Thanksgiving Revisited

December 3rd, 2009 § 0

And…it’s all over.tubers
My Thanksgiving timeline – which, by the end, had taken on the scope of MRP for a small company – didn’t steer me wrong: I always keep on task when held accountable to a piece of paper. My boyfriend came over after work on Wednesday to help me get ready; he was greeted with a mountain of Brussels sprouts, a raw turkey, and a festive Togo’s dinner. But weren’t we efficient? So much of the meal was prepared ahead of time that my sister and I spent most of Thursday in a DVD-induced stupor, with intermittent bouts of grooming.
sleeping
Then: chaos.

No, of course it wasn’t that bad. But I always underestimate the last-minute-ness of so many things and never figure in the time it takes to pry the cooked turkey from the v-rack to which it’s become cemented, scrape the burned bits from the roasting pan before making the gravy, and ferry nine hot serving dishes to their designated trivets.

And, there was the Tofurky.
tofurkey
My sister (a vegetarian, you remember) called a few days before she arrived and asked if I could pick up some fake chicken patties as a turkey stand-in. Sure, no problem – until I couldn’t find them. It’s hard to imagine a run on soy chicken-substitute, but the freezer shelves spoke for themselves. There was, however, no shortage of Tofurky, which should have been my first warning sign.

The Tofurky (“Serves and Delights 5”!) was nestled in a small box with a tub of mushroom and “giblet” gravy. It was a fat little roast, almost spherical, and it came tightly wrapped in plastic that was secured, summer-sausage-style, by two metal grommets. Unlike chicken patties, which fare perfectly well on a paper towel in the microwave, the Tofurky required a baking dish and an hour in the oven. These specifications had not been incorporated into my oven configuration, as everyone was soon aware. But since I’m an infinitely adaptable type of person and my sister surely would have gone hungry with only seven meat-free sides from which to choose, we worked out the logistics with minimum fuss.
configuration
The Tofurky sat high in its tiny dish on a bed of onions, doused with olive oil and soy sauce, and was shuttled between the big oven and the convection oven. The gravy took a spectacularly long time to make, but didn’t taste too burned. The casseroles were hot in the center. We forgot some of the stuffing in the turkey but found it upon postprandial disassembly of the carcass. I didn’t spill my wine – or anybody’s else’s.
buffet
There is still Tofurky in the refrigerator.
after

Countdown

November 24th, 2009 § 0

alfalfaMy parents went on a birding expedition to the Antelope Valley on Saturday. While they were trekking through alfalfa fields, my brother (upon promise of a McDonald’s lunch) and I decided to hang the outdoor Christmas lights. No ladders necessary, but it did require much crouching and crawling around on the roof. The next day I stumbled around, barely able to move, as my boyfriend snickered. I hadn’t been so sore since the first (and last) time I went water-skiing: New Year’s Day, 1996. Some of us, it seems, aren’t meant to do more than sit, stand, lie, and take the occasional brisk walk, with any deviation bringing unacceptable results.

I had a poor man’s oil change this weekend, too. Here’s how you can do it: wait until enough oil has leaked or burned off (takes approx. 9,000 miles) that your oil gauge starts bouncing around excitedly whenever the car is running. When the needle starts sitting at “empty” for long stretches, you will begin to hear an alarming rattle coming from the engine area. You are getting close. Just before the engine seizes (it’s kind of a gut-feeling thing), add several quarts of oil. (I got some extra mileage out of the McDonald’s lunch, as my brother did this part.) A new filter is recommended.
quail
The big day is almost here! I asked my boss if he would mind my coming into work a little late on Wednesday so I could go get my turkey as soon as the market opened. I explained the importance of having first pick, lest you end up with a turkey on the undesirable end of your weight range (e.g., I ordered a turkey in the 14 – 18 pound range, but I have no need for an 18-pound turkey; 14 pounds is even a little large, though the cats will be pleased.) He agreed, with some eye-rolling.

