FOOD ON THE FOOD

Sweet Corn Ice Cream

Sweet corn ice cream has been making appearances on late summer dessert menus all over town, from Commonwealth to Moody’s Backroom, so I decided to make some myself with fresh, local corn. After all, sweet corn is one of summer’s masterpieces. I love it boiled, grilled, chowdered, even raw. Why not celebrate all that sweetness?

What I came up with tastes exactly like corn on the cob. Like, exactly, down to the butter and salt. It’s uncanny, which can be good or bad depending on whether your mind is willing to accept two seemingly disparate worlds colliding: the world of ice cream and the world of corn on the cob. These flavor/texture hybrids can be very polarizing. The 12YO and I were in agreement that it was delicious, but the 10YO refused to try it and Husband hated it. Why? Because it tastes exactly like corn on the cob...but it's ice cream.

So here’s the recipe. Disgusting or delightful? You be the judge.


Sweet Corn Ice Cream 

The salt content is intentionally high to give it that special stand-alone corn-on-the-cob flavor. For a less salty variation to be served alongside, say, blackberry cobbler, reduce the salt by half or more to taste, but do keep a pinch.

4 ears of corn, husked
2 cups milk
2 large eggs (local or pasteurized)
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
2 cups heavy cream

Using the large holes on a box grater, shave the corn off the cobs and add to a medium saucepan along with the cobs, broken in half. (Alternatively, you can cut the corn off the cobs and run the kernels through a food processor.) Add the milk to the pan and bring to a simmer. Remove the pan from the heat and let the mixture infuse, cobs and all, for 1 hour. Cover the pan and place in the refrigerator to steep overnight.

Remove the cobs from the mixture and discard. Strain the milk mixture into a medium bowl, pressing down on the corn with a spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Reserve the strained corn for another use.*

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs for 1 to 2 minutes. Whisk in the sugar a little at a time, then the salt, and whisk for 1 minute more. Add the strained milk mixture as well as the cream. Whisk for another minute until the sugar is dissolved. Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions (usually spin for 25 minutes). Transfer the churned mixture into a freezer-safe container. Freeze until firm, at least 8 hours.

*If your poached corn still has some flavor left as mine did, don’t throw it away. You can toss it with cooked Israeli couscous or orzo, halved cherry tomatoes, slivered basil, and goat cheese for a delicious lunch.

 

Local Ingredients:
Corn: Lanni Orchards, Lunenburg, MA
Milk: Stonyfield Farms, Londonderry, NH
Eggs: Chestnut Farm, Hardwick, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Unexpected Trout

We recently went camping at Cape Cod's Nickerson State Park. The weather was unbelievably gorgeous, an extension of the flawless weather we had all summer: warm, dry, sunny. Such streaks make me feel like we're going to pay come winter. Think Pompeii, but with snow.

Meanwhile, back in paradise, Husband enjoyed fishing in the nearby pond, where he caught a pickerel and a rainbow trout.

Husband always throws the fish back after the obligatory Kodak moment, and they immediately dart away. But the trout was having issues. His hook had been stubbornly lodged and it was difficult to remove. I'll spare you the details, but he wasn't going to make it despite Husband's heroic attempts to revive him, stopping just short of mouth-to-mouth.

But we were camping, after all. I waited a few seconds out of respect before I brought up the concept of dinner. My kind-hearted husband looked mildly disgusted, but, I mean, the fish was already dead. I can't think of any more appropriate camping food than local trout. Sure, I'd just driven to the local fish market and bought a couple of swordfish steaks and a pound of mussels for the grill, but, you know, free trout!

I carried the fish back to the campsite in a bucket. I cleaned and gutted the fish, removing the gills and the blood line along the backbone, and then stuffed the cavity with lemon slices and herbs. Then we grilled it whole over the campfire. It took a little time to remove all the bones in the dark with my miner's headlamp, but the meat was mild and tasty, and went nicely with a green salad.

We enjoyed our swordfish and mussels, too, but perhaps next time I'll wait until Husband is done with his fishing before I run off for provisions!

Rose Hip Jam

On the second day of our Cape Cod vacation, a note was deposited on our windshield. It informed us that the beach we were walking to—the beach we've always walked to—is a private neighborhood association beach and we're not allowed to use it. The neighborhood stops at our rental house. We're also not allowed to walk down the dirt road in that direction.

It's true that there's a sign on the weathered split-rail fence that says the area towards the beach is private. The neighborhood both before and after the sign is modest and quiet with shingled Capes tucked in with scrubby oaks and beach plum shrubs, houses becoming more stacked and cantilevered as you approach the shore. Over the past decade, we've rented a house within that boundary as well as our current one just outside it. We've always walked the same five-minute route to the beach out of habit. There are no boundary markers on the beach and we've never had a problem. The sign seemed more like an attempt to keep people straight off of 6A from treating the little neighborhood like a public parking lot. Surely it didn't matter if a couple of kids and their parents flip-flopped their way in that direction, buckets and shovels in hand. The note indicated otherwise.

I'm nothing if not a rule-follower, so we lugged all our stuff in the opposite direction of the ocean, as per the notice, and then hung a left to get to the officially sanctioned beach associated with our property. It took twice as long, the whole time muttering stuff under my breath:

Think they're too good for us.
Don't want our footsteps sullying their dirt road.
They think they can own the beach. YOU CAN'T OWN A BEACH!!

Actually, they can, interrupted Husband, who will always put a technicality ahead of marital harmony. Why do you think waterfront property is so expensive?

Yeah, well, do they own the air hovering over the beach? Do they own the wind???

I smiled as I imagined fanning the smoke from our grill over the fence in that direction come suppertime. (Real mature, Tammy. Maybe this is why they don't want you there.)

Deeded beach rights means they own the land all the way up to the water line, he continued.

God, he can be so infuriating sometimes! I envisioned myself standing exactly at the water's edge, back to the ocean, water lapping my heels, directly in front of whomever put that note on our car as they tried to enjoy their now-obstructed view. Just standing there. Staring quietly. For hours.

If only I had the stamina for revenge.


I was so busy being indignant that I almost missed all the beautiful beach roses growing along the side of the road on this new route. Scores of rose hips, too, brilliant red- and orange-colored fruits the size of squat radishes swelling from thorny stems among the splayed, rosy blossoms. I've been wanting to make rose hip jelly for years, but never had a plentiful source. Maybe this would be the proverbial lemonade?


