8th day of misery, it was clear I was not winning. I had a headache like a black hole, my face had totally liquefied, and it felt like tiny aliens were tunneling through my muscle fibers every second of eternity. But where was the fever? I had shaking chills but the mercury refused to rise above 97.4°F (no, my thermometer isn't broken—I always run cool).

I finally ended up in the doctor's office on Day 10. I don't like to be the first hypochondriac in line during flu season, but neither do I want to be the idiot who was sick for 10 days, didn't go to the doctor, and now she has pneumonia.

My real doctor was out. The one who saw me found nothing wrong beyond my flu-like symptoms.

Me: Flu-like?

Her: Yes.

Me: As in, *like* the flu but not?

Her: It's probably a bad cold.

Me: You're kidding, right? The pressure in my sinuses could fuse atoms.

Her: There's no fever.

Me: Did you see how bloody my sinuses were?

Her: Your sinuses weren't bloody.

Me: You're not a real doctor, are you?

Clearly I wasn't adequately conveying my level of sustained pain. I needed one of those pictorial charts with the frowny faces in varying degrees of distress so I could pick the worst one and then stab it in the forehead with a scalpel.

Me: Listen, Lady, … (grabbing her by the lapels)

Her: Doctor.

Me: …gimme the Tamiflu!

Her: That's just for the flu.

Me: I HAVE THE FLU!!!!

Her: It's only effective *voice straining* when given within 72 hours on onset.

Me: 72 hours? Who the hell goes to the doctor when they've only been sick for 3 days? By then I'm still debating whether or not to take a Motrin.

Long story short, she wouldn't give me the good drugs. She could have just humored me and called it the flu as she sent me on my way, but she didn't do that, either. Diagnosis: Sniffles. As I was leaving, no joke, she recommended that I get a flu shot in a few weeks because "it's really bad this year."

Yeah. I know.

My non-fever broke on Day 12. Sweet relief is finally mine! Maybe next year I'll just get the damn shot.

Long-Lingering Sorrow

I don't know about you guys, but I cannot keep it together. This Newtown tragedy is beyond words. Every parent I saw over the weekend was wandering around completely depressed, eyes rimmed with red. We're taking it extremely personally, as we should. It could have been any of our kids. It could have been any of our schools. It still can.

I got word of the first confused news reports right before I walked into our elementary school's holiday concert on Friday. Another school shooting? At an elementary school?  My vast arsenal of swears could not adequately express my disgust. I knew the town. Good family friends lived there, one a recently retired schoolteacher. It's as beautiful as the media says—idyllic really, with its wooded and winding lanes, old barns, and babbling brooks—as safe and peaceful as it gets. I was shaken. We all were. During the performance, our fourth graders sang a haunting rendition of "Let There Be Peace on Earth" and I was beside myself with the awful contrast between those earnest words issued in such sweet, melodic voices and the horrific crime scene one small state away.

It goes without saying, but bears repeating, how sorry I am for the families of the victims and the community at large. I am grief-stricken and no area is safe from my tears, not my desk, not my car, not the grocery store, not even Staples (Jesus Christ, Tammy, it's just a printer cartridge!). I've been hugging my kids to the point of near-strangulation, but it's not enough. If we can't even protect our own children, then what do our freedoms even mean?

Do the right thing, America. Do it now. Semi-automatic assault weapons have got to go. Background checks for any gun are a necessity. Mental health issues require our serious attention. When someone decides to wage war on our schoolchildren, maybe we should, I don't know, be more specific about the interpretation of our Second Amendment rights. When it happens over and over again, then we are irresponsible to the point of negligence. Only fewer guns will keep our children safe. Protect them with responsible action. We cannot possibly believe that our Founding Fathers would expect anything less. They can't govern from the grave. And neither can our children.

Coffee Break

One of the ways I've been coping with my deadline is by spending precious moments scanning Craig's List for the perfect cheap used coffee table. Also, the perfect cheap used dining room table. And the perfect cheap used kneeling chair. These are suddenly all very urgent, VERY URGENT, and therefore must take precedence over my deadline.

However, I was not prepared for what greeted my unsuspecting eyeballs. Behold: Beautiful Set of Coffee Tables - $150. I don't know how long that link will work before it gets taken down by the authorities, but imagine, if you can, a set of miniature pink grand pianos. Are you still with me? Now balance a glass shelf of the same shape about five inches above the top on what look to be three oversized nails. Honestly, I can't tell if it's a table or a Musical Barbie display case. Listen, I'm sure the owner is a very nice person with many wonderful qualities, but good taste in coffee tables is not one of them. As far as I can see, it's barely even functional, never mind worth $150. Does the coffee go above or below the floating glass partition? What about my feet? What if my feet get wedged under the glass, and, when I try to shake them loose, Husband's coffee cup comes rattling over to the edge and spills all over my trapped legs? That sounds an awful lot like what you don't want in a coffee table: third-degree burns.

My quibble is with the word "beautiful." In no alternate universe can the word beautiful be used to describe this...table or whatever it is. Unusual, yes. Unique, for sure. But beautiful? Absolutely not! Anyone with eyes can see that. The same flagrant misuse of perfectly good adjectives is happening all over Craig's List.  Elegant. Gorgeous!! STUNNING!!! As a rule, the more caps and exclamation points, the more hideous it is. At least "stunning" has a whiff of truth to it. Yes, you will be stunned (but not in a good way).

I know beggars can't be choosers when scavenging through other people's cast-offs, but how am I supposed to find the perfect cheap used coffee table/dining room table/kneeling chair when everyone has such bad taste??

Tuesday Peas

Turns out that the shooting pain in my left wrist that I've been ignoring for the past month is some kind of tendonitis/carpal-tunnel-type situation. Which is fanTAStic news for me leading up to my first manuscript deadline.

I nodded obediently as the doctor told me the first stage of treatment: Advil, ice, wrist brace, and not using my left hand for three weeks. My left hand is my dominant hand, by the way. It's my writing, chopping, typing, whisking, stubborn-peanut-butter-jar-opening hand. Then I went home and had this conversation with my left hand:

Me: Hey. Listen up. There's one week left until my deadline so you better man up. This book isn't going to write itself.

