Tag: food

Bock Bock Chicken Licken

The Krause/Brashears have moved to Amherst leaving their flock of six with the Ballengers. The first thing you need to know about this family is that they have some major cool going on. Betsy, as you will remember, treated me to a glass of wine on her birthday. Chris is a musician as is their daughter Hollis. Their son, Luca, increased my son’s hep factor by making it okay to say “dude” in a context that didn’t include cattle. Their flock is no less cool.

Introductions
All the hens came with names, which we will honor, but Sailor Moon will just have to be Big Momma to me. She is soft and lovely and at the top of the pecking order near as I can tell. Don’t think that the bantams can’t rise up against the bigger hens. Fireball or Flower, I’m still getting to know those two, hen pecked Daisy over some watermelon today. The other members of the flock are Persephone and Buttercup.

Sweet Digs
Jesse and the kiddos worked together to build an awesome coop with two roosts, four nests, and a slanted roof that will shed rain water onto our water hungry citrus tree. You’ll notice the tin can flowers made with Anna then given to and stolen from Molly. Also, there’s a 1919 license plate over the door. I expect we will continue to decorate and modify our coop. For now, the chicks dig it.

Our Pets Make us Breakfast
The chickens aren’t always in their coop. They like to free range, just like the rest of us. I so appreciate their work de-bugging the backyard. On the other hand, their first day out they ate our prized black Russian tomato that George and I have been carefully tending. It was our only one and there are no flowers promising any future blacks. Even so, I love these ladies. They have produced well for us – especially considering how our family, and Parrish in particular, loves to snuggle. Our first egg was this green one.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a better tasting egg than the ones coming from our flock. Yum, yum, yumm-o! Thanks to the Krause/Brashear family.

Salsa Sabrosa de Alex

Alex occasionally blogs about her adventures in cooking. Her mad kitchen skills are one of the many reasons you could find her annoying. Another would be that she’s a adored among the kids at school who think she’s soooo beautiful. I would avoid her, but she’s ridiculously nice (and cool, and funny, and shares her recipes). Besides, the kids are right. She’s an attractive woman with three cutie pie boys to prove it’s genetics and not simply superficial style.

The specialty in the Alex home is Mexican food and so accordingly she cooks great meals for her familia. She’s posted posole, chicken tacos with each tortilla hand fried, and bean tostadas. Each of these served up with a side of salsa. I don’t pretend with myself. I can’t manage that – not even with all the love, adoration, and dedication I have to and for my family. Did I mention that my ancestral women folk worked? It’s a lame excuse since those women managed to work AND cook, but it’s all I got.

Ignoring my rationalizations and knowing I can’t cook, I decided to attempt Alex’s salsa. It was hard work. I slaved in the kitchen. And like my cookies, there was deviation from perfection. Fortunately, this is one of those informal recipes you get from gramma and friendly types. Precise measurements and enumerated directions are for Betty Crocker. And without further ado:


(Alex’s salsa photo)

1 28 oz. can petite diced tomatoes, unless you didn’t pay that close attention and got plain old diced tomatoes, which gives you a slightly chunkier texture
A generous sprinkle of garlic salt, however much that is
A few grinds of fresh pepper, as though you had fresh pepper
Juice of 1 key lime, or in my case lemon juice because I didn’t have a lime, much less a key lime, rolling around my kitchen
Seed and mince 4-6 jalapeños, but don’t try to put your contacts in afterward
Chop 1 onion, organic cancer fighter
Finely mince 1/2 bunch of fresh cilantro, or the whole bunch since there’s not much chance you’d use the other half, which would just go wasted like so many CSA greens
Mix it all together in a big bowl. The end.

We drank it out of margarita glasses with salty rims (that’s a joke). The salsa stood alone at my table, complimented only by the chips. Salsa is what was for dinner. I put the remainder in jars. See?

I ate one jar the next day and gave the other to Todd-o the following night. A half hour after saying goodbye to the final jar and after a couple of beers, Jesse went looking for the last bit of salsa and was peeved to find there was none. The moral of the story is that Alex’s forgiving salsa recipe must be solid if I could stir it up and a late night tipsy muncher would mourn the last bit.

Baking Cookies

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I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have told my children that kids die in Iraq and so quit asking me for Eegee’s. It was a tough day, but that’s not much of an excuse. I could probably be a better mother. I lost my interest in feeling guilty as a granddaughter, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, and in-law after an intervention. The “professional” said I could let it go, so I did. Maybe I need a mommy intervention.

