Tag: Food

Homeward Not

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The Sign

I have lost my way home. In every sense of the word it is gone. Let’s start with the obvious. No trek to Maine. No boat ride. No getting back to good. Not this time. I will mourn a Memorial Day not on Monhegan. A junkie without her fix, no cure for the homesick. I don’t know what to make of this.

My current address is slipping away. My days there are numbered and all of a sudden I have this urge to be a homebody in this home. Soon, what I call mine will be someone else’s rent. I spent the weekend cleaning closets and scrubbing floors. Like visiting a dying friend I wanted time with my kitchen. For a mid~morning brunch I made a Maine inspired stratta. Homemade bread from the weekend before, spicy vegetarian sausage, crisp green broccoli, sweet Vidalias, creamy eggs+Tabasco+milk, a sprinkling of sharp cheddar cheese. Baked until golden and puffy. More hot sauce for me. For dinner I explored Mexico with a pan-sauteed mix of shredded golden potatoes, spicy Mexican sausage, shiitakes, cilantro and Vidalias. Served with homemade roasted tomatillo and garlic salsa. From scratch flour tortillas. I’m learning to control steam, if there is such a trick. And just to get ahead on the weekday dinners, roasted (skin-on) chicken, smoked with oak chips and cloves of garlic. I’m imagining that will be added to a white bean chili (served with the leftover salsa, of course) and maybe a twisted chicken salad…something smoky and sultry. Trying to reclaim something that isn’t mine. Is not.

The Other Home doesn’t exist yet we sat in front of a loan officer just the same. We spoke the language of calculations. Questions in the form of dollars were answered with quotes. Bank statements and pay stubs. Numbers spilled from our lips easily, as if we memorized our speeches and imagined our lasting impressions.

At the same time we gathered up the dollars to downpay our vacation. Home away from Home. To look forward to the date is to wish summer away, and yet – yet I cannot wait. We’ll start in the cottage of our honeymoon and end in Big Brother just across the way. I’m already tasting lobster and luna.

Such an odd place to be. I’m laying down the disappointment of missing homehome while prepaying on a later visit; I’m turning away from our here and now while it’s still our address and planning payments on an unknown one. We haven’t gone anywhere but I have lost my way home.  

Spider Woman?

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Spider

A month ago I developed a weird spot on my thigh. A nursing student took one look and said basal cell carcinoma. Freak Me. For a month I held denial’s hand and didn’t do anything about it. Nothing except stare at the spot and watch it mutate. I didn’t WebMD it, didn’t do anything. This river in Egypt ran deep. Finally I went to someone a little more professional. Someone with an actual degree and not just in training for one. She took one look and said arachnid. Whaa? Come again? Bug bite, possibly spider-ish. Maybe tick-ish. Either way I’m having a reaction to the saliva. I’m allergic to bug spit of all things.

Whatever. All I know is that Friday (after the bug appointment) I decided to hit the Gerbil cage. 45 minutes. 4.26 miles. Felt freakin’ great. My new tempo pace is 10.2. I can sing while moving that speed. Love it. Then, last night I decided to hit it again. Chicken thighs were in the smoker getting happy with the alder chips (can’t call it smoked chicken chili without the chips…) and I had the time for a sweet 20 minute run. At first I wanted to really kick it. See if I could get more than two miles in. But, my knee gently reminded me it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the 4.26…I’m supposed to “take a day” between runs, remember? Oh yeah. So, I decided to crank the incline and work on hills. Run slow…but UP-up-UP. Bottom line: 1.8 miles in 20 minutes. I’m happy with my energy. I’m in love with my knee. I’m feeling better than ever. Could it be the spider spit? Just call me spider woman!

Glad You Think It’s So Funny

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pukeI had another one of those failed restaurant meet-ups a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet someone for dinner. He thought 7:30pm. I thought 5:30pm. I sat there wondering if he was waiting outside while I was inside doing the exact same thing. Toying with my wine glass, fiddling with the silverware, smoothing the tablecloth with my fingertips, reading the menu until I had it memorized, staring at the artwork on the walls. I’m sure the waiters thought I either had a kidney problem or I was having an affair as they filled my water glass for the eighth time. My friend never came. Until 7:30pm

This week we were able to connect and I’m almost wishing we hadn’t. Before me sat a BBQ burger with BrianFries and crunchy pickles. I was ready to dig in. Before I could take a single bite my friend eyed me and asked the WhatsNewQ. I knew I should have started eating first. After I told him my latest he threw his head back and laughed. Laughed and laughed. Laughed so loud other diners turned with curious looks. Laughed and laughed until he was crying. When he was finally finished and had swallowed the last chuckle he managed to ask, “how in God’s name do you get yourself into these messes?” A tear hung in the corner of his eye and a giggle escaped. I could feel another bout of uncontrolable laughter coming my way. Through gritted teeth I admitted I had no idea. And added it wasn’t funny. Burger aside I had to explain. Or at least try to. My life is one big soap opera minus the orphaned surgeon who never knew he was sleeping with his sister and actually died 3 episodes ago but still managed to seduce the bull fighter’s CIA wife in Africa last week. When I said I was done with drama I should have said I’d like to be done with drama. I’m dreaming if I think I can ever fully escape it.
I never did finish the burger…or even touch the fries.

Everything is Wrong

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moo cow

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.

I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.

When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter. 
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.

Deep in the Green

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DSCN0077
Raver, Anne. Deep in the Green: an Exploration of Country Pleasures. New York: Vintage, 1996. 