Lefty: The doctor prescribed rest. You told her you would...

Me: Pipe down. You already had a week of rest during the big Norovirus Extravaganza. I get one shot at a book. ONE SHOT and you're not going to ruin it for me.

Lefty: Ice! I need ice!

Me: You'll get your bag of frozen peas in a minute. First type this stupid post.

Lefty: Why don't you ever make the other hand do any work? It's not like she has anything better to do.

(Right Hand is sunning herself under my desk lamp in a skimpy bikini and earbuds.)

Me: What? That useless thing? The only thing she's good for is helping to keep me from sinking to the bottom of the pool, and she can barely do that, frankly.

Right Hand: Whatevs. (Rolls over onto her other side)

Me: Do you know what would happen if I put Righty over there in charge of operations?

Lefty: What?

Me: Sure, you'd enjoy a relaxing convalescence, but you'd return only to find that all five of your fingers had been chopped off. Is that what you want? God, I can't even read her writing. Would you look at the draft for this post? Does this say "bloody stump" or "broody crumpet"?

Lefty: (gulp)

Right Hand: Another margarita, please!

Suddenly, another week isn't looking so bad!

Way Too Much Information (You've Been Warned)

Boy, have I been tired over the past week. I mean really, really, can't-keep-my-eyes-open tired. I thought about having myself hospitalized for exhaustion like my good friend Demi Moore, but, honestly, that whole process seems entirely more exhausting than it's worth. Can't I just be exhausted right here in my own bed and not have to go anywhere or explain anything to anyone? Yes? Oh, okay. Phew. Zzzzzzzzz.....

Looking back, I think it was the diarrhea that did me in. I mean, the feverishness sucked and the vomiting blew, but hour after hour, day after day of urgent diarrhea really takes a lot out of a person. Wait, what I mean to say is, it really saps your strength. I don't have a large body of experience around diarrhea, to be honest. Constipation, yes. Vomiting, well, let's just say that if Harvard gave out honorary degrees for that, I'd have a very impressive resume. I kind of thought diarrhea was just an urban legend. Some kind of cruel voodoo joke. It's no joke, people. It's all too real. I don't think anything was metabolized for four full days. Then, on the fifth day, my appetite suddenly came raging back. I tried to be dainty in my portions, but I was literally starving and things didn't go as planned. I imagine my digestive track resembling the narrow Spanish streets of Pamplona, with the bulls playing the role of my lunch, charging down the cobbled avenues goring anything in their path. But further on down the line, all systems were not go. Not by a long shot. Aerial views would show the Spaniards frantically racing away just ahead of the bulls in a confused, chaotic throng, some clinging to lampposts for dear life, others trapped in alleyways, with the vast majority spilling out toward the nearest exit. There may have been blood, I don't know. This analogy got away from me three sentences ago.

I really struggled (if you count struggling as not caring at all and then falling asleep) with how to account for my mounting, explosive calorie losses on my Lose It profile. It seems they don't have a category for persistent, uncontrollable diarrhea in their databases. Someone should contact their webmaster right away! In theory, I was very excited by this potential loophole since I haven't lost any weight since I started my regimen last month. In practice, however, it was too much work to even boot up my computer. Instead, I amused myself by trying to mentally calculate how many hours of sex it would take to burn off a full day's worth of calories so I could make an ironic ballpark substitution. Somehow I arrived at 16,000 hours per day before collapsing into a slumbering heap.

I'm feeling much better now. Things are progressing a little more as nature intended. I did weigh myself a few days ago to find out the impact on my bottom line, and do you want to know how many pounds I lost? Zero pounds. You heard me. Not a single one. My scale is now smashed against a tree in the backyard! I know I probably should have harnessed that day's energy for something more constructive, like a blog post better than this one or maybe a little work on my manuscript. But looking back with the wisdom one gains from perspective and a cooler head, it's clear that motherfucker totally had it coming.

Philosophical Lobster

Since I was born in Maine, bred in Massachusetts, and have a lobster prominently featured on my blog's masthead, one might naturally assume that I have a side of lobster with every meal as a matter of course. In fact, I hardly ever eat lobster. They're expensive and I don't love killing them. But I do find them very succulent indeed. We're lucky that my father-in-law has a few lobster traps so we get to enjoy the occasional free lobster dinner complete with ocean view. The richness of such a meal can tide you over for quite a while. In my own house, however, I cook lobster only rarely.

Cape Ann Fresh Catch, my fish CSA, offered lobsters for sale last week for the first time. I took this as a cosmic sign that lobster should cycle onto the menu once again. I've always wanted to try to recreate the wonderful lobster bisque from Cape Cod's Brewster Fish House. It's my favorite bisque ever and is notable because the lobster is not pureed into the soup, but rather cut into pieces so you get all the flavor of a bisque with the satisfaction of little lumps of lobster meat like a chowder. It's sweet and spicy and I love it.

That's what I was daydreaming about as a Gloucester fisherman dropped a pair of lobsters into my cooler. I happily drove them home, not a care in the world, until I'm standing eye to eye with one of them, a steaming pot of water nearby. I always forget about this part. The final act. The dread starts to bubble up from the recesses of my soul. Is the feeling worse now that I've had a chance to peek into the abyss myself? Perhaps. And yet I'm committed. I can't drive them back to the beach now. Not in rush hour traffic. Nobody will survive that!

There's no girlish squealing or Woody Allen-esque pacing and bemoaning that goes on during this process, mostly because I want the deed done as quickly as possible for everyone's sake. From the dark safety of the cooler to the dark danger of the pot, I aim for 10 seconds max. I snip off the claw bands with kitchen shears while my other hand holds the carapace firmly from behind. It's clear I have a feisty one on my hands. No sooner do the rubber bands shoot across the room unleashing his weapons than he somehow gets the blades of my scissors clamped in one of his claws, tail flipping up and down madly against his chest. I admire his will to live. I'm rooting for him, and yet too much struggling just delays the inevitable. I admit to administering some soothing words, which are all but useless to a lobster and entirely for my own benefit. No, the lobster is not going to calm down, Tammy. No, everything is not going to be okay. Not for him!

