Hello there, stranger. Have you missed me?
Last week a friend of mine called me to make sure I was ok because there had been no word on clatter for over a month. With the best fruits and vegetables of the year at the forefront, summer should be the time of year when I can’t stop thinking and writing about food. The truth of the matter is my mind has been far, far away from blogging. I’ve been busy cranking out way too much legal jargon on a daily basis in attempt to sound like a smart lawyer and keep my boss off my back. (What a brain sucker.) More interestingly though, I’ve also been occupied doing my best Meg Ryan impression (during her cute, pre-lip injection phase) by starring in my own real-life romantic comedy.
I could go into painstaking detail of the rom-com’s premise and take you through the movie, scene-by-scene. I could make you laugh, make you cry, make you laugh and cry at the same time, gag at the film's cheesiness, and then 10 minutes later, tug at your heartstrings at its very sweetness. But I’ll spare you the spoilers (plus I don’t yet know how it ends). I’d much rather have you blow your well-earned money on a $12 ticket and $5 bag of Twizzlers when the movie comes to a theatre near you. Until then, I’ll give you a clip to tide you over.
One summer afternoon, the girl accompanies the boy to his parents’ house to pick berries. While she quietly curses the drizzle and 67 degree weather in the middle of July, the girl cannot help but marvel at his parents’ beautiful home and yard (truly one that could appear in a Nancy Meyers’ movie). After his mother greets the girl with the warmest of welcomes and shows her an embarrassing/downright adorable first grade photo of the boy wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with a clip-on tie (and the girl reflects on the fact that this photo was taken merely one year before she beat him in the spelling bee), they get to picking.
They could have spent all day picking and filled an entire freezer with fruit, the bounty of raspberries, blueberries, and red currants more than one household could ever handle. Most of the blueberry bushes needed more time and some warmer weather before reaching their full potential, so the girl and boy focus mostly on picking the raspberries and currants. As she picked (much more efficiently than the boy, mind you), the culinary-inclined protagonist could not help but remain deep in thought about what she could do with fresh red currants. A day later, she was still thinking about it…
Best to my knowledge and failing memory in my 29 years, I don’t believe I had ever tasted a fresh red currant before yesterday. Tart with an absence of that certain sweetness most people expect from a berry, fresh currants are often made into jam. I had only had dried currants in scones before, so you can imagine my excitement at the thought of experimenting, eating, and (hopefully) extolling the virtues of a rather unfamiliar summer berry.
I decided to do what I like to do best: keep things easy and simple, but still try to look and sound fancy enough that people will be really impressed with my accomplishment. Is there a better way to fake fancy in cooking than to use a French word? I think not. With an unopened half gallon of Tillamook vanilla bean ice cream in my freezer, my decision came quickly: I would make red currant coulis. Coulis (pronounced COO-LEE) is the French’s way of describing a thick sauce made of pureed fruit or vegetables. From what I can tell, coulis is basically a compote, except that a sieve is used to remove the seeds.
After washing and cooking the currants with sugar and water, I pressed them through a sieve disguised as a cheese grater (not a perfect substitution to cheese CLOTH, but it got me by). Voila! Coulis was born. It’s that easy to be fancy. And now to extol: currant coulis really is a great topping to drizzle on ice cream… preferably to be eaten while watching a romantic comedy. In my expert opinion, the cornier the movie, the better the dessert will taste.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Don't Go Breaking My Heart
The month of June is such a tease. June is like that guy you’re just starting to date. You’re quite certain he likes you and finds you remarkably interesting, and in turn he begins to show you his charm, his warmth, his true colors. You might have a really good day with him, and you can’t help but let your expectations escalate. You think, “Wow, this guy might be something special. I’m so excited to see what lies ahead for us!” But then, perhaps on the very next day (or even as early as the next hour), it seems he is pulling away and turns cold. Naturally, you begin to question whether he’s merely playing you. Just when you decide you should write him off as a flirt and nothing more, he shows up again, shining his rays of light and presenting you with beautiful flowers. I don’t care what girls may say, they always like getting flowers. Especially peonies.
It’s probably bad form to do this on my blog, but I’m much too non-confrontational to do it in person. Please bear with me while I get this off my chest. I’m a little nervous.