For LibraryThing: Anne Raver is a writer and gardener but it’s hard to tell which came first. Her enthuasism for growing things (outside for she doesn’t deal with indoor plants well) shows in every word she writes in every essay. In the beginning I wanted Deep in the Green to be one of those nonfiction journals about a gardener making a life for herself after divorce. Diving into the growing after a relationship dies. Instead, Deep in the Green is best described as a series of essays that barely connect to one another but have a central theme…gardening & growing. As a columnist for the New York Times I guess it’s easy to string a bunch of essays together and call it a book.

Favorite quotes:
“You know how the army is. they send you here , they send you there. Vietnam. Ohio. ‘I learned Thai no trouble, but I never did figure out what language they were speaking in Cleveland'” (p 24).
“Still we are drawn homeward, unable to erase our bloodlines” (p 42).
“I like to learn this way. Like learning to float or ride a bicycle. You can’t imagine doing it before you do it, but you have to imagine it in order to do it. And then you never forget” (p 155).
“I’m not sure what their religion is. Food, maybe” (p 173).

Thanks to this book I learned the latin name for a favorite flower I never bothered to look up (clematis jackmanni) and an interesting fact about poppies being illegal to grow (makes me think about how many times I’ve seen the federal law broken). Probably my favorite part about reading Deep in the Green is that once I got over the disjointed essays I read it with a salivating imagination. Anne Raver writes like I eat – straight from the garden, the bush or tree. I’ve tried to describe that foraging feeling – that satisfaction which comes from eating off Earth’s plate.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Gear Up For Gardening” (p 96).

Rockin’ It Mexi Style

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We didn’t end up where we haven’t been so I ran. I promised I would. (thanks for messing with me). Truth is, the running thing is seeping back into my blood. I can feel it becoming as natural as time ticking. Except for this – it’s really hard to run on a full belly of burritos! Seriously. There is this small Mexi place right by where I used to work. Everything is authentic and good, good, good. I pity the person who is afraid to bite adventurously because there isn’t a bad thing on the menu. I could stand in front of that menu, drool coming off my chin, taking forever to decide just how hungry I am. I’m always biting off more than I can chew, more than my stomach can hold. In my greed for great food I gorge.
Last night was no different. We ate and ate. Later, I literally waddled up to the gerbil cage and said a prayer before rocking 3.4 miles in 35 minutes with warm-up. I’m proud of the pace. A month ago I was barely hitting 2.5 miles in that same time. I prefered a 12 minute mile over anything faster. Now, I’m comfortable with 10.5. What a scary thought. What a great feeling. So, B~ I didn’t get the 3.5 I promised you, but I came damn close – so damn close!
Someone pissed me off today and made me shut off my phone. The anger is enough to get me running again but I have to be smart. Last night I heard my hip gnash it’s teeth in pain when I climbed the stairs. Last night I ran hard and I ran happy. I never run stupid. I’ll wait a day. The anger will still be there, but the Mexi won’t. I wonder how far I’ll get?

Coming Home

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Dear kisa,

You are stranded on a plane somewhere in PA. Engine trouble…something about a starter. I didn’t worry about failure during flying, but more about how tired you’ll be when you finally touch down for sleep. I know how much you hate to be tired.
I had a break through at work today. My BigBossMan reminded me I’m Miss Mucky Muck. If I don’t like something I can make it change…or go away. Imagine that! I’m been counting to ten when all I need to know is three strikes you’re out. Load off my mind and onto my plate.
We’re out of milk. My chai tasted like dirt. The kitchen has been cold without you to cook for. I’m glad you’re coming back tomorrow. Wish it was tonight. I’ll try to kiss you more than the Chipotle.
Anyway, I am ready for bed. Ready to get a new Serious. Speaking of the orange orb, I heard something funny the other day, “That closed sign means nothing to me. That rope across the driveway isn’t going to keep me out.” I had to laugh. Isn’t that how you get your pumpkins? Boys will be boys.

Kisa, I’m tired of negotiating with the cat for bed space. She’s a hog in disguise! Come home soon.
love,
me

Breads

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Clayton, Bernard. Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads.New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987.

I wish I baked more. When I was a teenager my mother taught me how to make a white bread with a cup of mashed potatoes that was amazing. It was the most perfect carb I could create. Grilled cheese sandwiches were heaven with this bread. I always pictured my adult wholesome self, kneading and sifting on a Sunday morning, flour dust rising in clouds around me. I don’t know what happened to that “from scratch girl” but, Clayton’s book makes me want to jump in the car, rush to the baking aisle and buy dry yeast. In bulk. This 748 mammoth of a cookbook is cover to cover baking knowledge. There are no glossy photos to fill space. Even the illustrations are small and unobtrusive. It’s all about the bread. And Bread there is. From rye bread to crackers and everything in between. My favorite chapters were, “baking for dogs” (p 715), “little breads” (p 517), and “vegetable breads” (p 409). But, I can’t forget my other favorites like potato, croissant and cheese. Of course Clayton goes over equipment, technique, ingredients, and what went wrong should something go wrong, but he also includes storing, freezing, and there’s even a chapter on homemade ovens.

I would even go so far as to say this book demonstrates culture. In addition to all the different recipes Clayton gives a little history on the more unique ones, “…In Portugal, the bread is served warm or cold with a famous dish of peas and eggs, and a potato- sausage soup” (p 183). Now I want to go out and find that recipe for the soup!

BookLust Twist: One of the reasons why I love reading Book Lust and More Book Lust is quotes like this, “For me the best part of baking bread is theupper-arm exercise involved with kneading, and the times that you can curl up on the couch with a good book while the dough is rising.” Pearl goes on to say, “I’ve used Bernard Clayton’s bread books since the first one was published in 1973, and have never found a bad recipe” (More Book Lust p72).