We emerged from the path to take in the new coastal view. We were surprised to discover that it was the exact same beach. The other path was literally a stone's throw away, and I don't even have a very good arm. All that extra walking to get to the same place? It basically brought us to the other side of the family that had camped out by the original path.

Really? Is this what things have come to? Making a big goddamned deal about petty rules that amount to nothing? Who has that kind of time? (Says the girl who guards her parking spot like a vigilante.)

Anyway, whatever, we needed the exercise. All those vacation doughnuts weren't going to work themselves off, so I took that opportunity to ask around about the rose hips (I had already reached my quota of windshield admonishments for the week). One guy said he used to own property along the path and all the houses on it were rentals. Probably nobody would mind if I took a few rose hips. So I did. A few stuffed in a pocket here, a few more tucked into the beach bag there. By the end of the trip, I had a small sack filled with the fruits while making no dent in the supply whatsoever.

When we got home, I made two sweet little jars of rose hip jam, and that has made all the difference.

(For the basic technique and ratios, go here.)

 

Grilled Bluefish

Summer vacation may be all but over, but there are still plenty of good grilling days left. While we were away, Husband arranged a chartered fishing trip in Cape Cod Bay. We left on the Janine B out of Sesuit Harbor in Dennis and headed over to Wellfleet waters where the bluefish had been biting the day before. It was a beautiful, sunny day, cool and dry like much of the past few weeks, and it was gorgeous out on the water with the terns trilling pleasantly overhead. The first mate said they had seen dolphins earlier that week.

We got lucky early on, and caught two bluefish right away, one by Husband and an even bigger one by the 11YO in what he described as "an epic fight." Then it was quiet for the rest of the trip. All the other boats in the area reported the same thing. The fish stopped biting. We were lucky to get the two—some boats got nothing. Husband had hoped to catch more, but he made up for it later in the week when he nabbed several snappers off his parents' dock on an estuary abutting Nauset Marsh. Snappers are smaller, younger bluefish. Husband caught and released them while the kids caught crabs off the dock by lowering a clothespin tied to the end of a string, crabs snapping greedily at the cold cuts clamped in its dentureless wooden jaws.

For the big bluefish, I grilled it in traditional Cape Cod fashion, slathered in mayonnaise, mustard, lemon juice, and dill. The grill at our rental property is on its last legs, swaying in the slightest breeze, so our neighbors who spent a week with us rigged some kind of wire scaffolding around and through it to keep it from collapsing and spilling hot coals all over our bare feet. I'm happy to report that it worked, and this fish came out moist and delicious. Even the 8YO, a young man of few words, was overheard telling his brother: Your fish was sooo good!



Grilled Bluefish  

I find bluefish doesn't freeze particularly well, and the flavor of this already assertive fish gets stronger and stronger the longer it sits, so cook your bluefish right away or keep it in ice water for up to 24 hours for best results.

2 lbs. bluefish fillets
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 heaping teaspoon Dijon mustard
2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill
Salt and pepper to taste

Cut the bluefish into eight portions. Mix together the mayonnaise, mustard, lemon juice, dill, and salt and pepper in a small bowl. Slather the fish on all sides with the sauce and let it sit at room temperature while preparing the coals. Oil the grill grate with a wad of paper towels and a pair of tongs.

Grill the fish skin side down for about 5 minutes or so depending on how hot your fire is. You want prominent grill marks on the bottom and, when viewed from the side, the flesh of the fish should be lighter in color on the bottom half than the top half. Using a large, sturdy spatula, scrape up the fish and flip it over gently so it doesn't fall apart. Cook another 5 minutes or so until it's cooked through but still moist and respectably grill-marked. Serves 8.

Vacation Fishing

Last week, we were on vacation at our friend's lake house on the New York- Pennsylvania line. Everyone got lucky with the fishing this year. We must have caught at least 20 fish, mostly sunfish and various basses (largemouth, smallmouth, and rock). All six kids caught one or more fish under Husband's patient tutelage.

I enjoy fishing, but I'm in it more for the relaxation aspect. The prospect of dinner used to be a big draw until I realized how long it takes to catch an actual fish, and how small and bony river and lake fish tend to be. So now I'm just happy to spend hours casting about with no real action until my hook inevitably gets wedged between some rocks or tangled in a clump of water weeds. That's my cue to call it quits.

This year, though, I caught two fish, including the large-mouthed bass pictured above. It was quite unexpected. I mean, just look at what I'm wearing. That is not the outfit of a serious fisherman. I assumed I was foolishly trying to reel in another rock because my rod was bent so severely, the weight so heavy and unyielding, but then an actual fish jumped out of the water as I struggled to reel it in. It was the biggest fish of the week and by far the biggest fish I've ever caught (if you don't count this one). We removed the hooks and put our catch into a kiddie pool filled with lake water on the dock so the kids could observe the different species and build shelters for them out of rocks. By then, they're almost like pets. We let them all go before dinner each night.

Our lakeside fish-fry will have to wait another year.

In Which I Harness My Inner Drummer

 Over the weekend, we made a short video on how to make one of my favorite healthy winter recipes: black bean and sweet potato chili. Since it's not going to be used for its original purpose, I thought I'd share it here. I've included the outtakes, too, because, let's face it, that's always the best part of any video production.

Editing the footage drew my attention to some of my more annoying cooking habits, one of which you might detect in the first video. If you don't notice it there, you'll definitely notice it in the second. As always, please disregard the gratuitous ass shot on the blooper reel. This time, Husband was to blame. It's kind of becoming my trademark. Also, I might need skin grafts for my mouth.

The Kitchen-Bathroom Effect

We live in a house that's nearly a century old. It has its charms (crown molding, hardwood floors, beautiful built-in cabinets), and it has its quirks (no insulation, drafty windows, a heating system that requires a manual water top-off every few days). One of the quirks of the house is that the downstairs half-bathroom, a later renovation made possible by sealing off the back entryway and converting it into a windowless closet of a room, is unprivately located between our stove and kitchen table. I mean, there's a door and everything, but there might as well not be. The noisy fan may give the illusion of privacy once you're cloistered within, but don't be fooled: everyone can still hear what's going on. If the spirit should happen to move you during dinner, you'd best take your business upstairs.