I’ve been wondering because Mz. Molly asked me some pointed questions about reacting in a positive way to family who would control you through guilt. It didn’t seem realistic to suggest an intervention, so I told her I’d think on it.

That night I made chocolate chip cookies for the kids. They’ve been good little zombies and I wanted to treat them. I read the “traditional” recipe on the bag and realized happily that I had all the ingredients except for the chips. So we bought the bag and were on our way.

The thing about my baking is that my mother was a working mom. Her mother was a single working mom. And even her mother, my great-grandmother, was a single working mom. My dad’s mom worked too. What woman was responsible for teaching me how to bake cookies?

I made up my own guilt-free, perfectly imperfect chocolate chip cookie recipe just for Molly, and myself. Here’s how it played out:

In a big bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt. Oops, in a small bowl. I’ll wash the big one in a second. It’s encouraging to see that there are no wee beasties in my flour, but if I double the recipe, I can get fresh flour for future mischief. Unfortunately, there’s a 1/4 cup left and my frugal inner voice can not waste it. Oh, darn. The bag upended spilling the flour on the floor. Sweep it up and put flour on the grocery list. Stir.

In a big bowl – maybe I won’t wash that one out. In a big bowl mix softened butter – softened! I didn’t see that. Ah, well. Chilled will have to do. Mix cold butter, sugar, and brown sugar. I should have softened the brown sugar. It’s a block. Well, that’s what ice picks are for. I mean, they are for ice, but they’ll work on any chunk of something that has petrified in the pantry. Beat.

The cold butter and chunky brown sugar stall my beater and the familiar smell of band aids from the motor fills the air. This is a good beater. It has been with me for 20 years of cold butter and chunky brown sugar. At this point, a wedge of brown sugar pushes my beaters apart and threatens to bend them at the base. After ice picking the wedge out, I’m pleased to see that ol’ faithful shook it off and finished the work of butter batter beating.

“Do you want me to finish these cookies or not? Okay, then get out of the kitchen.” Baking is a great family activity.

Oops! Add organic vanilla was supposed to come before beating cold butter, sugar, and chunky brown sugar. The recipe doesn’t actually call for organic vanilla, but it’s what I have and I feel good about it. Now, it’s all beatted. Beaten?

Anyway, it’s time to add the cruelty free, locally produced, organic eggs. That’s right. These eggs are so hot, so now, that surely everyone will realize what a great human being I am. I’m proud to add them to the mix one at a time. While the recipe calls for one-at-a-time eggs, it’s one of those serendipitous things because it gives me a chance to remove the shell fragments that fall in the dough when I crack the eggs.

All done with the eggs, add the flour a little at a time. There’s some. There’s some more. You know, when I was younger I didn’t have the patience for that. I’d get to the point when I just dump it, which is what I do next.

I’m at the end of the process. Now all I have to do is add the chocolate chips. Holy crap! Dos problemos aqui. First, these chips are made by Nestle and I swore when I nursed my son eight years ago that I would boycott Nestle. I’d better hide the bag deep in the trash. This bit of shame just might erase the local goodness of my eggs and the chemical-freeness of the vanilla. Secondly, I doubled the recipe and only have single the chips. Whatevs! I’m not turning back now.

Time to drop them by huge spoonfuls (does anyone really make beautiful dainty chocolate chip cookies?). It gives me the creeps to even think on it. I’m sure they are convenient to carry and good for the waist, but who wants to watch for 10 dozen cookies to cook? It would take all freaking day!

Preheated oven, no greased pans, easy-peasy. OMG! Did I really just say easy-peasy? First batch, underdone. Second batch, overdone. Third batch, burned. Each kid got a doughy cookie and a glass of milk five minutes after they should have been in bed. I can’t stand the thought of making these innocents brush the comforting, warm yumminess from their baby mouths with sterile, burning toothpaste. I make brushing teeth optional.

This recipe yields enough cookies for kids, teachers, and the midnight cookie monster. The cookies are as imperfect as their maker, but tasty nevertheless. They are part wholesome goodness that benefits the world and part corporate evil that packs on the pounds. On balance, I have to say that I’m perfectly satisfied by the effort and have no need to feel guilty about any of it. I could do better, and may in the future. I may do worse. For certain, I will not be paralyzed to do nothing.