The Plan
Tonight: Buy Brussels sprouts and clean room in preparation of sister’s arrival (though, really, why?)
Wednesday evening (unless sprung from work early!): Rinse turkey and put on rack in fridge for professional air-cooled effect, prepare sweet potatoes, chop up veggies for stuffing
Thursday: Everything else

More to come.

Before the Storm

November 19th, 2009 § 2

cute streetBefore everyone’s preoccupied with Thanksgiving and, then, the long slog of gift-buying (and its ever-faithful companions, worry and guilt), I have some fun fall things to discuss; namely, stew and Michigan.
old recipe
Above is the stew in question, and its origins are uncertain. I googled it and found the exact recipe on a few sites – but with no citations! Someone references her mom, and another person says that she found it “in a magazine, years ago.” I couldn’t agree more, with both.

I don’t know what’s French about the FOS besides, maybe, the half-cup of wine – since it’s certainly not the tomato juice and instant Tapioca. But who cares: it’s tasty, super easy and cheap. We’ve fiddled with the original recipe: two pounds (or less, even) of beef works fine, and I probably triple the vegetables. Just put everything in front of you and start chopping. There’s no need to brown the meat or even deal with an onion (just a bag of frozen tiny onions!). In fact, you could probably use a cleaver on everything with no loss of quality. Dump everything in a pot with two bay leaves and there you have it. Makes the house smell nice, too!

Good to know:
• Minute Tapioca and the frozen pearl onion have gotten very hard to find! I used to get these at the grocery store, but last week I could only find them at the fancy grocery store. Both ingredients are about as fancy as carrots, so I don’t understand.
• Like all stew, it tastes much better than it looks. Although, artfully arranged, well-lit, and photographed by someone who knows how to use a real camera (not me), it looks pretty good!
stew
So, my younger sister is a doctor, can make interesting small-talk at parties, and doesn’t look awkward in cowboy boots. Surprisingly, I don’t hate her. But I do think she’s testing my limits:
dock
kingsley house
She and her boyfriend took a trip to Michigan last weekend; specifically, they visited the southwestern corner of the state, which we know (and don’t pretend you don’t!) for its vineyards and wineries. They walked on little docks, drank Michigan wine, explored charming lake-side towns, and stayed in a bed-and-breakfast already decorated for Christmas! My Midwest-envy has become very acute, and if she gets to Door County before me…well, we’ll all be sorry.

Surprises

November 11th, 2009 § 3

GUARD
My Anxious-Sunday Syndrome began in grammar school and continues still, almost comforting in its reliability. I hope that someday Sunday afternoons and evenings will feel like weekend, not the night before an interview, but by now I should know this is a false hope.

It was under the panicky anticipation of this week-as-yet-unstarted that I tripped over a power cord stretched between outlet and portable DVD player (resting innocuously on my bed), pitched forward into a door, and caught the fall with my face. It was quite a shock: I lead a cautious and deskbound life, so it’s been years since I’ve drawn blood with anything besides a kitchen knife. I cleaned myself up and started wailing about it as soon as there was somebody around to pay attention to me. This happened to be my brother, who is something of a self-made expert on split chins and was satisfactorily indulgent: “Hmm, bet that really hurt!” The cut was hardly big enough to warrant a Band-aid, let alone a butterfly (my family’s traditional proxy for a trip to the emergency room), but I do have a big bruise that makes my chin look like a peeled russet with a bad end.

This all happened after Halloween, thank goodness, because Laura Petrie would never be so clumsy; that, of course, was Rob’s job. And I was right: getting costumed early in the morning – for work, no less! – seemed impossibly daunting. Instead, I wore a set of my sister’s scrubs with a white coat over, which was very much like wearing PJs to the office and made the whole day seem festive.