As I twist the scissors free, force him down into the pot, close the lid, and repeat the process for number 2, I wonder how I went from being a nurturing maternal figure to a cold-blooded murderer in the span of five minutes? That's when I realize that, no, I've been both all along. My love of meat is well documented. I just don't like to be the one who actually has to snuff out the life force. I prefer to let other people do the snuffing. Then maybe I can pretend the snuffing never took place at all. I'm a live and let live kind of gal. Unless I'm hungry, that much is clear. Or you come knocking on my door trying to sell me your service/product/religion/political view in the middle of dinnertime. Then all bets are off. My stockpot is really big. You've been warned!

Father's Day Strawberry Shortcake Debacle

Okay, okay, so I blew it.  Technically, strawberry shortcake did not get made on Father's Day, as my dad so casually noted in the comment section of my last post.  It's not the first time I've been flamed by my own dad, and surely not the last. 

But, I mean, listen.  The plan, at my dad's behest, was to take him out for giant sundaes at Cabot's and that's exactly what we did.  The strawberry shortcake idea was a little something extra I thought of, which sounded good in theory but then didn't seem to make a whole lot of sense as the day played out.  I mean, who can eat strawberry shortcake after eating a giant sundae and then half of somebody else's.  No one, that's who.  We were all rolling around the baseball field afterwards just trying not to throw up.

So, yes, it's true, the shortcakes fell by the wayside.  I got an earful from my dad, believe you me (Italians are not known for keeping their emotions all bottled up inside).  Was my dad deserving of shortcake?  Of course he was.  He is deserving of shortcake and more, but we all deserve things we don't get!  Sometimes you have to ride the moment for what it is and be less fussy about the details.  I sent him home with a quart of local strawberries I picked myself, as well as the book, Man with a Pan, a collection of essays about cooking by such fathers as Stephen King and Mario Batali, not to mention a cutting board, some sharp knives, and measuring cups.  After all, my notoriously stubborn bachelor dad has recently taken to cooking some of Nonni's recipes for the first time ever.  I'm so proud!!  Perhaps this was the start of a whole new chapter in his life.  The chapter in which he realizes he can have strawberry shortcake whenever he wants! 

So go ahead, Internet.  Strike me down if you must.  But let's not forget the time I made a whole tray of baklava for my dad's birthday dinner a few months ago and he forgot to show up.  So, ya know, nobody's perfect.

I still love you, Dad.

Mama’s Got a Brand New Bag

Look at the new lunchbox I got for Christmas!  I’m super-excited because maybe now I won’t look like such a loser at school. 

That's right, I’m back at school.  It’s like one of those horrible dreams where you forgot to take a test, so you have to go back to your old classroom and pass the exam retroactively or they’ll render your very expensive college diploma null and void.  And so you wedge yourself into one of those old-fashioned desks with the ink wells and the attached chairs, even though they totally had pencils and separate furniture back when you were a kid, and all the 10-year-olds in the classroom point and laugh because you’re old and too fat to fit behind the desk, and it’s the wrong school anyway and it’s almost test time, so you attempt to sprint down the street in the direction of your old high school, which now bears a striking resemblance to a place you used to work, but your legs won’t move correctly and you keep falling down stairs.  Over and over you get up and attempt to run as fast as you can, but stairs keep appearing and you keep hurtling down them, prom dress tucked into your underwear, old-fashioned desk still girdled around your waist.

What?

Just kidding, I didn’t go back to school to take any tests—I went back to give the tests.  It’s true!  I now hold the esteemed position of on-call substitute teacher for an MCAS-challenged school district.  My specialty is run-on sentences.  And sentence fragments.  Can you believe that the public schools would let someone like me teach our nation’s children?  Me neither.  Such is the state of education in this country. 

Since I started back in September, it has been a very enlightening experience.  Let’s just say that I have my good days and I have my bad days.  The good days are marked by an incredible sense of well-being and purpose, like the euphoria you feel at the end of every single inspirational teacher movie ever made (Dead Poets Society, Stand and Deliver, Lean on Me, etc.).  Other days?  Well, other days the janitor arrives in the late afternoon to find me spackled to the white board in a hardened, partially soggy papier-mâché body cast of spitballs.  The only things visible are my dead eyes.  Sometimes the janitor makes me watch him sweep up the disaster of a classroom before he scrapes me down, because, apparently, my day hasn’t been bad enough.

But I am excited about my new lunch bag.  Lunch is my favorite part of the school day, for it is then that I may enjoy my hastily cobbled-together, room- temperature leftovers undisturbed, after I’ve had a chance to gingerly remove the thumbtacks from my asshole. 

Those tacks are mine now.  Take that!

Grocery Rage

  

I was in line at Russo’s the other day (our nearest quality produce market), and I was suddenly overcome with seething rage and not for the usual reasons.  I mean, yes, Russo’s is always a nightmare unless you get there between 8 and 10 a.m. on a weekday, which I hadn’t, and the cashier was slow, and my line had no bagger, and my kid was restless.  But those were not the direct reasons for my anger.  No, I was mad at the person in line in front of me who wasn’t bagging her own stuff.

Isn’t there some kind of unwritten rule about that?  That if there is no bagger present and you have two functioning limbs, that you should go ahead and starting placing your groceries into bags?  Even if you merely start the process, open the bag, toss a few things in, then let the cashier take over once it’s time to punch in the debit card info, shouldn’t you at least make a token effort?  A half-hearted show of being a good citizen?  

But no.  The obviously-new cashier was taking 15 excruciating minutes to tabulate the bill and this woman, who was possibly younger than me and from my vantage point quite able-bodied, was just standing there waiting for her to finish so the cashier could then begin the mounting task of (slowly) placing each thing into a bag.  No motion was made to help a sister out.

