Talk About Subtle

Spring here on the 45th latitude is fairly colorless. Oh, there's drama. There are snowstorms in April and driving winds on Easter Sunday. Dark days filled with brooding clouds. And flashy moments of searing summer heat that drops abruptly into our lives and then suddenly vanishes, in order to make way for weeks and weeks of more chilly grayness. Mostly we get used to it. I mean, yeah, everyone's grip on "reality" has really loosened up as we close-in on May yet find ourselves still surrounded by leafless trees and icy weather. But as I said, we're used to it. The dreariness and the craziness.


Anyway, I walked around the lake yesterday. It was another cold day and of course there's always a wind blowing down there--it's just the nature of the lake's adorable "sleeping cat" shape. (Round with an indent.) Walk the entire three-mile circumference and you will get slapped pretty hard and strong--from more than one side-- by a breeze that's picked up some hardcore friskiness as it skids across the mile of open water.

So that's why, towards the end of my walk, my nose was running and my hair was mostly standing on end. I mean it, great floppy chunks of hair filled with styling product flapping around in the wind, unable to recall their accustomed spot on my scalp. Great floppy chunks that posed (thanks, styling product!) eagerly any which they could. Phew. I was seriously windblown and a little bit winded, as well. There was panting and there was snot and altogether there was just an overall unkemptness of person. Which can be so very distracting to those of us who just happen to prefer dry noses and smooth hair. I hoped very, very deeply that I would not run into anyone I know.


But then in the midst of this dreary self-involvement, I noticed the grass. Spring here is all about the grass. Barely green, not more than three inches tall, the grass is slowly growing, slowly turning green, slowing achieving just the right height to shelter acclimatized flowers and tiny migrating birds. The flowers are the tiniest members of the bulb family, Blue Scilla. They grow on a stem as slender as a blade of grass and their cornflower blue blossom looks like a miniature...cornflower. In some areas the ground is blue with them but since they blend in with the still visible browned grass of last fall they are very easily overlooked. They're subtle. But I had spotted several shallow areas filled with the Blue Scilla--who knows how many I had missed-- before I noticed the birds. Actually, what I noticed was the ground. Moving a little bit. Hopping and flapping and even flying a tiny ways then settling back down. Oh! It's warblers! Dozens and dozens of tiny gray/brown birds tipped with bright yellow at every extremity and so small they can hide in the early spring grass. They are the kings of bird subtle, no kidding. Seeing so many of them the very same day that so many Blue Scilla bloomed was sort of like winning at something. Twice.

So I ended up enjoying the walk even though I did bump into someone I know--Ted the Gardener. Aw, it was okay. He's the one who told me the name of the Blue Scilla.


Next up--dandelions, violets and all those crazy robins back from spring break down in Florida. (And if you think they go down there every winter to visit their grandmas you've never been divebombed by a group completely smashed on fermented "ornamental" fig berries. Woo hoo!)

Ashes to Ashes

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. (Life Chez Roz is so very often just like a Dickensian tale.) The worst of times because one of us had to don a suit and tie and attend a memorial service. Which is sad. Also, the service was to be held at a lovely gathering place a long, long drive away from home. But today had promise for good times as well as the other of us (wow--that's so awkward. It's me, okay?) had a biddy* coming over for coffee and maybe a bite to eat. Yay!

10 AM arrived. The memorial attending member of the family solemmly donned his darkest suit. A gray flannel affair, purchased circa..1995? Maybe... (don't run away!)...ten years earlier? I passed by the room and saw a pair of tan loafers sitting out. I disapproved. You'll need black shoes. There's a pair I got for teenage son's music performance outfit. No response. Someone hates to be bossed around, sartorially. And yet...moments later someone stuck his head into my office, with an expression of sheer panic set onto his preternaurally relaxed features. My jacket doesn't fit!

I take a look. Aw, it fits fine. Just don't try to button it up.

Perhaps in gratitude for my calming response, the black loafers are unearthed and added to the ensemble, even though they are at least a size and a half too big. Nice and roomy, someone says bravely. And shuffles off to the memorial service, jeans and Tevas in hand for a quick change, once Respects have been Paid In Full.