The other night, we were finishing up our spaghetti dinner. By "we," I mean "I" was finishing up. I'm always the last one done by a good 5 to 10 minutes, during which time I force the kids to remain at the table and give me details about their day. (It's amazing what you can find out when dessert is on the line.) This strategy doesn't work on Husband, however, who in his impatience had disappeared into the water closet.

Twirling my spaghetti, I began to hear some rumbling coming from that direction. The boys looked at each other and started giggling. A brief pause, and then the noises increased in volume and intensity. More giggling. By now, I recognized Husband's trademark theatrics. I paused with my spooled pasta halfway to my mouth while the sounds built up to an unsettling crescendo that defied physics in its interpretation of solid, liquid, and gas. I waited several seconds more to make sure he was done and to try to settle my gag reflex before finally allowing the still-suspended forkful of spaghetti to pass my lips. But then, mid-chew, it started up again, just as zealous as before—if not more so—like the encore of an overeager garage band or the delayed finale of the Waltham fireworks.

His symphony complete, Husband emerged to take a bow and bask in the accolades of the children:

Him: I knew it would be a crowd-pleaser.

Me: It was only 66.6% percent crowd-pleasing.

Him: I think any comedian would take those odds.

Honestly, I'm surprised it took him 11 years to think of it.

Dash Away All

Whoops, looks like Santa forgot one of his reindeer last night!

That's what I said when I saw the deer in our backyard on Christmas Day and gathered the children to see. Husband threw a sharp glance my way, as if to say it was no wonder I never landed a children's book deal. Santa abandoning one of his reindeer? A lost and lonely reindeer that can't find his way back to the North Pole? Kids love that kind of plot tension. They love it so much that they cry themselves to sleep at night. Or worse, they can't sleep at all. Then Santa never gets the "all clear" to come down the chimney at night so when the teary-eyed children finally slump their way downstairs at sunrise and turn their bloodshot gaze toward the tree, they'll find no presents under it at all. Well done, Tammy. Thanks for ruining Christmas for years to come!

Dude, reindeer totally know their way back to the North Pole, I tried to convey to Husband telepathically in my return glare. They do this thousands of times. They have mad homing skills.

Thousands of times? Husband wants to know what I think the average life expectancy of a reindeer is. Especially reindeer with off-the-charts occupational hazards.

I have no idea what the average life span of a reindeer is, but I figure the sky's the limit for "magical, flying reindeer." Flying reindeer that surely have GPS capabilities. And let's not underestimate the effectiveness of dead reckoning. There was still plenty of snow on the ground to bang out some quick calculations with its hooves.

Husband made a strong mental suggestion that I not use "dead reckoning" and "reindeer" in the same sentence in front of the children on Christmas Day. Sounds like some kind of reindeer apocalypse.

But then the 11YO interrupted our silent staring contest to say, That's not a reindeer, it's a white-tailed deer.

Yeah, Mommy, said the 8YO. That doesn't even look like a reindeer.

I shot a smug look at Husband as if to say, See, everything's fine! Which, judging by his look of disgust, he must have interpreted as, Reindeer, white-tailed deer—either way it's venison for dinner!!

Oh well. At least I got the last word.

The Most Magical Place on Earth

We're back from Disney World!

We all had a really good time. Yes, even me thanks to a hot tip from reader Sarabeth about the funnel cakes at Sleepy Hollow. They were by far my favorite Disney ride—slow-moving and delicious!



(I'm like a bird of prey tearing apart a carcass, all business and talons. Do NOT try to get between me and my funnel cakes.)

Together with Husband, the 10YO conquered Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, and Soarin', Epcot's high-flying hang-glider simulator. The 8YO and I decided to sit those out. After a rocky start on a Star Wars flight simulator on the first day, the 8YO refused to go on any more rides involving: 1. Darkness; 2. Speed; and 3. Loud Noises. Can't say that I blame him. That left him and I to our own devices on the more subdued PeopleMover, the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse, and the Innoventions pavilion at Epcot where we learned all about saving money, diversification, and inflation. The 8YO enjoyed the piggy bank activity more than I thought he would, but I don't think the financial lessons really sunk in. That's okay. I find any advice about fiscal restraint given by the Disney Corporation to be highly suspect.

Other things we enjoyed: eating in the different countries at Epcot (Japan, Germany, Norway), the safari tour and exotic bird show at Animal Kingdom, and the Monsters Inc. Laugh Floor (a sort of animated audience-participation improv show, which proved highly entertaining with the right audience). Husband particularly liked Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin, a target-shooting game. He racked up hundreds of thousands of points, more than the kids and I combined plus the people in the three cars behind us. The second time around, he doubled his score while the rest of us showed no significant improvement. I asked if he had any tips. Are there higher scoring targets somewhere I don't know about or some special technique besides, as he suggested, "just being awesome"? Nope. I'm a terrible shot, plain and simple. Here's a tip for you: in any kind of extreme survival scenario where we need to bear arms, be sure to stay far, far away from me.

Maybe you already know this, but everyone is so unbelievably happy at Disney World, it's ridiculous. The kids are happy, the adults are happy, even the groundskeepers seem totally psyched to pick up trash off the street. It was a little contagious. After the 15th time someone addressed me as "Princess" and told me to "Have a magical day," instead of punching them (my first instinct), I was all, "YES, I WILL HAVE A MAGICAL DAY!! BUT ONLY IF YOU HAVE A MAGICAL DAY, TOO!!!" And then I jumped and clicked my heels together without the slightest hint of sarcasm. (Needless to say, this attitude wore off as soon as we returned to Logan, so we're back to nobody calling me "Princess" unless they want to be punched, just FYI.)

What else? Oh, the kids got to have their pictures taken with Phineas and Ferb at Hollywood Studios. I did NOT get to meet the real-live Perry the Platypus. He was nowhere to be found. I even checked the shark tank at Epcot in case they made a terrible mistake. But the 8YO found some pretty sweet Perry the Platy-mouse ears so I took a picture with him instead.

Turns out mid-November is a good time to go to Disney. True, you have to put up with Christmas decorations everywhere and the incessant carols, but the weather was still warm enough for the kids to swim everyday in the giant Nemo-themed pool at our resort. The parks weren't overly crowded and, thanks to Husband's excellent planning with the fast passes, we barely waited in any lines at all. No lines = magic. No lines + funnel cakes + margaritas by the pool with a copy of Hyperbole and a Half = MAGIC!!!