I had more time to prepare on actual-Halloween, and I needed it. I haven’t spent so long getting ready since prom, and my makeup skills haven’t improved much since then. The false eyelashes were a big surprise – they looked kind of good! I could hardly hold my eyes open, but such is the price of looking like, upon inspection of the pictures, myself with curled hair. (The effect was improved when I met up with my boyfriend, who, trooper that he is, had found a tweed blazer and appropriately skinny tie; he wouldn’t trip over an ottoman for me, though.) All that, and I opened the door to three groups of trick-or-treaters.
LAURAWhere’s my martini?

We still haven’t gotten a fall cool-down around here, but the time change has made weather-incongruent meals more palatable as dinnertime now falls under the forgiving cover of darkness.

Sunday: Shepherd’s pie, salad
Monday: Baked fish, rice pilaf, salad
Tuesday: Pasta puttanesca, salad
Wednesday: Sloppy joes, chips, fruit
Thursday: Takeout

A strong start, anyway.

My shepherd’s pie (a shepherd’s pie/cottage pie hybrid, actually) comes from a recipe that looks a lot like Alton Brown’s, by no little coincidence. It’s pretty standard, with peas, carrots, corn – really, just another way to ruin would-be hamburgers. My most recent preparation of the pie, however, led to a wonderful discovery: mashed potatoes can sit on the stove, fluffy and quiet and hot, for a long time. Like, half an hour, or maybe even more! I stirred in some (additional) hot milk and they were ready to go. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, since potatoes have always caused a disproportionate amount of my Thanksgiving stress. When to start boiling? Will they be ready on time? Or overcooked? How can I mash them and make the gravy at the same time?! It’s a wonder I could even function under the pressure.

Saucy

October 29th, 2009 § 2

So about the vegetarian thing: it’s not been a complete crash and burn, since most of our meals are still meat-free, but a full-blown transition to the ethical and environmental high ground hasn’t happened. Color me not surprised!

With that out of the way, let’s talk about meat – or, more specifically, what goes on it. If my free trial of SPSS hadn’t run out a year ago, I’d include a neat scatter plot to show, in no uncertain terms, that my family prefers their meat dishes to have a sauce. It took me eight years to wrap my head around this striking and entirely obvious correlation. Why try to make something that people like when I could just as easily make something they don’t?

Well, because I like sauces, too. I use the term loosely, since I’ll count anything that’s damp and kind of pourable. Over here we run the gamut from mango salsa (popular with some) to gravy and pan sauce (popular with all). Last week I bought some pork tenderloin, seared it in a skillet, poured in a mixture of Dijon mustard, white wine, and something else (chicken broth?), and stuck it in the oven. It was all I could do not to make it again the next day.

…Instead, I used a “simmer sauce” from Trader Joe’s. It was even easier! It looked a little gelatinous after bubbling away with the chicken in the oven (this was not the Trader Joe’s-sanctioned method of preparation), but a good whisking fixed that. We ate it with crusty bread, not the recommended pasta, which meant one fewer pot to clean and, consequently, a happy cook.
bunnyToo cute for sauce!

The Halloween potluck at my office is tomorrow. We’ve been encouraged to “dress up and make the day a little more fun.” Last year I went as a cowgirl – with boots, hat, the whole deal. Who even knew that Brooks & Dunn had a women’s Western wear line? My sister is braving the mean streets of Chicago in the awesome boots, however (and she should send me a picture to post), so I came up with a new costume idea: Laura Petrie! Capris, pearls, flipped hair, false lashes…I think it sounds totally cute, except I could never pull that all together at 6:00am on a Friday. If I could, it might weaken my justification for looking so sloppy every other day.

Downpour

October 13th, 2009 § 0

crowsFinally: rain. One radio DJ said that this might be the biggest storm southern California has seen in 70 years. Here’s hoping. I’ve tried to pack as many cold (“cold”) weather meals as possible into the week in anticipation of the inevitable October switch back to summer temperatures – 85° by Friday, as meanly confirmed by weather.com.