Meanwhile, it's time for coffee with best pal! I brew up a colossal pot and we work our way through it. A zillion stories and three hours later the door opens and someone returns from the service, a serving of quasi-healthy Mexican fastfood in hand for starving teenage daughter. Teenage daughter wafts into the room and extracts the majority of the meal's beans and salsa from the earth-friendly oval cardboard container. I notice buddy looks wistful so I leap up and offer to make us lunch. Help yourself says kindhearted daughter, who has always truly understood hunger. And who is, thrillingly for those around her, truly unable to eat guacamole. As she always does, she has left untouched the gigantic dollop of excellent avocado mole the vegetarian meal comes with. Inspired, I whip out my brand-new, non-stick, square pan and arrange four small corn tortillas on it. Shred some cheddar. Flip the warming tortillas. Try to ignore the new pan smell, which is really weird and really strong. Hmm hmm hmm. Just sprinkling these little guys here with cheese. That smell will go away...soon...

"Oh, my GOD" shouts teenage son as he passes through room. "It smells like you're cooking up FILAMENTS!" (Filaments?)

Turn the stove's high-powered fan to ON. Serve the little tostadas anyway. Pile them up with guacamole, some black beans and corn and cilantro and our most excellent Greek yogurt. They are delicious, with not a hint of bad plastic coated pan/lightbulb innards taste.

Hours later, when cleaning up kitchen, pick up brand-new, square non-stick pan and happen to turn it over. Encounter its enormous adhesive label, dramatically melted by the flames of the gas burner into huge hardened wads of blackened, brittle plastic. I peel wads off pan, drop them (*thunk!*) into garabage pail. Shake head in awe at enormity of my own cluelessness.


*Oh and that was a typo for "buddy". But I kind of like it, don't you?

Glad You Asked!

I am certain that readers of Fun's Not the Word are piling over here to find out just what our official stance is about the weather we're getting today. Because that invisible rain we had yesterday, which was actually microscopic ice crystals falling from the sky and which also was the reason everyone else and their dog stayed inside, has turned into persistent, swirling snow. (But at least today I can see the snow falling, and so will not leash up the schnauzers and prance outdoors for a mile-long jaunt. A jaunt wherein the three of us will see not a soul except for a couple of construction workers who will give us a sympathetic look and inquire gently with a charming Hispanic accent, "You are a lady who really, really likes to walk, yes?" "Oh, ha ha, yeah, I do," I will respond. Because while not strictly true otherwise all I get for parading around hatless and gloveless through the stinging precipitation is a diagnosis of loco.)

The official Fun's Not the Word stance on the weather is that it is just not fair. Please stop.

In Which I Am Useful

Terribly independent and self-sufficient offspring shows up with a thrift store sweater in hand, completely annoyed.

"Can you get this thing out for me?" She points to a tiny white price tag stapled to the maroon wool.

I turn the sweater inside out and unbend the tiny arms of the staple. The tag falls off.

"Thank you so much!" she says. "I just hate old-fashioned technology."

Hypothetically Speaking

Medusa Likes to Read

It was such a lovely day here yesterday. Seventy-five degrees, sunny and there was a breeze blowing. A magical breeze that managed to refresh without chilling. The sun warmed my skin as I sat stuptified on my back deck, motionless in the light, like a giant lizard who had never met summer. Not wanting to make sudden movements lest I scare away that fantastic phenomenon, warmth. My human brain shrunken down, effectively, to the size of a lentil. Lentil-brains are all lizards need to sit in the sun and decide to live for another day.

So that's what I did yesterday. Decided to live for another day. And also to read the paperback copy of Dreams from My Father, which I bought a couple of weeks ago. And I can hear you saying Hey--what about that lentil-size brain? Can you read with a LENTIL-sized brain? Well, aren't you the alert reader? You should try book reviewing--you really should. That's the kind of brain you need to have for book reviewing. The kind you have. The kind of brain that would bust someone for an awkward segue involving giant lizards and then BAM! suddenly we're talking about books?

Anyway, I was reading (it was a paperback, a tiny brain is all you need to read a paperback) and was completely engrossed by the story of Barack Obama's childhood and his grandparents in Hawaii and then about an hour passed and I decided I should get up and prowl around the house. Check for mail, make sure the dogs were still on the premises. Laundry, snack. And as I came around the corner to the living room, I noticed a flash of movement out on the pavement. A quick-moving patch of light blue on one side of the huge overgrown evergreens that shield my front porch from the city sidewalk that is about five feet from my house. And so I stopped right where I was at the edge of the open front door, waiting to see the patch of blue emerge out the other side of the evergreen. But it didn't. Curious, I stuck my head out the doorway just as a young man wearing a nice pressed shirt (light blue) and a tie and dark khakis with a nice belt and running shoes bounded silently onto my front porch.