But enough yammering on. I hear there's a raffle to be won, so let's cut to the chase. The winners of the signed copies of my book WINTERSWEET are:

Blaine (commenter 21)
Amy (commenter 5)
NurseJen (commenter 19)
Millie (commenter 20)

I know the numbers seem clustered together, but Random.org assures me that that's how actual randomness works. "Random" does not mean numbers evenly scattered across a defined range. It means that anything can happen, even three people in a row. (And since I recognize the winners as long-time readers, I'm fine with that.)

But weren't there supposed to be five winners, Tammy? Five? Did you leave your ability to count at the Magic Kingdom along with all of your money?

No, smarties, the fifth and final winner was handpicked by me because without those funnel cakes, the Magic Kingdom would have been much less magical (for me anyway). Therefore, the fifth winner is:

Sarabeth (commenter number 13)

Winners, I'll be in touch. And thanks to everyone for all the nice compliments about my appearance. I don't know what possessed all of you, but I feel as pretty as a…well...princess!

Ow!!! I just punched myself! Stupid reflex.

Happy Thanksgivukkah!!

Captain Frosty

Husband is a bit of a comic genius. He's especially good with voices and has several in his repertoire, including Maniac Mushroom Hunter. That's me, in case you couldn't guess. I went through a long mushroom phase, which I may or may not still be in, and he could barely tolerate it. The voice he so lovingly crafted is distinctly male and that of a dim-witted but insufferable college professor chastising anyone who will listen about the crucial differences between a hen of the woods and a chicken of the woods. The kids love that voice so much, they often request a performance before bed. I just roll my eyes and correct all of his mushroom misinformation as he goes along. That only encourages him.

While on vacation down the Cape, Husband came up with a new voice. And this time, it didn't have anything to do with me. We were traveling down Route 6A in Dennis when we passed a spot called Captain Frosty's. Now I've never been inside Captain Frosty's nor have I sampled their menu offerings, but the imagined Captain Frosty is now a fan favorite. Imagine a fierce but wistful pirate well into his golden years who fell into the restaurant business once he became unfit for plundering. The character bears some resemblance to one Mr. Krabs, except less ambitious and not an actual crab. He has a way with the fish 'n' chips, but he's having trouble changing with the times. He can't afford to hire help and sleeps in a cot in the back.

Here's a sampling from Captain Frosty (be sure to use your best pirate voice!):

Captain Frosty here, yar! Come for me fish 'n' chips, stay for the soft-serve.

It's so hot in here, even me peg leg is sweating.

Ye don't have exact change? I'd tell ye to walk the plank, but it was repossessed last month.

Periodically throughout the trip, such as on our whale watch, Captain Frosty would emerge to comment on the present state of affairs:

What kind of a whaling expedition is this without me harpoon?

Even when we got back from vacation and I was suffering from intestinal distress, Captain Frosty resurfaced:

I hear there's trouble on the poop deck. Captain Frosty can help!

One thing you can count on with Husband's voices is that, no matter how innocuous they may seem at first, they'll eventually be used to torment his wife.

Husband's Grilled Chicken

We like to cook a few meals ourselves on vacation to make sure we eat something that's good for us once in a while. Otherwise, it's just ice cream 24/7, with a few breaks in between for fried fish and doughnuts.

Husband was craving grilled chicken, so he concocted this marinade while I was sleeping late one morning. There's nothing like waking up at 9 a.m. to sizzling bacon and dinner half completed. I grilled up that chicken the following night while sipping a gin and tonic. With buttered green beans and corn on the cob, the kids were all smiles!

Husband's Grilled Chicken     

This recipe is totally customizable. Swap out the herbs for what you have on hand. Use different vinegar. Use lemon juice instead of lime. Just let the chicken marinate at least overnight so the flavors can penetrate.

16 chicken drumsticks and wings
1 cup rice wine vinegar (unseasoned)
1 small red onion, diced
4 scallions, light parts chopped, dark green parts cut into 2-inch pieces
3 garlic gloves, chopped
1 small bunch cilantro, stems removed
3 tablespoons soy sauce
3 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
Juice of 1 lime
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon hot sauce
3 cups vegetable oil or olive oil

Rinse the chicken parts and set aside to dry.

For the marinade, purée all but the 2-inch pieces of scallions and oil in the blender. Through the hole in the lid, add the oil in a steady stream and blend until emulsified. Pour into a large gallon-sized storage bag (do yourself a favor and set the bag in a large bowl beforehand so it doesn't tip and spill all over the floor). Add the reserved scallion pieces and the chicken to the bag. Seal and set in the refrigerator for 1 to 2 days, jostling periodically to redistribute the chicken and marinade.

Over hot coals, grill the chicken uncovered until nicely browned on all sides and cooked through. The time depends on how hot your fire is. I did about 20 minutes for drumsticks, turning every 5 minutes or so, and about 12 minutes for the wings. You want an internal temperature of 160°F, but you're not going to find a thermometer at your rental house, and you're not going to go out and buy one, either. The best thing to do is to cut into the thickest part of one of the larger pieces to make sure that the meat is cooked all the way to the bone. If the skin browns before the meat is cooked through, just move those pieces toward the outside of the grill to continue cooking over indirect heat. Enjoy!

The Long, Sandy Road of Marriage

Our wedding anniversary is approaching, it would seem. Every year, the conversation goes something like this:

Him: Our anniversary is coming up, right?

Me: Oh my gosh. Is it?

Him: I think it's next week.

Me: What day?

Him: The 27th?

Me: Nope, that's my sister's birthday.

Him: The 28th?

Me: Hmmm…no. Maybe the 29th? Do we have it written down somewhere? It was definitely in the summer.

We should probably make a bigger deal about anniversaries, maybe throw a few fireworks out the window or something. After all, living with someone for 13 years and not murdering them is a worthy accomplishment. (Fifteen years if you count the time we were living in sin.) (Twenty years if you count just the sin.)

In some ways, it's a miracle we can coexist in the same space. He's a morning person. I don't speak until noon. He freaks out if there's too much food in the refrigerator while I'm not happy unless the food is physically cascading off the shelves when we open the door. He requires Arctic temperatures at all times to function, while I get frostbite if the thermostat dips below 70 F. He would install an air conditioner directly into his pants if he could. The heat and humidity this summer are killing him.

The long haul of marriage isn't always easy. Even when you still love the person, it's sometimes hard to continue to let yourself be loved. Especially when the person doesn't love you for the things you think he should love you for, but instead insists on loving other different things and you can't make any sense of it whatsoever.