I find this kind of thing infuriating and, so, to try to calm myself down, I began speculating about the possible reasons why one wouldn’t put their own groceries into a bag.  Was she foreign?  Do they not have grocery stores in other countries?  Nope, I’ve definitely seen grocery stores in other countries.  Was she not aware of the bagging situation?  She brought her own reusable, recyclable bags, so she seemed to have some level of bag-related awareness.  She didn’t seem preoccupied with watching the prices as they were rung up to make sure no calculation errors were being made.  That might have been a reasonable excuse.  Maybe.  Was she going through some kind of divorce, job loss, health issue, complicated child-rearing situation, bereavement of any kind?  Impossible to say, but she didn’t seem anxious about anything at all.  She looked perfectly Zen and at ease with the world.  Does she simply enjoy spending her time standing in lines?  Is that her “me” time?

It seems moderately petty now that I’m recounting it.  Surely more egregious crimes of conduct have been committed at Russo’s, including but not limited to smashing your cart into someone’s Achilles tendon, maybe by accident, maybe not.  I’ve seen elderly women nearly get into fistfights over tangerines.  Clearly I was in an impatient mood, but I’m telling you, I was one step away from sidling over to the bagger’s station and, without breaking eye contact with Zen Woman, dropping her things into bags from a higher-than-necessary level. 

Well, now.  I thought cancer was supposed to make you a better, more forgiving person.  Guess not!

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.

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.

Insert Cherry Joke Here

Last month, we picked a whole bunch of cherries from Carver Hill Orchard in Stow, same as last year.  As I popped out the stems, rolling the orbs around in my mouth and pushing the stones out with my tongue, I thought about what flavors would work well with them.  Almonds, I thought.  Maybe the woodsy character of fresh rosemary.

So, I got to work on a tart.  I stripped the leaves from a sprig of rosemary into a mortar filled with sugar and ground it with a pestle until the leaves just started to abrade.  The idea was for the essential oils to be transferred to the sugar so the leaves could be sifted out.  I made a lovely lard crust, loaded it up with the pitted cherries and rosemary sugar, and sprinkled it with slivered almonds.  The result?

DIS. GUS. TING.

It was the worst pie I’ve ever made.  Ever.  The herbal “tinge” I was going for was harsh and overwhelming.  Like cough syrup, but chunky.  I would have sooner eaten chicken fried in castor oil.  (I did eat the crust, though.  At least that which was untainted with the blood of a thousand defiled cherries).  I really hope this new trend of mine, to derive culinary inspiration from the field of medicine, is only temporary.

A Long Overdue Conversation With My Dad

Even before a certain newspaper said certain things about the language on a certain blog, my dad has been chastising me for my “risqué” word choice and wayward subject matter.  Last Sunday was no different, except for the menu, which was (I’m almost ashamed to admit) bacon, cinnamon buns, hash browns, and mimosas.  It was the Lord’s day, after all.  (Apparently, the Lord doesn’t like vulgarity or vegetables.)

Me: So let me get this straight.  You’re trying to censor me?  On my own blog?

Him: I’m just saying you might want to tone it down a little.

Me: I am toning it down a little. 

Him: No, the bad language has definitely gone up over time.  If I were to go back to your earlier posts…

Me: Please don’t.

Him: …and chart a graph of profanity…

Me: A graph of profanity?

Him: …yes, a graph of profanity, I think you’d see that it has steadily gone up over the years.

Husband: It has.

Me: (to Husband) Oh, like you should talk.  (to Dad) So what?  It’s not like I’m using the f word in front of the kids.  We’re all adults on my blog.  With the possible exception of me.  I think I’m rather elegant in its usage?

Him: Elegant?

Me: Or something.

Him: Right.

Me: Maybe I like to swear.

Him: Apparently.

Me: Or maybe I’m rebelling.  You know, you did get off easy when I was a teenager.

Him: Rebelling?  What could you possibly have to rebel against?  You have the perfect father.  Modest, too.  The best kids.  The best…

Husband: …husband.

Him: …fine, the best husband.  See?  What’s to rebel against?  Everything’s coming up roses. 

Hmmmm.  That’s a toughie.  I wonder what in the fuck I could possibly be rebelling against? 

Sauerkraut Sadness

So, I let my sauerkraut sit just a little too long unattended and it rotted into a pile of brown, yeasty garbage.  It would seem that my strategy of putting the crock somewhere where we couldn’t smell it completely backfired.  Last year, the stench was my daily reminder to give it a little TLC.  At least peek in there.  Maybe rinse off the plate and the water jug weighing everything down.  Without the near-constant assault on my senses, though, benign neglect quickly turned into something decidedly more malignant. 

Sometime after the 20-day mark, all of the brine evaporated so that the cabbage was no longer submerged.  Remember Rule #1 of sauerkraut: the brine needs to completely cover the cabbage at all times to protect it from spoilage.  It must have been all the dry air.  Last year’s sauerkraut didn’t have this problem, but water content varies from cabbage to cabbage.  Had I been more consistent in my spot checks, I could have just added more salt water as needed.  Oh well.  You win some, you lose some.  I’m starting a new batch this week and, this time, I won’t fuck it up. 

And speaking of swearing, the Boston Globe reviewed my blog last week along with several others.  The Globe’s been very generous with their attention lately, so I really hope they’re planning on staying in business!

A Letter to KitchenAid

Dear KitchenAid:

I’m sad.  After only eight years of service, my beloved stand mixer is shot.

I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.  I got it as a wedding present.  It was one of those industrial-strength models with arms for extra stability, and it came with a note from one of my relatives that read, “Guaranteed to outlast your marriage!!!” or something heart-warming like that.  But guess what?  We’re still married.  And the mixer?  Kaput. 

This won’t do.  You see, I only got married for the KitchenAid.  That’s right, you heard me.  Do you think I could have afforded a luxury like that on an entry-level Spanish major’s salary?  No way.  Matrimony was my ticket to hands-free mixing for the rest of my life, ‘til death do us part.  Or so I thought.  The vows were a little unclear.  Now, I find out that KitchenAids don’t even outlast the average marriage.  In the U.S.  That ain’t good. 