I gasped in surprise. He gasped in surprise that I gasped in surprise. It was awkward. I actually missed the two dogs who normally are available to rush to the door and ease the situation by barking frantically. But they were both lying in the sun in the backyard, deciding to live another day and thus were unaware of the drama unfolding on the front porch. So the dapper young man and I had no choice but to gather our wits so he could begin his sales spiel. It was one of those I am building my leadership skills and am participating in a program to get me out of the inner city. I was fairly brutal in asking what he was selling. Books? Magazines? (Because those programs never actually send the magazines. WHY IS THIS?) As soon as he admitted that yes, he was selling books and magazine I admitted that I no longer supported those programs. And here's the weird part as I saw it at the time: The kid RAN AWAY. Silently (he had really good sneakers). He didn't stay and try to convince me that his program was for real or that he possessed some unusual amount of sales integrity. Nope. He stole one more scared look at me, turned and ran. Hmph, I thought. What a baby. I didn't even get to do a little bit of battle with him on that one!

Still clutching my engrossing copy of Dreams from My Father I moseyed past the downstairs bathroom and stopped in for a moment. That's where I keep my hairspray. And confident in my own power of highly effective porch detente I thought I'd treat myself to a little shot of the old Biolage Matrix spritz. Turning to the mirror, I gasped in a way that was kind of familiar...kind of the way the little salesman had when we first encountered each other. Because I got a good look at what happens to lentil-brained lizards when they are so deeply immersed in the narrative of their all time favorite politician that they forget what a little sun and wind can do to their face (burned bright red) and their hair (tangled into snakey-dreads and flat). Suddenly it dawned on me that the door-to-door salesman maybe wasn't just scared of me because he was a lame sneaker wearing salesboy. I think he was afraid he'd turn to stone.

Baby.

Two Freaks, Two Eggs.

Almost every morning I make a poached egg. I boil water in a small non-stick saute pan, crack the egg right into it, stick a piece of hemp bread in the toaster (set way, way way to the darkest setting) and wait until it pops up. It's about a three-minute egg, I guess. There's butter for the toast and salt for the egg, and it's just a really great breakfast. It lasts for hours and hours and I usually don't even think about lunch. I love it.

Someone else here also has a morning ritual involving an egg. Here's what he does. Cracks one egg into a shallow cereal bowl (I know, so wrong!). Adds a big spoonful of flax seeds. Beats the two together quite vigorously and efficiently, then cooks it all up in a little non-stick saute pan (we have two!). Since it's just one egg, the resulting super-thin omelette-y thing looks very much like a crepe. To further this little crepe fantasy or whatever, a dollop of raspberry jam is folded onto the omelette. It is eaten in two bites. *Snap! Gulp! Snap! Gulp!* Yay for breakfast.

All is well and good, right? Yes, yes. Nutrition has happened. We are both fed. Except...except for that cereal bowl. It sits in the sink, unrinsed. And the innocent flax seeds that cling to the sides start quickly becoming one with the china, forming a new, seed-textured surface. Because of the sticky, adhesive nature of the egg residue that coats the bowl. And once this happens, you need to get involved with all sorts of cleaning pads and scrape-y tools and hot water for extra soaking plus wasteful amounts of detergent.

Or you could just quickly run some cold water right into the cereal bowl. Those eggy flax seeds wouldn't stand a chance. So I am ever vigilent, in a very subtle, non-accusatory way. Just turning on the water, oh, just directing the stream THIS way, hmm hmm hmm. No big deal, really. Right? But here's the weird part. Guess what the freaky flaxseed omelette maker is obsessed with? MY EGG POACHING PAN. The one sitting on the stovetop, full of HOT HOT water. The one with a lovely rim of white egg detritus clinging to the pan's circumference. The pan with the fascinating blob of quasi-meringue floating on the surface of the HOT HOT water. The omelette maker eyes the pan anxiously while I eat my toast and egg. He sits with with me, making conversation about the day's news headlines, waiting for me to lower my gaze to my plate. Then he hops up, grabs the little poaching pan and spirits it over to the sink where it gets a quick rinse and scrub and is even dried. It's back on the burner, clean and tidy and our erstwhile omelette maker (who ate hours ago, by the way, so don't think he even needs the little pan even though we have two) is back in his chair, continuing the conversation. (Oh, the usual: Hillary. Price of gas. Duckweed.)