We don't make a big deal about anniversaries, but we do make a big deal about our family Cape vacation we take every year. I've never linked the two events in my mind before, but we should. The place we rent is in the same town where we got married. We always go in July, which is the same month we got married (I'm pretty sure). We didn't plan it that way, but that's how it always seems to work out.

That vacation is the best time of the whole year: swimming, sandcastles, sea creatures, doughnuts, BLTs, lobster rolls, fried fish, ice cream, books, outdoor showers, bike-riding, mini-golf, more ice cream. And, of course, our two sweet boys. There's nothing we could possibly plan for our anniversary that's better than all that.

Our First Camping Trip, Part 2

After coffee and bagels, the first thing we did on Saturday was check out the campground's pond. The 10YO wanted to catch frogs and couldn't even conceive of going on any mountainous treks until he had engaged in a battle of wits with any and all amphibians in the low-lying vicinity. The frogs and their fat tadpoles proved elusive at first, but we entertained ourselves catching little aquatic salamanders (or newts) for a while instead.

Finally, after many attempts by several kids and several adults, one of whom landed flat on her ass (it doesn't matter who), Husband managed to net one handsome bullfrog. 

(All creatures were released unharmed.)

With a happy 10YO in tow, we adjourned for lunch (PB&Js and hummus wraps with cucumbers, peppers, and feta), and prepared for the afternoon's activity: scaling Mount Monadnock. The 7YO wasn't up for the challenge, so Husband occupied him at the campsite with various micro-engineering projects, ball playing, book reading, and napping endeavors befitting them both. Meanwhile, the neighbors, the 10YO, and I drove to the ranger's station to begin the four- hour hike. And that's when things got a little dicey.

Let it be known: I did no research on this mountain. All I knew was that the Neighbors' first grader had climbed it last year. Good enough for me, I thought.  Note to self: a first grader's physical fitness and technical skills are no longer a suitable benchmark for me. No, apparently, I have the hiking skills of a kindergartener—perhaps even a preschooler—because I barely made it up that mountain in one piece. The walking part was fine, even the steep walking part, even the very steep walking part, but then came the rock-climbing part. The part where you're on all fours scrambling up these rocks and boulders only to reach another boulder, and then another boulder, and then another. Don't we need ropes and shit for this? Crampons? About halfway up the 3,165-foot mountain, I began to suspect I'd made a horrible mistake.

At some point while scrambling up yet another steep pile of sloping rocks on the White Dot trail, my internal compass went totally out of whack. I lost my sense of vertical and horizontal. All of a sudden, I felt the pull of gravity coming not from underneath my feet, where it usually does, but diagonally from the only flat ground I could actually see: the tree-carpeted overlook to my left and 1,500 feet below me. The pull was slow but steady, like alpine undertow. The more I backed against the rock I had plastered myself against, the more it seemed to be pushing me away. The world felt like it was tipping me over and emptying me out into the dizzying vacuum of open air over the precipice. I pleaded for my neighbors to come speak to me in gentle, soothing tones until the blood returned to my brain again and I was able to accept that the only way not down was up. From then on, I tried to keep someone else between me and the overlook. It's a miracle I have any photos at all. For future reference, this is about how much of a buffer zone I need between me and the edge of a mountain to safely avoid an emotional breakdown.

O wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science done and shown!

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Monadnoc

I did eventually make it to the summit in case you're wondering, right behind the 10YO and my neighbors (including the pint-sized veteran). My reward was to nestle into the lowest spot I could find and decimate a chocolate power bar while quietly rocking. The reward for the 10YO was pool after pool of tiny tadpoles. That was a surprise! What are they doing up there on top of a mountain? I was grateful, though, because I needed a rest and the 10YO needed a psychological boost for the hike back down again, which was, in his own words, gruesome, despite taking the less steep White Cross trail.

When we got back, the neighbors made quesadillas on the camp stove and we grilled bananas with chocolate and dulce de leche over an open fire. Nothing has ever tasted so good!

Mother's Day at Mulan

Mother's Day got off to a great start this year. First, I was treated to a homemade pancake breakfast courtesy of Husband, which included his famous blueberry pancakes, bacon, and fresh fruit. The kids presented me with some sweet handmade cards (I find it interesting that my youngest still draws me with short cropped hair even though it's been down to my shoulders for a while now). We spent most of the day at the park kicking a ball around, and then we decided to go out to dinner at Mulan, the new Taiwanese restaurant that opened in Waltham where the old Beijing Star used to be. It's the second outpost of the original Cambridge location, which had received favorable reviews from Husband and his lunchtime companions.

Things weren't looking too good at first, as we stood on Main St. outside Mulan. The line was long, which always makes Husband antsy, and the kids were requesting things that weren't on the menu. It was starting to look like mutiny. In this case, mutiny would take the form of dinner at the Ninety Nine Restaurant instead. Now, don't get me wrong, I'll take the Kids Eat Free special at the Ninety Nine once in a while when the Red Sox win, but not on Mother's Day. I refuse. So I scolded everyone into submission, knowing that it meant one more strike against a potentially good meal.

But what actually happened is that we got seated within the 20-minute window they predicted. I've never seen anyone so competently manage a crowd as the woman running the hostess station. Friendly is not the word I'd use to describe her demeanor, nor entirely rude, but she got the job done efficiently. When she barked her orders, everyone listened, and that place moved like clockwork.

We got a big table right in the middle of the room, where the kids proceeded to devour the salted peanuts and pickled vegetables set in the center of the table. They sampled the tea, and liked it. Because we ordered our food while we were still waiting outside, the dishes began arriving 5 minutes after we sat down, which meant the kids had no chance to even think about whining. The boys are somewhat adventurous eaters at home (not necessarily by choice), but we haven't challenged them too much when it comes to restaurants. We've gone to a few Chinese or Thai places over the years, but mostly we opt for the typical kid-friendly fare, like pizza at Flatbread or a burger at the Warren Tavern after the 10YO's soccer win in Charlestown. Our thinking boils down to this: When we go out to eat, we don't want a fight. Also: If we're going someplace exotic, let's not bring the kids! On the other hand, they're old enough to try new experiences, and the older one actually seems to enjoy it.