See, these are nice, warm, rainy-day meals:

Sunday: Meatloaf, baked potatoes, salad
Monday: Frittata with potatoes; salad
Tuesday: Gnocchi, salad
Wednesday: Tomato basil soup, crusty bread, cheese
Thursday: Curry and rice…and salad

It’s true, there is no lack of bagged, prewashed lettuce in the crisper.

My parents and I really like meatloaf. My boyfriend and brother seem to agree that if I’m going to bother mixing ground meat with other stuff and cooking it at all, I might as well make it into burgers. Perhaps they don’t understand that meatloaf is so much cozier, and that meatloaf means I don’t have to scrub the grills on the barbecue. I won’t get either of them started on the post-Christmas ham loaf.

Just in case this hasn’t become abundantly clear, frittata is a personal favorite. Like quiche, but easy! Like scrambled eggs, but kind of dinner-y! A few weeks ago I had an unexpected, almost dizzying, spell of inspiration and bought a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen roasted potatoes with peppers and onions. I set my sister to cooking them in the skillet while I beat ten eggs with some milk. To the hot potatoes we added the eggs, a handful of cheddar, some chopped up roasted green chilies, and leftover chopped tomatoes; tossed it in the oven; and – brilliant! It looked like a golden, slightly overcooked Spanish tortilla. My brother, after painstakingly picking out every tomato, managed to choke it down with glares and copious lashings of Tabasco. I may never make it any other way.
pumpkins
Speaking of recipes that will remain forever unchanged, I recently planned The Great Thanksgiving Menu of 2009, which looks very much like those of all years prior. Since this took five minutes, I backed up into Halloween mode – no sense rushing the best fiscal and calendar quarter of the year…as anxiety-fraught as it so often is.

My mom loves Halloween. But as the day draws nearer and busy schedules render the house conspicuously un-be-webbed and bereft of (tasteful) gargoyles, run-of-the-mill anxiety can become full-blown, we-forgot-to-order-the-turkey-style panic. I was driving somewhere (interesting and important, no doubt) around, say October 3rd, and passed a house with a pumpkin on the porch. I immediately called my brother.

“We need to go get the Halloween stuff out of the storage locker.”
“Huh? Now?”
“Yes, now! I just saw a house with a pumpkin on the porch.”
“So? Why do –“ There was a terrified pause; I knew he understood. “Has Mom seen a house with a pumpkin on the porch yet?”
spider
Ta-da! (Tastefully) decorated house!
gargoyle

The Visit

October 1st, 2009 § 3


This post won’t have much to do with cooking, since CPK online ordering has become my new, very best friend. One might argue that there are better ways to waste disposable income, but…none could possibly be so awesome. Oh my gosh, you can even make notes (”No sour cream, please!”), and someone will take heed and hold the sour cream!

My sister came to visit for nine days, though, so there may be talk of drinks.

About five years ago, my parents turned my sister’s bedroom into an office; as such, several times a year I get a roommate. A rosy-cheeked and charming roommate, to be sure, but one whose tidying-up skills remain unrealized. (She left on Sunday. From my room I removed: one empty cereal bowl; one empty Fresca can; one half-empty Fresca can; one empty Coffee Bean cup; one large stash of junk mail, cleverly hidden on the bottom shelf of a bookcase.) But we did have a grand time, knitting, puttering around in cat sweaters, watching The Golden Girls, badgering my brother to make cocktails, and falling asleep at 9:30.

The Perfect Martini, as made by my brother:
Fill a mug with ice, add gin, and serve!
If he’s in a generous mood I might get a lemon twist, which keeps it looking classy.

Speaking of garnishes, does anyone have an opinion about Tomolives? Apparently, they’ve been around since 1947 – and I had no idea! A Tomolive, in case you don’t want to be the laughingstock of your garnish-literate family (not fun), is a tiny green brined tomato that looks exactly – exactly – like a green olive. They are adorable, and I’m finding it difficult to stop saying so.