Here’s how it all went down.  I was making bread.  I don’t usually use the mixer for bread dough because the motor, even at its lowest speed, always sounds like it’s going to have a heart attack.  Then I feel compelled to stand there and babysit it so it doesn’t waddle its way over to the counter’s edge and fling itself off in an act of euthanasia.  But I was on my third or fourth loaf of bread that month and my arthritis was starting to object to all the kneading, so I plugged in the dough hook, made the sign of the cross, and let the slappity-slapping begin.  After just a few seconds, the dough hook went dead.  The motor kept running, but the part where you plug in the attachments wouldn’t rotate even in an empty bowl.  In the weeks since then, I’d plug it back in periodically and turn it on to see if it was all just a bad dream, but no.  Finally, when I laid the defeated appliance on its back to copy down the serial number in order to write just such a letter as this, it hemorrhaged oil all over my counter. 

So, tell me, KitchenAid, what can be done?  I feel betrayed.  In these desperate economic times, can I count on you to stand behind the quality of your product and uphold the family values for which you have traditionally stood? Tell me the American dream still exists.  Tell me you will resurrect my fallen mixer at no charge to me.  And then tell me that, this time, it will outlast my marriage.  Because a girl needs something to cling to in her golden years.

Love,
Tammy Donroe

Aren’t We Overreacting To Our Poisonous Food Supply?

Here’s this week’s column up at BlogHer:

I mean, really. Salmonella-roasted peanuts? Vegetables full of E. coli. Corn syrup leaking out of broken thermometers into our cereal? Or something? What’s the big deal? The fact is, you’re 42 times more likely to be hit by a car on your way to the supermarket than to be poisoned by your groceries. I mean 41 times. Aaaaand now make that 38.

I don’t mean to trivialize the situation. As of today, contaminated peanut products were responsible for 575 illnesses and eight deaths, leading to one of the largest food recalls of all time. I’m not insensitive. I’m just saying it’s all relative. It’s nothing compared to the 30,000 anaphylactic reactions and 200 estimated deaths per year from eating perfectly good nuts and shellfish. There’s no need to panic!

What’s that? Okay, somebody just chimed in that more than half of these illnesses happened to children. So scratch the peanut argument. It’s going nowhere. Let’s just put adult faces on the numbers from now on, shall we? Like last year’s salmonella-tainted tomatoes from Mexico that sickened 1,200 people. That’s a lot of people, but it’s not like anybody died. At least, nobody could prove it was from the tomatoes. People die everyday and sometimes it’s just their time.

If you reach way back in your memory to 2006, you may recall that spinach sullied by E. coli killed three people and hospitalized a whole bunch more. Everyone was all, “How could this happen? Didn’t you wash the spinach?” And we were all “No, the label said you didn’t have to. That’s why we bought it.” And they were all, “What? Don’t you know we just slap some words on the label in whatever order is going to sell the product? Where’s your common sense?” And we were all, “I…don’t…know...”

The point is, that was dumb. You can’t ever believe anything anybody tells you, especially if it’s printed on a label. My kids tell me they don’t need a bath, and do I believe them? No. I plunge those little bundles of E. coli into soapy water no matter what they say.

But enough about filthy humans. Let’s talk about downer cows. Last year, more than 143 million pounds of beef were recalled, not because any person got sick but because the cows themselves were sick. And not just because they were sick, but because someone snuck in with a video camera and taped the sick cows being forklifted over to the slaughtering area. It’s weird because, if that videotape hadn’t surfaced, we never even would have known about it. All that beef would have been in circulation. Beef from cows that may or may not have carried mad cow disease, 37 million pounds of which were headed for school lunch programs. It’s also strange how sick feedlot cows get even though they’re pumped full of antibiotics night and day. It’s almost as though there must be some kind of explanation.

But, who cares about the cows? If we gave a crap about the cows, we wouldn’t be feeding them our leftover manufacturing waste products. What we should really be upset about are the puppies and kittens. Sixteen animals died and 14,000 got sick in 2007 from pet food contaminated with melamine from China. In fact, if it weren’t for that, it’s entirely possible we wouldn’t be paying any attention to our food supply whatsoever. It’s a well-known fact that people treat their pets far better than the rest of their families. Other potential facts: China’s unscrupulousness and our own government’s seeming inability to safeguard our food pipeline.

And do you know what’s funny about that? Now, even China doesn’t want our peanuts.

Pseudo-Chef Resurrected Once Again: Squash Edition

Guess what somebody Googled the other day, the parameters of which brought them straight to my blog?   Go on, guess.  No, wait, you’ll never guess. 

“How to fuck a squash” 

I kid you not.  And Food on the Food was number 1 out of 731,000!!!  Hmmmm.  I guess that’s what I get for being so loose with the four-letter words on my blog.  

Really, guy, I’m sorry to disappoint you with my paltry information on the subject, but if you’re that determined, I’m pretty sure you can figure it out for yourself.  Might I just suggest, however, that sex with an actual person is probably a whole lot more satisfying than sex with a vegetable.  Though having not had sex with too many vegetables in my time, maybe I’m not the best person to ask.  It’s just that squash tends not to be all that…animated.  Usually.  But I guess we’ve all had our dry spells.  So, anyway, roasting it is probably better than raw, I’m guessing (maybe 400°F for an hour?).  That should also make it easier to cut the hole.  Letting it cool a bit is a good idea.  (Men, let me know if I’m way off.  I don’t know what you all do in your spare time.)

I’m really surprised this never came up in our squash usage brainstorm last winter.

Anyway, for those of you who came here looking for something slightly less pornographic, here’s something better you can do with your extra squash.  Something very good, actually, from a blog you should know about.  Something that will hopefully erase any mental images of violated gourds.

It’s Electric

Today, at Codman Farm, I had the intense displeasure of seeing the beef freezer completely empty.  WTF?  Why is everyone so interested in local beef all of a sudden?  (P.S. This is the last time I’m sharing my local sources on the interweb.)

My consolation prize was to stock up on bacon and eggs, which, I’ll admit, did console me.  Temporarily.  Until I was jolted back to discomfort by the realization that, in my dreamy state, I had just allowed the Toddler to be shocked by the electric fence surrounding the goats. 

Oh, shit!