The garlicky green beans arrived first. There were no utensils in sight, so the kids grabbed the chopsticks and started practicing. I feared it would devolve into angry frustration and possible tears, but they always managed to get the food into their mouths somehow. The older one got the mechanics down pretty quickly despite the awkward logistics of a left-hander trying to teach a right-hander how to do anything. The 7YO developed his own style where he clutched the chopsticks down by the tips and kind of wedged the food in between them. It worked just fine. It helped that they absolutely loved the green beans.

Next, in quick succession, came the eggplant with basil, scallion pancakes, chicken wings, crispy salt and pepper pork chops, crab rangoon, and big bowl of noodle soup for the 10YO. (Yes, we ordered way too much, but it was Mother's Day, damnit!) The kids absolutely devoured the chicken wings and pork chops. The scallion pancakes and crab rangoon weren't their favorites. No problem. More for Husband and me. But, aside from the green beans, it was the eggplant with basil and chilies that absolutely blew my mind. I have GOT to try to make this at home. They used the miniature fairy tale eggplants we get in our CSA and it was absolutely fantastic. Even the kids said it was "okay" (the kids have never liked eggplant).

Everyone had a great time, the prices were good, and the kids enjoyed reading their fortunes. Best of all: we had leftovers enough for a whole other meal the next night so I didn't have to cook. Both kids even asked for chopsticks!

Mulan, 835 Main St., Waltham and 228 Broadway, Cambridge (Kendall Square), MA

Super Bacon!

I know we're supposed to be buying all of our shit on Etsy, but Husband found this shirt at Target and, well, it had to be bought.

(For other designs by Brock Davis, go here.)

Christmas Loot

I'm still sick. In the meantime, here are a few excellent food-related things I acquired over the holidays. A few cookbooks, a cute little cast-iron teapot, and pecan pralines straight from the French Quarter.

Even at my age, I still find Christmas kind of magical in the non-religious, totally commercial sense of the word. I mean, yes, Christmas is more about giving than receiving and our focus is always the kids, but I still secretly hope there will be something exciting for me under the tree. To make sure this happens, I may or may not wrap up a few things for myself. Like one or two of those cookbooks up there. *cough*

I needn't worry, though, because despite Husband's lackadaisical approach to gift-wrapping, he rarely disappoints on Christmas Day. This despite (or more likely on account of) all of his unbudgeted, unapproved purchases. Every year I tell him, don't buy any other extra stuff besides what we've discussed right here on this list, clipboard and abacus in hand, pencil behind my ear.

"Merry Grinchmas," he'll say, leaving the room. "And a Shitty Year's Eve!!"

He always ignores my admonishments no matter what I say. It makes for fun present-opening for the whole family, I'll admit. The only downside is that it sets a bad precedent for the whole rest of the year when he doesn't listen to a goddamned word I say.

(Ah, but thanks to him I now possess the technology to send him nagging texts! He'll think twice about extra presents for his wife next year!)

A Typical Conversation Between Two Married People

Why is it that people who've been married for more than five years can't have a normal conversation?

Me: Did you put the pizza away?

Him: What pizza?

Me: The pizza we had for dinner. Did you put it away?

Him: (expressionless silence)

Me: Yes or no??

Him: What do you think?

Me: I'm asking you so I don't have to think. Did you or didn't you?

Him: Yes! I put it away hours ago!!

Me: Okay! Good! Jesus!

First rule of marriage: Questions can only be answered with other questions until there are so many stacked on top of each other that you reach a state of infinite gravity and get sucked into a black hole in the universe.

A Feast for Bros

I'm too busy crumpling up my manuscript pages and flinging them in disgust to write a proper post, so here's something else. It's an actual e-mail exchange between Husband and one of his good friends, both of whom I'm quite sure have played their share of Dungeons & Dragons at one point or another.

For fans of George R.R. Martin, I offer you this:

8/30/12

R,

This is no jape. I saw your smallclothes, chased in gold and dagged with crimson velvet, upon a gelded destrier as he was eating a feast fit for the Merling King: river trout roasted in almond milk, stuffed with figs.  He was on his way to the Street of Silk.

Ser C


8/31/12

Ser,

As usual you are playing the fool, and you are undoubtedly festooned in the motley common to that of a court jester.  Will you not caper about like a softheaded numbwit for our amusement?

On the morrow I shall be dining on garlic-rubbed garron, spitted and roasted, with much grease popping in the fire. You, ser, shall be supping on a thin soup of carrot and onion, with nary a rasher of bacon to be found at the board.

I expect you'll be sotted in a Fleabottom brothel as usual, your manhood festering with pus and foul odors.

Lord R

Wow, Lord R is quite the charmer! I wonder who his lucky lady is?

Coleslaw: Deconstructing My Pulled Pork Sandwich

Now that you have my recipe for pulled pork, let's sliiiide that bun over and talk about the coleslaw. Because you're probably getting lots of cabbage in your CSA shares right about now. You know you are!

Husband loves coleslaw, specifically my coleslaw. It's one of the reasons he keeps me around. For my part, I put up with him because of his tremendous dishwashing skills and the fact that he eats my coleslaw. That's not something every guy likes, you know? Coleslaw and piles of dirty dishes? My prince!

Coleslaw (print-friendly version)

In reality, I eyeball all the measurements, and it comes out slightly differently each time but always good.

1 pound cabbage, red or green, cored, shredded
1 carrot, peeled, grated
1/2 small onion, finely chopped
1/2 cup mayo
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
Kosher salt
Lots and lots of freshly ground black pepper

Set the shredded cabbage in a colander set over a plate, and sprinkle it all over with about 1 teaspoon of kosher salt. Let it sit for an hour or two to wilt. The cabbage will become increasingly wet as it releases its liquid. I like to gently squeeze it dry a bit with a towel as I transfer it to a bowl, fistful by fistful. Having the veggies not be sopping wet helps the dressing cling better instead of sliding off into the bottom of the bowl. Squeeze the shredded carrot over the sink and then add to the cabbage.

In a small bowl, whisk the mayo with the vinegar. Add lots of black pepper, but hold off on the salt for now. You may not need much or any. Toss the vegetables with the dressing. Taste for seasoning and add more salt and pepper if necessary. Let chill in the refrigerator. Stir again just before serving.

Local Ingredients:
Cabbage, carrots: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA

Sesame Soba Salad with Shiitakes

Husband was out of town last week, so I took that opportunity to make all the food he hates. (Or all the food he thinks he hates.) Enter this sesame soba salad with mushrooms and tofu. He's never had this particular dish before, but it just seems like exactly the kind of thing he wouldn't want to see on the dinner table after a long day at work. You get a sense for these things after spending 20 years with someone. But like I said, he was gone, and it was the perfect repository for my recent flush of homegrown shiitakes.