In other news, my parents have become birders. It might be getting serious. They don’t wear funny clothes (yet!), but they spend a good part of every weekend trekking around wetlands and cliffsides in oppressive heat, carrying 40 pounds of camera equipment in backpacks designed for war photographers. They return home, spiritedly arguing about the likelihood of finding a Blackburnian warbler in this area. Then they carefully review their counts and record their species in several reputable online orinthological databases. Anxiety over a potentially misidentified bird ensues. What fun!

My sister and I were tricked into participating last weekend.
Mom: The blue-footed booby is still sitting out on the jetty in Dana Point!
Sister: Huh?
Mom: No, really, M_______ just posted on the forum that it’s still there!
[Confused silence in kitchen.]
Me: So…do you guys want to go see it or something?

And see it we did! It kind of looked like a seagull. Indeed, I may have been looking at a seagull. It was sitting; I could not see its allegedly blue feet. My sister and I carried the spotting scope and were mistaken for people who know about birds: a man, also with spotting scope, approached us on the jetty and asked, “So, any luck?” Yes, news of the booby had spread far and wide. We looked at him as if we’d been cold-called until my sister thought to wave him towards our parents, who, she assured him, “might know.”

And We Press On

September 4th, 2009 § 3

The September issue of Bon Appétit arrived yesterday, its cover promising “Cozy Fall Suppers.” It’s been about 100° here for the last two weeks, with no sign of a cool-down, so it looks like the short ribs and shepherd’s pie will have to wait. That’s OK: the eating-vegetarian thing is, except when it isn’t, going pretty well. But come our fall (November?), when no one wants another frittata, I’ll be prepared. Unfortunately, no one will want short ribs, either.

This past week was red letter:
Sunday: Portobello burgers, basil mayo, red pepper tapenade, couscous salad (I made a last-minute swap last week, moving the mushrooms to Sunday and putting veggie curry in their place)
Monday: Takeout…yeah
Tuesday: Mac and cheese, salad
Wednesday: Leftover mac and cheese, salad
Thursday: Black bean tacos with broccoli slaw, feta, grilled eggplant, mango

As my boss might say about a poorly-executed project, let’s review our lessons learned:
• My brother has stopped being a good sport about portobellos. He opted instead for a fake-chicken patty that’d been carelessly wrapped and left lingering in the freezer since my sister’s visit two months ago. That’s hardcore.
• Everyone, including me, still likes takeout more than my cooking.
• The black-bean taco menu sounds gross, but it wasn’t, really.
• Lots of condiments in little dishes make a meal look more impressive!
• So does whiskey! (And it’s vegetarian to boot.)
• I’m much too uncommitted and conflict-averse to come up with a meatless Labor Day meal.

In news unrelated to food, I have at long last found a publication worthy of filling the void left by the folding of my beloved Cottage Living : this, my friends, is Midwest Living. Whether you want to visit Walnut Grove, Minnesota, make Danish pastry apple bars, redecorate your Lincoln Park condo, or peruse ads for walk-in bathtubs, the answer is but a page-turn away.

Me: Do you want to look at the magazine? I know you’ll love it.
Boyfriend: Why? I don’t have any gourds that need preserving.
Me: Wait, you already read it?

If you need to know why the Midwest is awesome, besides my telling you so, the magazine has provided a helpful list. No, I don’t work for them; but they know where to find me. Nowhere near the Midwest, incidentally.

Doomed

August 20th, 2009 § 1

My boyfriend and I ate at a vegan restaurant for dinner last night. Neither of us is vegan, but tempeh and dairy-free ranch dressing sounded tantalizingly weird. Anyway, it was his idea.

…But only because I’ve been trying to eat less meat (says she who was carrying on about fried chicken not 24 hours ago)! My family is game – even my brother, kind of. He’s awfully environmentally-minded, so with a quick reminder about greenhouse-gases-as-direct-result-of-beef-production he was more or less on-board. As a common sense bonus: it’s much cheaper eating less meat, especially when your mom refuses to eat anything that didn’t spend its short life running around in green pastures while grazing, rooting, scratching, etc. Let’s just say that Whole Foods isn’t selling its happy cows for $2.99 a pound.