Been Sick

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The shortish story…

Apparently, I let myself get sick. Then I refused to admit I was sick. After weeks of such nonsense, I agreed to go to see my primary care physician. She should be called something else because none of those descriptors fit – not primary, not care, not physician. I’d change her identification to Dr. “I don’t care I just want you out of here” or “I hate my life M.D.”

My chest x-ray was hazy so I was sent to the ER where the nurses repeatedly asked what interaction I had with the homeless population. About the third time I replied, “Have you been in your waiting room?” The nurse tells me that sometimes a security guard with a dog will come and shoo the indigent away.

When the triage nurse called my name, Jesse and I began lumbering toward her careful to avoid the drunk and detoxing. She greeted us with her outstretched arm holding a mask. Dr. Cancerscare’s warning call that we were on our way carried the threat that I had TB. A cursory glance at the chest x-ray indicated that the apexes of my lungs were clear. So, NOT TB! But no one looked at my x-rays (apparently, not even my PCP). They just operated on the cancer/TB idea because it’s more fun that way. Besides, who ever heard of the flu turning into pneumonia? That never happens. I got a mask because the hospital didn’t want me to offend the homeless population in the waiting room with Rebecca germs. Apparently, that’s a one-way homeless-to-Rebecca privilege. Jesse requested a mask for himself on principle.

Eventually, Doogie Houser partially slid my x-ray out of it’s envelope took off his mask and said, “This isn’t TB.” He wrote a prescription for antibiotics and kicked us out. I was instructed to re-contact my PCP.

And so I made the attempt, but the doctor didn’t want to see me. “I was there on Thursday. I have pneumonia.”

“Still, you are a new patient. We can’t accommodate new patients until April.”

“But I have pneumonia now. The hospital told me to follow up with your office.”

“And we can see you in April.”

“But I was admitted to the ER under Dr.’s name.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I need follow-up for PNEUMONIA!”

I did go in for follow-up with one of Dr.’s colleagues who gave me a relationship appointment for March and a referral to an ear doctor, which never materialized.

My friend betts brought this for me when she heard I was sick. How sweet is that? That drink is the yummiest yum ever – candied ginger, lemon juice, and honey. It made me feel better, but didn’t cure my pneumonia.

My step-father called in a personal favor with the head of pulmonary care at the University Medical Center. Ahhh… real health care. I think the good doctor is operating on the theory that I had the flu, then while in compromised health I contracted cocci, and that came with a complication of pneumonia and pleurisy. How unfortunate is that? Cocci and pleurisy without so much as a kiss. Unfortunately, insurance gave me trouble with the tests so the good doctor saw that I was admitted to the hospital.

I don’t remember much about the hospital because I was sedated after a series of nurses attempted with a series of blown and elusive veins to put in an IV. Since I’m terrified of needles, I had a mini-breakdown in hour two of this process. I do remember receiving a wellness blessing with rancid ointment from my priest, protesting a TB test, more needles, having to pee after my CT scan, and begging to be released.

And after two hours haggling with the insurance company over what meds they will allow, we decided upon a cocktail of drugs that the insurance company is willing to gamble I won’t have an allergic reaction to, though I have previously. I’m not taking the pain meds but I am on two antibiotics that have only caused a minor rash and nausea. That’s where things stand until early March when I see the good doctor and the evil doctor for follow-up.

So, that’s where I’ve been.

Fruits and Their Labels

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I adore the look of Daryl Hannah’s website. I need to be idle rich so I can find my inner artist. But enough of my sour grapes. On her tips page, she gives the lowdown on figuring out if your produce is conventionally grown, organically grown, or if it contains genetically modified organisms. Such useful information!

It got me thinking about reproductive issues. Or it could be the desert brush (broom?) plant in blooming in the bird sanctuary, apparently a female. In nature, plant breeding occurs between sexually compatible organisms. Isn’t this the argument used against gay marriage? So, maybe I should be in favor of GMOs or should I be against gay marriage? Or is it possible that you can be in favor of abortion and against the death penalty or vice versa? Cognitive dissonance? False polars? I’ve always enjoyed thinking over seemingly conflicting beliefs. I’m getting away from my point.

My point is that if you are a huge company profiting from GMOs, then you should provide benefits to nontraditional spousal partners as well. No it’s not. My point is that if you want to know what is going into your aging body, the tiny bodies of your children, or the heart-attack-waiting-to-happen body of your husband, then learning to read labels seems an important skill. More importantly, would someone please give me a website and lifestyle like Daryl Hannah?