When I Turned the TV Off

Not while watching Barack Obama gamely whacking away at the sequence of intrusive questions. Or while he fended off manufactured issues about his elitism and patriotism. I cheered when he showed no reaction when Hillary Clinton referred to him again and again as "Barack," was impressed that he managed not to grimace as she her squawked out his name to show how chummy they are, really. Even though her campaign has honed a uniquely insulting style of in-party fighting specifically for him. (It's just politics! Right? Bah.) I basked in his measured use of "Senator Clinton". So perfectly distancing. So conscious of her deviousness.

But then came the Reverend Wright barrage. Nine eleven blah blah blah. Un-American blah blah blah. And shit. Obama lost it. He actually said, "...those are words spoken by someone I've disowned". And a giant pause descended while everyone took those words in. Then the soft incredulous voice of George Stepanoupolis came from off camera. "You disown him?" It was just too horrible to see Obama look so sad and confused. "I disown his words, " he said. But... that's not quite what he actually said.

*click*

What to Eat When There's Nothing to Eat

Speaking of teenage sons, here is a recipe for feeding them when starvation is imminent and there are no leftovers in the fridge and someone already ate all the good bread and for some reason sandwiches are considered very declasse around here, so don't even bother suggesting a nice peanut butter and jelly. (Or God forbid, an old-fashioned mercury-laden tuna fish sandwich. Those went out of fashion quite suddenly one day last summer, leaving us with several unopened plastic squeeze bottles of that *shudder* sickly-sweet pickle condiment called relish. Foolishly purchased in bulk so hungry youths could mix up with happy abandon their very own version of the perfect tuna sandwich.) But do teach any cupboard ransacking adolescent you may know how to make this--there's nothing like being able to whip up a pot of Spaghetti Carbonara whenever the urge strikes. It is particulary satisfying as a late night dinner.

Bring two quarts of water to a boil and add eight ounces dry pasta. (We usually use thin spaghetti, but fettucini has developed its own loyal following lately. Advantage of thinner noodles of course is that they cook more quickly.)

Meanwhile:

Beat two eggs in a small bowl and add an ounce of grated parmigiano-reggiano. Stir to combine. Set aside.

Melt three tablespoons butter in the microwave. Mince (really, really cut it up as tiny as you can) one good-sized medium clove of garlic and add to melted butter. Set aside.

Drain pasta and return to pot. Immediately add egg-cheese mixture and mix into hot pasta. The heat from the noodles will cook the eggs (fettucini is a bit more difficult this way--you may have to place the pot back over the still warm burner and stir for two or three minutes to cook the eggs thoroughly). Add the garlic-butter and stir. Add more parmigiano-reggiano, and lots of salt and pepper. Crisp, crumbled bacon is excellent in this dish, and would qualify it for true Carbonara nomenclature. But we love it in its vegetarian version just as well!

This recipe serves two hungry people.

Hee hee

Roz's Frazzled Husband, gallantly undertaking organization of teenage son's preparation for Big Fancy Spring Dance.

F. H. (hair standing on end, glasses on end of nose, phone book in hand): What's the name of that flower place?

Roz (ever so helpful): Huh?

F. H. What's the name of that florist? That one in Linden Hills?

Roz (TRULY, ever so helpful): They're called Linden Hills Florist.

This... Makes Me Laugh

Hillary's Slick Willies

Camille Paglia has a Q and A in today's Salon.com Sigh. She is so unrelenting brilliant. I remember the first time I heard her speak--I was driving, just making my way home from some series of errands. (In those days I listened to the radio at all times while in the car--now, for some reason, I never ever have it on. Not sure why not, honestly. Not sure why you need to know that, either.) At first, hearing the stream of passionate opinions pouring from Camille through the Honda's tiny speakers made me gasp. Then I turned the radio's volume way up. Then I started kind of doing the "call and response" thing, but in a very uncool, white girl way. Yeah, I feel the same WAY!.... Oh, my God, yes! I know!.... Really, that's SO true... Wait--what was that word you just used? Oh, shit, I'll have to look that up when I get home! Ha ha!! At that point I actually pulled over to the curb on whatever street I was on, still far from home, so I could listen to Camille ramble on, absorb her fascinating rhetoric completely unfettered by my driving responsibilities. (Made it much easier to jot down all those new vocabulary words, too!)