Like most of my enthusiastically committed-to great ideas, I’m not sure how long this will last. I can’t realistically imagine taking meat out of rotation entirely, since I’m having a hard time coming up with ideas for even two weeks. I can just see my sister (the only actual vegetarian in the family) rolling her eyes. But then, she isn’t cooking for our brother. Also, my vegetarian meals tend to rely heavily on cheese, eggs, and restaurants. Since the goals, if you will, of this exercise are to (1) Save the Planet, natch, (2) spend less, and (3) be healthier, it makes no sense to go buy a brick of cheddar, which, while tasty, is neither cheap nor particularly good for you. This is not to say we can’t eat some cheese and some eggs – there are a lot of exceptions and gray areas in this plan – but I’m trying to avoid having them take center stage at every meal.

This is what I’ve come up with:
Week 1
Sunday: Homemade pizzas, salad
Monday: Black bean and squash chili over sweet potatoes
Tuesday: Corn chowder, salad
Wednesday: Linguini, marinara sauce, salad (you guessed it!)
Thursday: Fried chicken (but it’s the LAST CONCERT)

Week 2
Sunday: Fish, maybe? I’m ok with some cheating.
Monday: Baked penne with tomatoes and olives, salad
Tuesday: Grilled portobello burgers with tasty, as-yet-undecided toppings
Wednesday: Monday’s leftovers
Thursday: Thai noodle soup

So far, the pizza has been the only thing that everyone’s liked, although I have high hopes for the baked penne. We’ll see. Laziness often kills these grand plans before they even get off the ground, but having it in writing might guilt me into sticking with it. Or lying.

Communing with Nature, Deviled Eggs

August 19th, 2009 § 0

One of the great things about the Internet, since no one’s ever pointed this out, is its capacity for providing instant gratification: accurate or not, information is current and instantly available! This is how I like my gossip. It’s not really how I like my bills, but we take the good with the bad over here. In the spirit of being relevant, I’m going to dive into my favorite weekly summertime event, the Concerts in the Park series.

The last one is tomorrow—we made it just under the wire.

The series features our wonderful municipal band, which specializes in movie themes, the official songs of each branch of the U.S. military, and everything in between. I’ve been going for years—decades, actually. The band visits five parks, each one on a specific day of the week, for two months. I’m not going to lie: my park is super awesome, and Thursday is the best night. This need not be taken with a grain of salt.

The concerts bring together some of my least favorite things – picnics, socializing, and prolonged clean-up – and make them into something wholly enjoyable. The adults wander around with glasses of wine, feeling, if they’re anything like me, a little giddy from doing the most illegal thing most of us will ever have the guts to do. (“Alcohol is prohibited in city parks,” comes the ominous but ineffectual announcement each week. “Please be circumspect in your actions.”) The little kids run around with dogs, balls, plastic weaponry, and a wealth of other accessories unsuitable for a crowded place. And we eat.

Apparently, back before my siblings and I were born, my parents would make tasty pasta salads the night before a concert, tuck them into unstained Tupperware, and cruise on down to the park unencumbered by mountains of deck chairs, yards of picnic blankets, and place-settings for five. My, how things have changed!

These days, of course, we bring enough gear to see us through Coachella. Our menu, though much different from those halcyon pre-children days, has been consistent for the last few years: homemade submarine sandwiches, deviled eggs, chips, fruit, and brownies. My mom, who is a teacher, has long been stuck with almost all of the preparation because she gets home from summer school in time to, well, prepare. Needless to say, she was getting kind of sick of it. So we have progressed to the best possible kind of picnic food: purchased.

Tomorrow we will be curled up on our deck chairs and picnic blankets, drinking wine, eating fried chicken, antipasto, potato salad, and strawberries. And it will be, as always, wholly enjoyable. Anyone who’s bored can see how many Crate and Barrel picnic tables they can count from a sitting position; my record is nine.

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