The recipe is from Melissa Clark's latest book, Cook This Now, which you should seriously consider buying, not because of the bullying title but because your favorite blogger bullied you into it. (That's me, by the way. Your favorite blogger. In case somebody else jumped to mind.) The chapters are arranged by month so it's perfect for cooking with the seasons, especially if you belong to a particularly fertile CSA. It's one of those cookbooks where every single recipe sounds good.

Soba are thin Japanese buckwheat noodles, and here they're tossed with roasted mushrooms, fresh cucumbers and scallions, and a sesame and soy sauce dressing brightened with ginger and a bit of orange juice. There's also a recipe for tofu "croutons," which I was skeptical about, not being much for tofu myself, but then I ate half of the fried cubes before dinner was even served. Frying makes everything better, even tofu. 

I think you can pretty well imagine the kids' reaction to this meal. My eldest looked stricken when confronted with his plate. He's a great eater these days, but even he has his limits. Brown pasta? Tofu? Mushrooms that look like sea monster tentacles? Not a recipe for success. (Well, maybe the sea monster tentacles.) Both kids ate their mandatory quota of bites and then slunk off. But, boy, I thought it was delicious. I will definitely be making this again, though maybe just for my solo weekday lunches.

Sesame Soba Salad with Roasted Shiitakes and Tofu Croutons

When outdoor potluck season begins, consider this instead of your usual pasta salad.

8 oz. shiitake mushrooms, stems removed, caps sliced into thin strips
2 1/2 Tbsp. toasted sesame oil, divided
5 1/2 Tbsp. soy sauce, divided
1/2 lb. extra-firm tofu, drained, cut into 3/4-inch cubes
1 Tbsp. peanut oil or olive oil
1 1/2 Tbsp. freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbsp. rice wine vinegar
1 Tbsp. grated gingerroot
1 medium cucumber, peeled
6 oz. soba noodles
2 scallions, thinly sliced
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh cilantro
1 Tbsp. sesame seeds
Salt to taste

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Set a pot of water to boil.

Toss the mushroom slices with 1 Tbsp. sesame oil, 1/2 Tbsp. soy sauce, and a pinch of salt. Spread them out on a baking sheet in a single layer. Roast, tossing occasionally, until mushrooms are tender and slightly golden, 8-10 minutes.

Pat tofu cubes dry with paper towels and heat oil in a large nonstick pan over medium heat. When it shimmers, add the tofu in a single layer and let it cook undisturbed for 3-4 minutes until golden brown on the bottom. Flip the pieces over and cook 2-3 minutes more until the other side is golden. In a small bowl, whisk together 2 Tbsp. soy sauce and 1/2 Tbsp. sesame oil. Pour it into the pan with the tofu and toss for 1 minute longer. Drain tofu on a paper towel-lined plate.

In a small bowl, whisk together the remaining 3 Tbsp. soy sauce, 1 Tbsp. sesame oil, orange juice, rice wine vinegar, and ginger. Let sit so flavors meld.

Cook the soba noodles according to the package instructions. My instructions were in Japanese, so I kept tasting them until they seemed done, about 6 minutes. Drain and run under cold water, draining again.

Cut the peeled cucumbers lengthwise into quarters and scoop out the seeds. Cut each quarter into slices. In a large bowl, toss the noodles with the cucumber, mushrooms, scallions, and cilantro. Lightly toast sesame seeds in a dry pan, tossing frequently, 1-2 minutes. Add sesame seeds to salad. Toss with dressing, top with tofu, and serve.

Some Observations About Writing a Dessert Cookbook, Part 2

It has come to my attention that when you're writing a dessert cookbook, you will put on a lot of weight. Seems pretty obvious. I, however, was under the impression that I possessed some sort of magical metabolism that could absorb the extra calories and channel this new wellspring of energy into learning a great new skill, like carpentry or Mandarin. Turns out, that's not how it works. Turns out the only skill that interests you is how to break your previous pie-eating record.

Before I started writing this book, I ate dessert only a few times a week. Okay, yeah, sometimes I'd have double portions if Red happened to make her lemon cream tart or BFF made her dulce de leche ice cream pie because they're such great cooks and they don't judge me like you do, Internet! And the holidays don't count, either, because sometimes you just have to eat a whole tray of fudge. YOU HAVE TO!!! (Storms off crying)

The occasional indulgence doesn't matter all that much, really, but now? Now I eat multiple servings of dessert every single day. In the past three months, I've gained 10 pounds. That's nearly a pound a week! You can't argue with the scale. In that same period of time, Husband lost 25 pounds. Twenty-five! He dropped it like most men drop trou—without any hesitation whatsoever. How did he do that? By not eating any of my desserts, that's how. And by adhering strictly to the tenets of the South Beach Diet. Can you believe that jerk? That sexy jerk? Fuck him! (Storms off crying)

Point is, I haven't weighed this much since I had another human being growing inside me. What's more, this book requires another nine months of gestation. At that rate, I'm set to gain 30 more pounds. While I'm not fat at the moment, if I do gain those 30 pounds (and I think it's reasonable to expect that I won't get any taller), I will meet the definition of "clinically obese." All while working out five days a week! (Shoves cookies into pocket then storms off crying)

What to do? What to do? I really can't exercise more than I already am. I can barely keep up this pace as it is. And I can't not eat dessert. I could eat less, maybe, but then I would argue that the quality of the book will suffer. Because sometimes, readers, if I can be frank for a minute, I just want to get the recipe done. Just get it done and say it's fine as it is, but it's not fine, it's too sweet or too dry or too mealy, so I make it again but then it's way too smooth, so unbelievably smooth it's creepy, and it's not until the 15th or 16th bite that I finally admit it to myself.

So hi, everyone, and welcome to the Emotional Rollercoaster of 2012. Because I can't just be happy. I can only be happy with an equal and opposite amount of angst.

A Tale of Two Frescas

Hi All!  Husband here.  I related a story to Tammy the other day that she found amusing, so here it is in the form of a Special Guest Post.

If you are not acquainted with the sweet, crisp flavor of Fresca, then you need to go get some right now.  Go ahead, I’ll wait here.