Did you know that goat kids and human kids respond similarly to electric shocks?  They respond quickly and without objection.  And the remorse is sincere. 

Parents respond, too:

Me: What kind of a mother are you?

Me: There’s no sign.  Oh look, now I can see where it’s hooked up to the electricity.  Wow, I bet that really…hurt.

Me: Go touch the fence.

Me: Why?

Me: To find out how bad it was.

Me: I’m scared.

Me: Have you no maternal instinct?

Me: Look, I would gladly touch the fence if it was going to spare him pain, but I don’t really think me touching the fence after the fact is going to help anyone. 

Anyway, I didn’t touch the fence.  The Toddler, with the extra sympathy he received, was back to a somewhat subdued version of his normal self in under 60 seconds.  So now I’m wondering if it would be wrong to employ electric fence technology in our own home?  Like encasing the Preschooler in a cage of low voltage to keep the Toddler from beating the crap out of him every minute of every day?  Any thoughts?

Potato Salad for the People

So, I hear that Chris Kimball, who presides over the Cook’s Illustrated/America’s Test Kitchen/Cook’s Country media empire, doesn’t like his recipes to be tampered with.  (Now, that’s a newsflash!  It’s like Nazi Germany in that test kitchen.)

The blogosphere is in a tizzy over the spanking Kimball’s PR rep gave Melissa at Alosha's Kitchen for posting an adaptation of a Cook’s Country potato salad recipe on her blog.  Which she had courteously credited.  You can get the short version of the story here, or the longer version here. 

I don’t want to take sides, but this is what I’ve gleaned from my blessedly brief foray into copyright law as it seems to be interpreted by our favorite bow-tied cook/publisher:

CI/ATK/CC Fair Use Policy

You can cook our recipes, but only if you’re going to do it right.  You can discuss the recipes, but not on the Internet.  Unless you have permission, which we probably won’t give you.  No modifications or improvisations of any kind are allowed.  We didn’t do all that work for nothing.  (Get your hand away from the spice cabinet—that’s not what the recipe says!)  Also, we did not approve the use of flash photography.  You may, however, draw a picture of your meal, as long as you’re one of our certified artists.  But not if you stink at drawing.  As for the finished dish, let us taste it first and then maybe you can eat it.  Maybe.

That seems like an awful lot of trouble for some potatoes in a little mayonnaise, but I guess running a perfection-based business is no small feat.  Which brings me to my reason for posting.  It must really suck when somebody beats you to perfection.  Especially someone of my questionable talent.  But I seem to have stumbled onto a potato salad that people just will not stop eating.  God, why won’t they stop?  Save some for me.

Really, it couldn’t be any simpler.  My dumb cat can make it.  It was tested maybe three times, without measuring spoons, by a panel of one (1.5, if you count Mr. Nathan).  Still, I’d be willing to submit it to the Cook’s Illustrated taste testers for critique.  They’re uncanny.  If you spit into one of their pies, they can totally tell which one.

Potato Salad for the People

Oh, come on, lighten up.  It’s potato salad, for crying out loud.

12 medium red-skinned potatoes from your farmer, scrubbed (maybe 2 lbs.?)
1 small red onion, large dice
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh dill
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard (or more; sometimes I use prepared horseradish)
1 cup or so of mayo (sometimes I sub in lowfat yogurt for part of this)
1 tsp. salt (heaping is best)
Lotsa black pepper (yes, lotsa is a standard unit of measurement in my kitchen)

Boil potatoes in their jackets in a pot of salted water, 20-25 minutes until easily pierced with knife but before they explode.  Drain and let cool.  Do not peel.

Take about half of the potatoes and mash them in a large bowl or pot.  Yes, mash them good, as if you’re Chris Kimball and the potatoes represent the very soul of cooking.  With the remaining potatoes, mash them ever so gently so that you end up with large chunks of potato that break along their own natural fault lines.  Add the onion, dill, mustard, and half of the mayo, and start mixing.  Add more mayo until you get the consistency that you, the people, are looking for.  I like it thick, so you can scoop it with an ice cream scoop and put it on a cone if you feel like it.  Just kidding, Chris Kimball (blowing kisses).  I’m never going to work in this town again, am I?  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Chill for several hours.  Share it with your friends.

(Don’t try to steal this, Chris Kimball.  It’s copyrighted.)

(I’m serious, I have my eye on you.)

I Always Knew She Was a Terrorist

Okay, fine.  I’ll put down the sander and write something about Rachael Ray.  Sheesh.

It’s been a long time coming, Ms. Congeniality, but you’ve finally been outed as the terrorist you are.  God.  I mean, all that smiling should have been the first clue.  There’s absolutely nothing in this world worth smiling that much about unless you have murderous jihad on your mind.  And her constant cooking?  I hear terrorists love to cook things up.  And when they set the timer for 30 minutes, they really mean exactly 30 minutes.

As for the scarf, I can’t really get too worked up about it.  No matter what you call it, it’s just a goddamned scarf.  To me, a scarf symbolizes a warm neck and little else.  But ask anybody and they’ll tell you I’m not much for accessorizing.  I do wear pants, however.  Are the terrorists known to don the occasional trouser?  And will I, therefore, no longer be allowed to wear pants?  If so, thank Allah, because I’m sick of putting them on every time I have to leave the house.

Anyway, I’m willing to let the scarf go, but I still think Rachael Ray should be added to our Most Wanted list for her other crimes against humanity.  Along with Michelle Malkin for trying to dictate a dress code for Americans.  That’s often the first step in your garden-variety extremism. 

As for you, Dunkin’ Donuts, you may have surrendered this battle the same way you gave up on the quality of your doughnuts, but your reign of terror continues.

Yup, Still in Therapy

We haven’t really gotten to the heart of the matter that landed me in therapy, have we?  And the clock’s a-tickin’.  Very soon I’ll be back on farm property, at which point I’ll have to figure out a way to summon some semblance of composure. 

So, let’s see what else Dr. Typepad has up his sleeve:

Him: I had an idea that might help you work through some of your feelings for the Farmer that you haven’t felt like discussing so far.  Why don’t we try role-playing?