June, I feel like you’re messing with me. I like you, but you’re all over the place - you’re hot one minute, you’re cold the next. I'm always wondering which version of you I might get on the phone tonight. (Thank you, Taylor Swift, for that line.) I’m being such a girl right now, overanalyzing the things you do and constantly asking myself whether I’m wearing the appropriate clothing. I know it’s early on (this is only our 11th day together), but why is it that you’ll be sunny and warm towards me, but then suddenly you turn cloudy and chilly? Are you afraid of commitment? I understand the internal struggle you must feel – half of you is in spring and the other half in summer. But it’s cruel to show the summer side of you prematurely and then take it away (not to mention make me put my sweater on and then take it off again 20 times a day). I realize that I can’t ask a lot from you, but why can’t I just get the best of you? I don’t mean to make you jealous, but you should probably know that there are others I have my eye on – namely July, August, and September. I see such potential in you, but your moodiness makes me wonder if I should simple forget you and look forward to a brighter (and warmer) future.
Whew! I feel better. That was good catharsis.
I caught some of June’s coyness today at the Hollywood Farmers Market. Seeing and smelling all the late spring flowers, herbs, strawberries, greens, sweet carrots, etc., etc., etc., made me want it to be summer – like real summer (no flirting, no games) - so bad. I can’t wait for the varieties of tomatoes, raspberries and blackberries, green beans, and so much more. Such as popsicles. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.
At the market this morning, I picked up luscious rainbow chard, radishes, yellow zucchini, and a bunch of Walla Walla spring salad onions. As I perused Aurora, Oregon’s very own Big B Farms’ display, I spotted something I hadn’t seen before: an odd-looking variety of leek, the actual name of which is completely lost on me at the moment. (Was it leek bulbs?) Here’s a visual instead.
Of course I was intrigued by this specimen, but I wanted more information, so I decided to ask Farmer Big B himself (do realize that I have no idea if this guy is a farmer – let alone the farmer - but he worked behind the table so I figured he must know something). As I inquired, he grabbed three from a bunch, handed them to me, told me to treat and prepare them like asparagus, and report back. We exchanged some nice leek banter, and I walked away with free produce.
June may be fickle and unreliable with its weather, but at least I know I will always enjoy a day at the farmers market….that is, as long as it’s not raining.
It’s probably bad form to do this on my blog, but I’m much too non-confrontational to do it in person. Please bear with me while I get this off my chest. I’m a little nervous.
June, I feel like you’re messing with me. I like you, but you’re all over the place - you’re hot one minute, you’re cold the next. I'm always wondering which version of you I might get on the phone tonight. (Thank you, Taylor Swift, for that line.) I’m being such a girl right now, overanalyzing the things you do and constantly asking myself whether I’m wearing the appropriate clothing. I know it’s early on (this is only our 11th day together), but why is it that you’ll be sunny and warm towards me, but then suddenly you turn cloudy and chilly? Are you afraid of commitment? I understand the internal struggle you must feel – half of you is in spring and the other half in summer. But it’s cruel to show the summer side of you prematurely and then take it away (not to mention make me put my sweater on and then take it off again 20 times a day). I realize that I can’t ask a lot from you, but why can’t I just get the best of you? I don’t mean to make you jealous, but you should probably know that there are others I have my eye on – namely July, August, and September. I see such potential in you, but your moodiness makes me wonder if I should simple forget you and look forward to a brighter (and warmer) future.
Whew! I feel better. That was good catharsis.
I caught some of June’s coyness today at the Hollywood Farmers Market. Seeing and smelling all the late spring flowers, herbs, strawberries, greens, sweet carrots, etc., etc., etc., made me want it to be summer – like real summer (no flirting, no games) - so bad. I can’t wait for the varieties of tomatoes, raspberries and blackberries, green beans, and so much more. Such as popsicles. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.
At the market this morning, I picked up luscious rainbow chard, radishes, yellow zucchini, and a bunch of Walla Walla spring salad onions. As I perused Aurora, Oregon’s very own Big B Farms’ display, I spotted something I hadn’t seen before: an odd-looking variety of leek, the actual name of which is completely lost on me at the moment. (Was it leek bulbs?) Here’s a visual instead.
Of course I was intrigued by this specimen, but I wanted more information, so I decided to ask Farmer Big B himself (do realize that I have no idea if this guy is a farmer – let alone the farmer - but he worked behind the table so I figured he must know something). As I inquired, he grabbed three from a bunch, handed them to me, told me to treat and prepare them like asparagus, and report back. We exchanged some nice leek banter, and I walked away with free produce.