…

OK, now that you’ve agreed that it is the best grapefruit-based diet tonic in the land, we can start the story.

The other day me and my co-worker were working on Important Business at my desk.  It was that time in the afternoon when refreshment is needed, and luckily the machine has a Fresca button on it.  We got two Frescas, opened them with great relish, and got back to work.

About five minutes into Important Business we looked up from the computer screen and suddenly realized that our Frescas were sitting on the desk right next to each other.  Although the quantities still left in each were different, there was no way to 100% without-a-doubt correctly associate each Fresca with its proper owner.  We’re both engineers, so believe me, if there were a scientifically-achievable way to identify them, we would have been okay.  But in this instance we just didn’t have time for DNA swabs and a testing lab.

A hush came over the office.

We stared at the Frescas, minds churning.

We looked at each other.

We looked at the Frescas.

We looked at each other.

We put the Frescas in the trash.

I found 8 shiny quarters in my pocket, new untainted Frescas were triumphantly acquired, and Important Business continued.

Holy Mackerel!

Look at the salad Husband made for me! It's got lettuce, spinach, cucumber, red pepper, celery, chopped almonds, cheddar shavings, and smoked mackerel. Yes, smoked mackerel from Ducktrap River in Maine. Very tasty, cheaper than smoked salmon, and lots of omega-3s. Whole Foods carries it. We also like the Memphis-style smoked bluefish from Dave's Cape Cod Smokehouse, which you can find at the Wayland Winter Farmer's Market (starting January 7, 2012). Perfect for when you don't feel like cooking.

A Few Freudian Slips in the Kitchen, Part 69

I think I've mentioned my tendency to make overtly sexual comments without the slightest bit of awareness. Luckily, Husband calls me on it every single time. It didn't take me long to accumulate enough material for a post, even after limiting the location to the kitchen. In fact, it took exactly 36 hours. Here are a few gems:

 

Me: It was very long and very hard, but it was very good.

Him: That's what she said.

(At the dinner table talking about my swim that morning)

--

Me: It's too big to fit in here, but I'll make it fit!!!

Him: That's what he said.

(Trying to put a giant bowl of coleslaw into my overstuffed fridge)

--

Me: Things are a little woody in the core area.

Him: That's what she said.

(Coring a quince; also applies to parsnips)

--

And my personal favorite:

Me: It's very spitty over here so stay away from the meat.

Him: That's what she said.

(Stir-frying beef)

Marriage Bonds

For our 11th anniversary, Husband and I went out for a lovely meal at Bondir, Jason Bond's farmhouse-chic restaurant in Inman Square, Cambridge. By mid-meal, Husband and I were engaged in a semi-heated discussion about the definition of stubbornness. Husband likes to call me stubborn and I like to take it as a compliment.

Him: Stubbornness is not a compliment. It has a negative connotation.

Me: Yes, but in certain circumstances it can serve you well. Like if you're working against the odds to get something done. If you don't possess a certain amount of stubbornness, you give up long before it takes to succeed.

Him: No, that's persistence. That's different.

Me: They both come from the exact same place.

Him: Persistence is a positive trait and stubbornness is bad.

Me: You can't have one without the other.

Him: They're two different sides of a coin.

Me: Then we agree. Two sides of the same coin.

Him: You are so stubborn.

Me: Thank you!

Him: It's not a compliment! Do you remember your donkey at the Grand Canyon?

Me: Of course I remember that fucking donkey. Trinity was his name. He kept stopping to munch on the desert grass on the edge of the steep switchbacks, then he'd get way behind and have to sprint to catch up. Donkeys can't sprint. He nearly heaved me into the canyon a dozen times.

Him: See? That's stubbornness. Not persistence.

Me: I'm sure that donkey has triumphed over adversity many a time and now he's retired in Mexico.

Him: Do you see how stubborn you are? I'm going to see if the chef has a dictionary.

Me: Oooooo, a dictionary! I'm sooooo scared!

Him: You refuse to acknowledge I'm right.

Me: But we agree. Stubbornness can be good if you trace it back to its root.

Him: We don't agree!

Do you see any irony here? Any irony at all?

 

A Little Mushroom Humor

Over dinner last night, I was updating everyone on the status of my most recently inoculated shiitake logs when I got some unexpected reactions.

Me: So I was outside waxing my log...

Husband: Please don't say "waxing my log" ever again.

Me: Why?  What do you mean?

Him: (sigh)

Me: So I was outside waxing my log and I had all this extra melted wax I wanted to save but didn't know how.  So I dug a little well in the ground, then I put it in the hole until it hardened. 

(TeenNiece laughs hysterically, falls out of chair.  Husband begins slow- clapping.)

Usually, I just get blank stares or eye-rolling when I talk about my mushrooms.  I'm so glad my family is finally taking an interest in my work!!

Sweet Dreams

You know you’ve been throwing too much sugar around when, at 2 in the morning while deep in slumber, your subconscious becomes suddenly, urgently vocal about baked goods:

Me: (loudly, eyes closed) I can’t figure out how many to put in each bag…

Husband: (half-asleep) What?

Me: The cookies…

Him: What cookies?

Me: The prices…

Him: Are you talking to me?

Me: The prices are too high…

Him: Tammy, are you awake?

Me: What?

Him: Are you awake?

Me:  (eyes still closed) Stop talking to me, I’m trying to sleep.

Him: You woke me up. (rolling back over)

I can’t tell you how disappointed I am that my rousing dreams of late revolve around holiday bake sales.

Jive Turkey

The wild turkeys were back in our yard this weekend.  I almost stepped right on one while I was ambling about, until she reared up, wings spread, to get my attention. I made an involuntary surprised sound when I saw how close they were and took a few steps back.  Since there were six of them and only one of me, I slowly retreated.  I’ll admit it—I’m a little scared of turkeys.  I’ve seen the male chase a motorcycle down the street.  Somehow they’ve managed to keep the numbers in their urban posse up despite the coyotes, so I wasn’t about to mess with them.  No soup jokes.  Instead, I ran inside to alert the children that nature was happening in our yard.

Later on, while I was trimming back the wilderness in the front of the house, I heard Husband’s voice from the porch:

Him: Hey, I see another wild turkey!

Me: Where?

Him: Down by the street.

(Me, looking around)

Me: That's where I am.  I don’t see it.

Him: …

Me: You mean me, don’t you?  I’m the turkey.  (sigh)

One of these days, I’ll see the jokes coming.

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.