Me: (sigh) Fine.  But, only if I get to be the Farmer.

Him: Well, I was thinking I would be the Farmer and you would be yourself…

Me: (yawn)

Him: …but since you’re the patient, we’ll try it your way. 

Me: Okay.  How do we start?

Him: Let’s set the stage.  You should pick a location that makes you feel comfortable.

Me: Hmmmm...oh, I know.  There are these stairs in the horse barn that go way the hell up to somewhere.  I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.

Him: Probably just a hayloft.  But all right, if that’s what you want.  So, since I’m you, why don’t I begin so you can feel empowered by the fact that you’re initiating the dialogue?

Me: Yeah, whatever’s going to make this go faster.

Him: Are you ready?  So, Farmer.  There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.  I’ve been experiencing feelings that go beyond the typical Farmer/CSA member relationship and I was hoping we could talk about them.  Now you.

Me: Okay, um…I’m glad you brought this up, Tammy, because ever since that day we met, when you were trying to unstake the tomatoes with an incompetence never before seen on a farm, I can’t get you out of my mind. 

Him: Okay, stop.  The idea here is that you try to be realistic about his response. 

Me: No, it’s true.  I totally sucked with those tomatoes. 

Him: As the farmer, you want to be receptive, but not too forthcoming.  Remember, this may not be an entirely welcome development.

Me: (sigh)

Him: Let’s try it again.  Here we go.  So, Farmer, given the standard Farmer/CSA member interaction as outlined by the Massachusetts Department of Agriculture, I’d rather address these feelings now to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

Me: Okay, this is stupid.  That’s not even how I talk. 

Him: Well, how would you say it, then?

Me: I don’t know.  Something like, you know, this probably isn’t what the Eat Local people had in mind when they talk about forging new relationships with local growers.  But none of the Locavore literature warned me about this.  And Drumlin’s web site certainly didn’t offer up any clues.  I’m used to just going to the store and all the vegetables are laid out all shiny and pretty, like storks dropped them out of the sky or something.  It’s kind of a sterile arrangement, I guess, so I wasn’t prepared for the close and sudden bond you feel with the kind stranger who feeds you.  How intimate the relationship between cook and farmer would be.  Not intimate that way, necessarily, but you know, I mean, the way he pulls stuff out of the ground with his bare hands?  No, scratch that part.  But, you see how much work goes into it, how much care, and everything tastes sooooo good.  …Um, you’re standing kind of close, don’t you think?

Him: Kiss me.

Me: What??  I’m not supposed to be kissing the Farmer, remember?

Him: Special circumstances. 

What is up with my therapist, can somebody please tell me? 

So, whatever, I kissed him.  Was that wrong?

Who Wants to Be a Moron? (Major Appliance Edition)

Well, I’m surprised it took me this long to get to our second installment of Who Wants to be a Moron?, but here we are at last.  As always, the object of the game is for you to make me feel better by providing SPECIFIC scenarios in which you were stupider than I was.

First, let me just say that there’s been a lot of vomit in our house lately.  Just the Toddler’s, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in volume and frequency.  As a result, nobody’s been getting much sleep around here, and the laundry and dishes have been piling up.  Not a good time for a major appliance to break. 

The trouble started with a jeweled goblet (doesn’t it always?).  We got one for each kid at a medieval-themed birthday party over the weekend.  The Preschooler became so enamored with his goblet that he has since requested that all of his beverages be supplied in a vessel encrusted with rhinestones.  Luckily, our entire house is constructed of rhinestones, so this is not a problem.

For some reason that even I can’t understand, it ended up in the dishwasher.  By my own hand.  (The left is blaming the right, and the right is blaming the left, but I know my precious left hand would never do such a thing.)

Does this look dishwasher-safe to you?

How about now?

The gems have mysteriously disappeared, which may explain the horrible grinding sound emanating from the dishwasher motor.  It's worse than fingernails against a chalkboard.  I’m sure the trolls that live deep within the manifold (kin to the sock-stealing trolls that inhabit the dryer) are dancing a gleeful jig right now, proclaiming, “We’re rich!  We’re rich!  We’ll never work again!” 

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to break the news to Husband.  Maybe I’ll just wait until he reads it on my blog!

So, spill it, people.  Has anyone ever destroyed a major appliance in a more idiotic fashion?  Please spare me no details.  I need something to carry me through all of the dishwashing that lies ahead of me.  In keeping with the bacon prize theme, I have some lovely bacon band-aids for the person who has the best story.  Ah, the healing power of pork products…

Misunderstanding Michael Pollan: The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Chapter 4

We’re finally to a topic near and dear to my heart.  Meat.  Unfortunately, Michael Pollan didn’t have anything good to say about it.  At least not in this chapter.  In fact, he basically did the equivalent of taking a perfectly good rib eye steak, stomping on it, dragging it through the mud/feces, then really grinding it in there with the sole of his shoe.  I don’t mean to shoot the messenger, but thanks a lot, Michael Pollan.

I guess it’s not really new news that cows in industrial feedlots don’t have good lives.  Though they spend their early months out in the country, they’re then brought to special fattening factories designed to bring you meat as cheaply as possible, by whatever means possible.  Pollan writes:

“America’s food animals have undergone a revolution in lifestyle in the years since World War II.  At the same time as much of America’s human population found itself leaving the city for the suburbs, our food animals found themselves traveling in the opposite direction, leaving widely dispersed farms in places like Iowa to live in densely populated new animal cities.  These places are so different from farms and ranches that a new term was needed to denote them: CAFO—Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation.”

In other words, ghetto.  Pollan goes on to describe the living conditions of these animals, which include, but are not limited to, filth, squalor, a highly caloric yet malnourishing diet, and drugs.  Sounds vaguely familiar.  Force-feeding the cows corn, which their bodies are not designed to eat, means they are riddled with health problems.  Compound that with crappy medical insurance, low test scores, and high unemployment, and you're not looking at an optimistic group.  And although the teen pregnancy situation seems to be under control, you can pretty much count on all the young, bright ones being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We haven’t done a great job dealing with this plight for human populations, so I doubt the cows stand much of a chance.  However, since I know that I personally have contributed to this situation by eating large quantities of disgusting-yet- somehow-still-delicious CAFO beef, I’d like to be a part of the solution.  Growing up in suburban Boston as I did, my suggestion is this. 

