At one point or another, I know you've contemplated it: if you were on death row, what would you request as your last meal before you meet your maker?
According to last meal history, the requests have truly run the gamut. For example, there has been the pious approach (Joan of Arc - holy communion); the classy (Edward Hartman of North Carolina - Greek salad, linguini with white clam sauce, garlic bread, and cheesecake with cherry topping); the petite (Victor Feguer of Iowa - a single olive with the pit still in); the weird and stinky (Harold Lloyd McElmurry of Oklahoma - a pint of chicken livers, cottage cheese, and one raw white onion); the generous (Philip Workman of Tennessee - he declined a special meal for himself, but asked that a large vegetarian pizza be given to a homeless person); and the downright gluttonous (Dennis Wayne Bagwell of Texas - medium rare steak with A1 Steak Sauce, fried chicken breasts and thighs, BBQ ribs, French fries, onion rings, bacon, scrambled eggs with onions, fried potatoes with onions, sliced tomatoes, salad with ranch dressing, two hamburgers, peach pie, milk, coffee, and iced tea with real sugar).
Gross. How in the world did these people keep this stuff down?
While I have no immediate plans to make it to the slammer with a death sentence to boot, I've thought long and hard about my last meal request. It's a tough one. I was always quite certain that my request would at least in part follow what Timothy McVeigh had in mind (2 pints of Ben & Jerry's mint chocolate chip ice cream), but I'm starting to have second thoughts about that after something has recently come to light.
Eat St., a show on Food Network Canada, recently featured a number of food carts around the U.S., including the beloved Big Egg in Portland. (It also featured P-town's Brunch Box and Creme de la Creme, a cart I've been meaning to visit because it's walking distance from my apartment.) I haven't actually watched this episode (or the show...or the network for that matter), but its website has included a recipe from the Big Egg. Oh Canada, bless your heart.
Do clatter a favor, will you? Please give that to the warden to pass along to the kitchen crew of the penitentiary of which I will be instated. Thank you - I will be eternally grateful.
With this delectable Monte Cristo sandwich recipe now in my possession, I think I can die in peace. Preferably not by lethal injection.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
It's Not Easy Being Green
I’ve never had a lot of sympathy for Kermit the Frog. Sure, “having to spend each day the color of leaves” has its downside, but the guy still has it pretty good. After all, when a manic, high maintenance lady pig treats you like a god, how bad could it be?
Personally, I pity a different kind of green living thing. I present to you the world’s worst-sounding edible plant:
Picking up a few fruits and veggies after work at my favorite local “farm”, I did a double take when I saw this sign. Wild pig weed? What? That sounds disgusting. Obviously I grabbed a bunch immediately – I couldn’t wait to try it!
As soon as I got home, I got on the Internet to do some research on said greens. I was amazed by how little information my Google search rendered, but I gathered enough to learn that pigweed is actually one word, not two (shame on you, Kruger Farms!) and that it is often prepared as cooked spinach would be – boiled, steamed, or sautéed.
After nibbling on a couple of the leaves, I decided that I didn’t want to cook it; I want to eat it raw. On the tongue, the pigweed gives something less peppery than arugula and less bitter than dandelion greens. It could easily be mistaken for watercress, both in flavor and appearance. Maybe it’s just me, but the wild pigweed tastes an awful lot like…spring.
Could clatter be blazing a trail here? When the next person’s interest is piqued by a sign that says “wild pigweed” and he googles it, will clatter provide him all the answers about this mysterious leafy green? Of course not, but he will learn one important thing about me: I’ll take wild pigweed over Miss Piggy any day. She’s all yours, Kermie.
Personally, I pity a different kind of green living thing. I present to you the world’s worst-sounding edible plant:
Picking up a few fruits and veggies after work at my favorite local “farm”, I did a double take when I saw this sign. Wild pig weed? What? That sounds disgusting. Obviously I grabbed a bunch immediately – I couldn’t wait to try it!
As soon as I got home, I got on the Internet to do some research on said greens. I was amazed by how little information my Google search rendered, but I gathered enough to learn that pigweed is actually one word, not two (shame on you, Kruger Farms!) and that it is often prepared as cooked spinach would be – boiled, steamed, or sautéed.
After nibbling on a couple of the leaves, I decided that I didn’t want to cook it; I want to eat it raw. On the tongue, the pigweed gives something less peppery than arugula and less bitter than dandelion greens. It could easily be mistaken for watercress, both in flavor and appearance. Maybe it’s just me, but the wild pigweed tastes an awful lot like…spring. Could clatter be blazing a trail here? When the next person’s interest is piqued by a sign that says “wild pigweed” and he googles it, will clatter provide him all the answers about this mysterious leafy green? Of course not, but he will learn one important thing about me: I’ll take wild pigweed over Miss Piggy any day. She’s all yours, Kermie.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Mortal Beloved
I heard on the radio this morning that starting tomorrow, four planets – Venus, Jupiter, Mercury and Mars – will be visible to the naked eye for the next month. I imagine this would be quite the sight to see in the wee hours of the morning. While I probably won’t get the chance to see the planets myself, I have been gazing up at the stars a lot lately....
Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Please make me finish Beloved tonight.
Book: Beloved
Author: Toni Morrison
Year: 1987
clatter’s nutshell summary and review:
In theory, I was supposed to love this book. I was supposed to lose myself in its spellbinding powers and feel all sorts of things that no other author has ever made me feel before. The only thing I'm really feeling is this: For the love of Oprah, please don't make me read that again.
I've read Morrison before: The Bluest Eye affected me the disturbing ways, and Sula, well, I don't remember much about that one. But this is the Toni Morrison I’m supposed to read. This is the Pulitzer Prize winner - the one that takes the cake, the one that established Toni Morrison as a game changer, the one that John Leonard of the Los Angeles Times says he “can’t imagine American literature without.” Hm, well folks, I can. And I feel just fine.
I was a comp lit major, so I like weird, scratch-your-head literature (you know, the-books-that-make-you-go-huh). Sometimes, that is. When I decided I needed to have this novel under my belt, I suddenly felt an immense amount of pressure to understand why every major book review called Beloved a triumph! A masterpiece! Dazzling! Magical! Astounding! Overpowering!
Overpowering, yes. Now there's an adjective I can get behind. I was so overpowered by the thing that I felt the need to set it aside with 80 pages to go in order to read two other novels and countless magazines, watch season five of The West Wing, season two of Bones, and most of season five of How I Met Your Mother. Sorry, Toni.
But finally, after weeks and weeks of putting it off, I picked up the dusty paperback from my nightstand. In a reader's world, 80 pages is nothing. It’s like running the last .2 miles of a marathon. No biggie. But when I opened the book and started reading it again, I realized that I just. couldn’t. do. it. With those mere two-tenths of a mile to the finish line, I walked off the course. I didn’t collect my medal. I didn’t even get my highly coveted finisher t-shirt. What a loser.
Maybe there are a lot of folks out there that love this book and had no trouble crossing the finish line, but I'm not one of them. Could it be that I'm not as smart as I thought I was? Or, or! Might it be possible that I'm the smartest and bravest one of all to say what everyone else is really thinking: "Meh. I've read better." Throw me overboard. Curse my name. Burn me at the stake. Do what you must to chastise me. But please, whatever you do, don’t revoke my comparative literature degree!
So, uh, can we just skip the other parts of the review and get to the recipe? Cool, thanks.
Recipe: Jalapeño cornbread muffins
Date: January 4, 1987
NY Times: “Food: The Homecoming,” by Craig Claiborne with Pierre Franey.
In honor of Cinco de Mayo last week, I decided to whip up these jalapeño cornbread muffins to go along with a batch of tortilla soup. Amanda pairs the muffins with a tasty-sounding black bean soup, but I decided to stick with my tried-and-true tortilla soup recipe. I was feeling a little under the weather (after my Airborne failed me), and I thought the spices might clear my stuffy nose.
As I simultaneously prepared the soup and muffins, things were going swimmingly. Seasoning the soup, I grabbed the black pepper grinder out of the cabinet, took off the cap, and began to twist. That's when the [bleep] hit the fan. Or that’s when I like to say, the pepper hit the pot.
Tens, hundreds, or maybe even thousands of whole black peppercorns surged from my once trusty Trader Joes’ plastic grinder with such gusto, that they were everywhere: in the soup, on the stove, on the floor, and maybe even a few between my toes. Disaster. I wish I could say this was the first time such an occurrence has taken place after refilling the grinder and not securing the head, but that would be a lie. I also wish I could say that I'm the first one in my family to have experienced this (not mentioning any names) but that too would be a lie. A curse, I tell you.
I managed to save the soup, along with a few lonely peppercorns that managed to stay in the grinder. The muffins came out lovely too, but I admit that the whole mishap disturbed my kitchen feng shui – whatever that means. Just watch your step, ok? You might slip on a loose peppercorn.
Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Please make me finish Beloved tonight.
Book: Beloved
Author: Toni Morrison
Year: 1987
clatter’s nutshell summary and review:
In theory, I was supposed to love this book. I was supposed to lose myself in its spellbinding powers and feel all sorts of things that no other author has ever made me feel before. The only thing I'm really feeling is this: For the love of Oprah, please don't make me read that again.
I've read Morrison before: The Bluest Eye affected me the disturbing ways, and Sula, well, I don't remember much about that one. But this is the Toni Morrison I’m supposed to read. This is the Pulitzer Prize winner - the one that takes the cake, the one that established Toni Morrison as a game changer, the one that John Leonard of the Los Angeles Times says he “can’t imagine American literature without.” Hm, well folks, I can. And I feel just fine.
I was a comp lit major, so I like weird, scratch-your-head literature (you know, the-books-that-make-you-go-huh). Sometimes, that is. When I decided I needed to have this novel under my belt, I suddenly felt an immense amount of pressure to understand why every major book review called Beloved a triumph! A masterpiece! Dazzling! Magical! Astounding! Overpowering!
Overpowering, yes. Now there's an adjective I can get behind. I was so overpowered by the thing that I felt the need to set it aside with 80 pages to go in order to read two other novels and countless magazines, watch season five of The West Wing, season two of Bones, and most of season five of How I Met Your Mother. Sorry, Toni.