June may be fickle and unreliable with its weather, but at least I know I will always enjoy a day at the farmers market….that is, as long as it’s not raining.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Go Ahead, Make My Day
I like to think that I am a fairly humble person, but even so, there are a few accomplishments in my life that I have no qualms in bragging about. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, any success in the kitchen would fall under this category. Another would be that after driving for 13 years, I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer. Some of you may challenge this by reminding me that I once got pulled over and cited by a cop while riding my bike in college. (For those of you who don’t know this story, just ask. It’s a good one.) To avoid any confusion, I will clarify by stating that I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer while driving a car. I now deeply regret to inform you all that after last Friday evening, I can no longer say that.
Preparing for a weekend trip to the vibrant and bustling city of Kennewick, WA for a birthday celebration, I made a quick stop at Fred Meyer to pick up a few items. As I pulled out of the parking lot and onto NE Glisan to make my way to the freeway, I looked down for a brief (ever so brief!) moment to turn up the volume on my phone and to place it in my middle console. Bringing my focus back to the road then (with hands at ten and two!), I glanced at my rear view mirror. I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, but there was a good five to ten second delay before I realized that the flashing red and blue lights coming from the motorcycle directly behind me was 1) a cop and 2) that the cop was flashing his lights at ME. Other than an excited utterance or two in the form of an expletive, I remained cool, calm, and collected as I veered right onto the nearest side street, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong. My relaxed demeanor proved to be very short-lived indeed.
Even though at that moment I had never experienced the act of getting pulled over by a cop on the road before, I still figured I knew the drill. After all, I’d seen it a million times before on TV and movies. So why I decided to turn off my car and open my car door rather than roll down the window is anyone’s guess. As the cop approached my car and asked if my driver side window was broken, I stammered as if under interrogation and guilty of some heinous crime, and explained that the window wasn’t broken and I wasn’t sure why I had done that. That’s when I took the time to actually look up at this man in uniform to see what he might ask next. I believe I reacted then in a manner that any girl of similar like and kind might: “Whoa, this cop is kinda…hot.” Bringing myself back to reality, I followed his next instructions and handed him my driver’s license.
As I sat there when he studied it (and likely wondered why I look like a 300-pound terrorist in my picture), my mind began to retain all that material I thought I had forgotten from criminal procedure in law school, e.g. reasonable suspicion, the plain view doctrine, and what constitutes probable cause to search the trunk. Of course it’s not like I was under the influence or possessed illegal substances or had any open containers in the car, but as soon as I started to look around, I began to sweat a little bit. There was the bottle of root beer in the cup holder with the uncanny resemblance to a bottle of beer, and the four bottles of sparkling wine in the backseat, and the bottle of Bacardi rum next to them. The only innocent item in sight appeared to be my box of Good ‘n Plenty. [Insert dumb donut joke here.]
Just as I was about to blurt out, “Officer, this is not as bad as it looks!” he asked for my registration and proof of insurance. Reaching for the glove compartment, I realized how jittery I had become. First I couldn’t find the current insurance information and then I couldn’t locate the current registration, and as papers were spilling out in every which way and I was muttering to myself about how I need to be more organized, I came to terms with the fact that I was a disaster.
Finally I handed the correct documents to Officer Hotness and that’s when I realized I seriously needed to get a grip if I wanted to avoid getting a ticket. The internal pep talk commenced: Allison, stop being a befuddled fool and get it together! You need to get your head in the game. Take a deep breath and channel the inner actress in you. Waterworks, please remain on standby. Batting your eyelashes and turning on the charm should prove to be a less difficult task when your subject is this easy on the eyes.
The cop then began to explain that he had pulled me over because he noticed that I had looked down at something and it appeared that I was texting. (“Officer, I really wasn’t,” I asserted in my sweetest tone possible.) As he droned on about the dangers in texting while driving and the new law now in place and the expense of those tickets, I realized that this might just be a lecture and nothing more. As soon as he said, “I’m actually on my way home now, but…” I knew then that I was home free. No ticket, even without having to use tear or flirting tactics? Victory for me! As he walked back to his bike, I reflected on the biggest surprise of all: I couldn’t believe he made not one comment about my apparent alcohol problem.