Busing.

If cheap corn is the problem, and I think Pollan is saying that it is—that we can’t afford NOT to feed every living creature government-subsidized corn—we need to find not just a source of cheap grass to compete, but free grass.  And I know just the place.  The suburbs. 

We’ll just bus the cows from their midwestern slums right into the posh coastal suburbs.  We can use the old Boston school buses with the tinted windows you still see every once in a while so the Kow Klux Klan doesn’t hurl corn cobs at them as they drive by.  Then we’ll set the cows loose on all those juicy green lawns.  Maybe not so much where I live, but over there on the right side of the tracks.  They’ll munch away, then move on to the other side of the fence where the grass really is greener. 

You homeowners with the good school systems might object at first, but think of all the money you’ll save on landscaping fees.  Plus, the system is self-fertilizing, and with the absence of lawnmowers, the only thing to offend your ears will be the occasional bout of cow flatulence.  A small price to pay for a better world, I think.

A Letter to Shaw's

Dear Fellow Grocery Shoppers,

Sorry for the horrific scene at the supermarket today.  I don’t usually lose my temper like that in public, but one’s own offspring are experts in staking out the boundaries between sanity and what lies beyond it so that they may be the first to map out this uncharted territory.  And then use it for extortion later on in life.

I know your Very Important Buying Decisions aren’t made any easier by the sounds of two wailing children.  Believe me, it’s louder where I’m standing.  (Except for the old lady with the hearing aid turned up to maximum.  I know you didn’t see that one coming.)  But the lesson they have to learn is that the rules aren’t going to change no matter how much they scream.  Or at least that’s the lesson the Toddler needs to learn.

I don’t like scenes.  I go to great lengths to avoid scenes.  It’s possible that the Toddler has figured this out.  But if the choice boils down to teaching a valuable lesson that makes some noise or giving in on an important point just to keep everyone happy, well, sometimes the unpleasant thing is the responsible choice.  They can learn the lesson from me now, or from someone else much later.  Someone who doesn’t love them nearly as much as I do. 

And did you notice that we got through checkout with nary a peep?  That’s right.  I expect our next shopping trip will go much more smoothly. 

Enjoy your Ho Hos.  Good day.

Tammy

Awesome, Quoted in the Boston Globe!

Have a look.

Wow, that was harsh.  Too bad I never wrote or said any such thing.  Nor was I ever contacted about it.  Plus, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t say something like that about a community Web site. 

I guess the Globe uses the same standards for ethics and accuracy that I use on my blog!

On Race and Cookies

The Preschooler is such an earnest little guy, yet he still manages to freak me out sometimes.  Grab some popcorn and let’s watch:

Him: What are those things called? 

Me: What things?

Him: They’re people.

Me: Uh-huh.

Him: They look just like us, but they’re brown.

Me: …Uh… (oh, god)

Him: Sometimes they sing.  Like in Shrek.

Me: …Urgh… (we’re not in public, are we?)

Him: And you cook them and eat them?

Me: … (oh, shit, what have I been teaching this child?)

Him: Wait, I know.  Gingerbread men!

Me: Oh, thank god.

Him: Can we make some?

Me: Yes!  RIGHT NOW.  I don’t care if it’s March.

Turns out the only racist in this family is me.

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.

In Which I Mistake My Son’s Birthday Party for a Bender

   

If you think I made this cake, than you’re drunker than I ended up being at the Preschooler’s 5th birthday party. 

Nope, this R2-D2 cake was all Husband’s doing.  In fact, he was responsible for planning the entire Star Wars-themed event.  I am in no way robot-oriented, and I think I’ve mentioned before how I feel about making homemade birthday cakes.  All I did was line the pans with parchment paper to increase his odds of success.  Came out pretty good, huh?

But, back to my misbehavior. 

First, let me start out by saying that I’m not a huge drinker.  I may talk a big game because I love my tequila, among other things, but I’m not generally indulging in large quantities of the stuff.  This is mostly because I’ve found that if Life sees you too happy, Life will spend the next week and a half getting you back.

This morning, the sky dumped a whole bunch more snow on top of us and threatened to break a small boy’s heart.  Global warming, you are a fickle friend, indeed.  If not for some neighbors with a sled and a few die-hard friends who were willing to risk their lives on the roads for a little cake and ice cream, it would have been quite a different sort of day.

Husband was busy frosting the cake in the hour before the party, so I went outside to shovel a path to our house, starting with our 4 million stairs.  At some point during this process, the snow changed to sleet, so I got to the bottom just in time to start from the top again with the heavy stuff.  Then, I frantically shoveled out what I thought would be parking spots for two cars.  Nope, just one and a half cars.  That rounds down to one car, in case you were wondering.  So, our friend Ed and I tried shoveling out a different snow bank for another half a car (rounding down to zero cars) and on and on.

I don’t usually start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, but, you know, it just seemed like a good time.  Turns out bourbon goes down smoother than expected when you’ve had nary a cool, refreshing drink of water after your exertions.  Here are the bits and pieces I remember from the party:

• The kids beating the crap out of each other with inflatable light sabers.  And me laughing.

• The kids enjoying their pizza with Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing playing noticeably in the background (the kids didn’t bat an eye; meanwhile, all the adults were giggling like sixth graders).

• As the cake was finally unveiled, me screaming at Husband, “Stop trying to show me up on my own blog,” and storming out in a jealous rage.  (Did that even happen?  Maybe I just dreamt that when I was passed out after the party.)

Anyway, it all kind of reminded me of that 30 Rock party scene (the one where Tina Fey’s character vomits on somebody and immediately stuffs another cupcake into her mouth).  Except that I was the only one who was drunk, and most of the other guests were under 5. 

I don’t know what the Preschooler thought about how this party compared to the others in his short life, but as far as I’m concerned, it was the best one EVER.