But finally, after weeks and weeks of putting it off, I picked up the dusty paperback from my nightstand. In a reader's world, 80 pages is nothing. It’s like running the last .2 miles of a marathon. No biggie. But when I opened the book and started reading it again, I realized that I just. couldn’t. do. it. With those mere two-tenths of a mile to the finish line, I walked off the course. I didn’t collect my medal. I didn’t even get my highly coveted finisher t-shirt. What a loser.
Maybe there are a lot of folks out there that love this book and had no trouble crossing the finish line, but I'm not one of them. Could it be that I'm not as smart as I thought I was? Or, or! Might it be possible that I'm the smartest and bravest one of all to say what everyone else is really thinking: "Meh. I've read better." Throw me overboard. Curse my name. Burn me at the stake. Do what you must to chastise me. But please, whatever you do, don’t revoke my comparative literature degree!
So, uh, can we just skip the other parts of the review and get to the recipe? Cool, thanks.
Recipe: Jalapeño cornbread muffins
Date: January 4, 1987
NY Times: “Food: The Homecoming,” by Craig Claiborne with Pierre Franey.
In honor of Cinco de Mayo last week, I decided to whip up these jalapeño cornbread muffins to go along with a batch of tortilla soup. Amanda pairs the muffins with a tasty-sounding black bean soup, but I decided to stick with my tried-and-true tortilla soup recipe. I was feeling a little under the weather (after my Airborne failed me), and I thought the spices might clear my stuffy nose.
As I simultaneously prepared the soup and muffins, things were going swimmingly. Seasoning the soup, I grabbed the black pepper grinder out of the cabinet, took off the cap, and began to twist. That's when the [bleep] hit the fan. Or that’s when I like to say, the pepper hit the pot.
Tens, hundreds, or maybe even thousands of whole black peppercorns surged from my once trusty Trader Joes’ plastic grinder with such gusto, that they were everywhere: in the soup, on the stove, on the floor, and maybe even a few between my toes. Disaster. I wish I could say this was the first time such an occurrence has taken place after refilling the grinder and not securing the head, but that would be a lie. I also wish I could say that I'm the first one in my family to have experienced this (not mentioning any names) but that too would be a lie. A curse, I tell you.
I managed to save the soup, along with a few lonely peppercorns that managed to stay in the grinder. The muffins came out lovely too, but I admit that the whole mishap disturbed my kitchen feng shui – whatever that means. Just watch your step, ok? You might slip on a loose peppercorn.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Mayday Mayday Mayday
I decided to do a little research on the origins of May Day, and my source (wikipedia, much to the chagrin of one of my former law professors who vehemently denounced its legitimacy) tells me that early settlers of America celebrated May 1 by making baskets filled with flowers or treats and leaving them on someone’s doorstep. The basket giver would ring the bell and run away. The basket recipient would then try to catch the fleeing giver, and if they caught the person, a kiss would be exchanged. I may not be a history whiz, but I’m pretty sure the early settlers didn’t have doorbells. Nevertheless, in essence, May Day is a cross between Valentine’s Day, kissing under the mistletoe, and the grown-up version of tag. Sounds fun! I take a stand here and now that this May Day tradition be reinstated. As soon as I post this, I will begin drafting a letter to my local congressperson.
Now that May is here, bikini season is just around the corner. I received a friendly reminder of this when I was in front of a full-length mirror in a fitting room yesterday. Fighting the urge to pull a sharpie from my handbag and start circling those areas that need a little extra attention, I decided it might be time to ramp up my exercise and eating regimen just a tad. As such, I did something any responsible, health conscious person might do to kick off my new plan: I baked a cake.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. But I’ve been thinking about those coffee cake recipes, especially the Cinnamon-Streusel Coffee Cake, in March’s Martha Stewart Living ever since the issue came in the mail. Plus I needed an excuse to use my new cake stand.
I cut down the butter considerably in the streusel, and I used light sour cream in the cake part. That counts for something, right? I think it does because I hardly missed the extra butter – the cake is crumbly, moist, cinnamon-y, and oh-so-tasty. Here’s my plan to keep things under control: one little slice each afternoon with a cup of tea. If this cake has the power to get me through the workday (I have confidence that it will), those calories are freebies. 
I could also take some of the cake off my hands by acknowledging the traditional May Day and make a basket full of coffee cake for my neighbors across the hall. In fact, the girl left me a very nice note on my door last week, expressing her deepest apologies for forgetting her trash bag outside her door overnight and subjecting me to its stench when I left for work the next day. She leaves me trash, I leave her cake. Only imagine the drama that may unfold if her husband answered the door and chased me down for a moment on the lips. I’m guessing she would probably leave something even more offensive on my front door than a sack of trash…. So, I will leave no baskets of flowers or treats on anyone’s doorstep. Instead I walked around my neighborhood and took pictures of other people’s flowers. I didn’t get any smooches for that.Happy May Day to you all! April had seen better days, but I’m feeling quite optimistic about May. After all, April showers bring May flowers, most notably my absolute favorite – peonies!
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