So, maybe I can no longer say that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop, BUT I can still brag that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop and gotten a ticket. Don’t think for one second though that I didn’t take anything away from this little experience. Next time, I will be sure to 1) roll down my window; 2) have current registration and proof of insurance readily available; 3) keep all alcoholic beverages in the trunk (just in case); and 4) take a chill pill. Lesson learned, Officer Hotness, lesson learned.
Preparing for a weekend trip to the vibrant and bustling city of Kennewick, WA for a birthday celebration, I made a quick stop at Fred Meyer to pick up a few items. As I pulled out of the parking lot and onto NE Glisan to make my way to the freeway, I looked down for a brief (ever so brief!) moment to turn up the volume on my phone and to place it in my middle console. Bringing my focus back to the road then (with hands at ten and two!), I glanced at my rear view mirror. I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, but there was a good five to ten second delay before I realized that the flashing red and blue lights coming from the motorcycle directly behind me was 1) a cop and 2) that the cop was flashing his lights at ME. Other than an excited utterance or two in the form of an expletive, I remained cool, calm, and collected as I veered right onto the nearest side street, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong. My relaxed demeanor proved to be very short-lived indeed.
Even though at that moment I had never experienced the act of getting pulled over by a cop on the road before, I still figured I knew the drill. After all, I’d seen it a million times before on TV and movies. So why I decided to turn off my car and open my car door rather than roll down the window is anyone’s guess. As the cop approached my car and asked if my driver side window was broken, I stammered as if under interrogation and guilty of some heinous crime, and explained that the window wasn’t broken and I wasn’t sure why I had done that. That’s when I took the time to actually look up at this man in uniform to see what he might ask next. I believe I reacted then in a manner that any girl of similar like and kind might: “Whoa, this cop is kinda…hot.” Bringing myself back to reality, I followed his next instructions and handed him my driver’s license.
As I sat there when he studied it (and likely wondered why I look like a 300-pound terrorist in my picture), my mind began to retain all that material I thought I had forgotten from criminal procedure in law school, e.g. reasonable suspicion, the plain view doctrine, and what constitutes probable cause to search the trunk. Of course it’s not like I was under the influence or possessed illegal substances or had any open containers in the car, but as soon as I started to look around, I began to sweat a little bit. There was the bottle of root beer in the cup holder with the uncanny resemblance to a bottle of beer, and the four bottles of sparkling wine in the backseat, and the bottle of Bacardi rum next to them. The only innocent item in sight appeared to be my box of Good ‘n Plenty. [Insert dumb donut joke here.]
Just as I was about to blurt out, “Officer, this is not as bad as it looks!” he asked for my registration and proof of insurance. Reaching for the glove compartment, I realized how jittery I had become. First I couldn’t find the current insurance information and then I couldn’t locate the current registration, and as papers were spilling out in every which way and I was muttering to myself about how I need to be more organized, I came to terms with the fact that I was a disaster.
Finally I handed the correct documents to Officer Hotness and that’s when I realized I seriously needed to get a grip if I wanted to avoid getting a ticket. The internal pep talk commenced: Allison, stop being a befuddled fool and get it together! You need to get your head in the game. Take a deep breath and channel the inner actress in you. Waterworks, please remain on standby. Batting your eyelashes and turning on the charm should prove to be a less difficult task when your subject is this easy on the eyes.
The cop then began to explain that he had pulled me over because he noticed that I had looked down at something and it appeared that I was texting. (“Officer, I really wasn’t,” I asserted in my sweetest tone possible.) As he droned on about the dangers in texting while driving and the new law now in place and the expense of those tickets, I realized that this might just be a lecture and nothing more. As soon as he said, “I’m actually on my way home now, but…” I knew then that I was home free. No ticket, even without having to use tear or flirting tactics? Victory for me! As he walked back to his bike, I reflected on the biggest surprise of all: I couldn’t believe he made not one comment about my apparent alcohol problem.
So, maybe I can no longer say that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop, BUT I can still brag that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop and gotten a ticket. Don’t think for one second though that I didn’t take anything away from this little experience. Next time, I will be sure to 1) roll down my window; 2) have current registration and proof of insurance readily available; 3) keep all alcoholic beverages in the trunk (just in case); and 4) take a chill pill. Lesson learned, Officer Hotness, lesson learned.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
A Dying Wish
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.
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.
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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