Take a look!

Horrible Moments

Ever put a pair of stretchy workout pants on backwards? And they're pants you wore the day before so they're all nice and sagged out? But when you put them on you have no idea what's going on? You just know that although the front of the pants are gratifyingly loose the backside is terrifyingly tight. You scream inwardly. What is going on???? And then a thousand scared thoughts charge through your brain, all variations on: HOW DID MY BUTT GET SO BIG OVERNIGHT? You quickly make a bunch of deals with God. Promises, good deeds, less sloth, yadda yadda. He responds, agrees favorably to all. Tells you to check the waistband of your stretch pants. You do. Discover label in front that should be in back.

Sunday Breakfast, April Edition

One thing I count on when I go out to lunch at La Sirena Gorda, the excellent Mexican seafood restaurant kiosk at the Midtown Global Market, is bringing home a tiny, tiny plastic cup of the bright, hot green sauce owner/genius Alfonso makes. For months now, I've been basking in Alfonso's generosity, usually managing to get (along with a gratis bowl of beautiful creamy Seafood Chowder) an extra dose it along with my order of Shrimp Tacos (four soft corn tortillas, piled with shrimp tossed with a light cilantro cream sauce. Pickled red onions and rice pilaf on the side). I count on that leftover thimble-size takeout portion because then I can make myself one or maybe even two of my delicious Pear Quesadillas for lunch. (What is a Pear Quesadilla? And how do you make it? So happy you asked! It is so very simple and as someone just said, so very delicious. For each portion you will need one corn tortilla--locally made if possible. Two or three thin slices of a nice medium sharp Cheddar cheese--I am smitten with a white Vermont these days. Place the tortilla on a microwaveable plate, with the cheddar cheese arranged in a single layer either all on one side of the tortilla, or directly down the middle. Depends on how you envision folding the tortilla up. I do it either way, it absolutely doesn't matter at all! Microwave on high for 30-40 seconds, until cheese melts. Meanwhile, cut a ripe Bartlett pear into thin slices--you will need about a quarter pear per quesadilla. Place approximately three-four slices of pear on top of cheese. Annoint lovingly with the green sauce you have been hoarding in the refrigerator. Fold tortilla up, eat.)

This morning breakfast time came and breakfast time went. And there was no breakfast for me. Maybe because it seems as if spring is finally here, but today I realized I was tired of eating the same thing every single day. All winter, every morning, I've made myself a poached egg on toasted hemp bread. And loved it! But as of today... I can't eat it one more time. So then...what did I want? I pondered. Nothing sounded just right. Except a Pear Quesadilla. But I had no tiny plastic cup of green sauce hiding in the fridge behind the yogurt container. I did have one tiny bit of information, though. One glimmer of hope that the Pear Quesadilla really could be my breakfast today. See, once we were at La Sirena Gorda and had to ask for the extra green sauce. "Oh, sure," Alfonso said. "You want some guacamole sauce? No problem!" Odd, we thought. Sure doesn't taste like guacamole. (Actually, it has more of an almost Indian fresh chutney flavor to me--I knew I could taste cilantro and jalapeno.) So it dawned on me ( I am really smart that way!) that the ingredient that gives the green sauce its smooth texture (as well as its previously unknown name) is avocado.

I just happened to have an avocado sitting around the kitchen this morning. And cilantro and a jalapeno, too. I didn't have a lime or a lemon so I squeezed the juice from half an orange into the mixture of half an avocado, a small bunch of cilantro, and one jalapeno with a few seeds still clinging to the ribs. I pureed it all up in my mini-food processor. Added salt and then a about a quarter cup of water to thin the puree to a sauce-like consistency. It is almost perfect. Could be a little hotter and I think the lime juice really is de riguer. But it is green and smooth and I spread it on top of the pears and cheese and folded up the nice hot soft corn tortilla (I went with the cheese-down-the-middle-roll-up-into-thirds option) and ate my breakfast, staring out at the April sky as it grew darker and darker. I put another corn tortilla piled with cheddar into the microwave, pressed the buttons for thirty seconds and waited for the spring rain to start falling.

(beep beep beeep!)

The Worst Thing I Cook

It's bad. Really bad. I got the recipe off the back of a jar. Not that there's anything wrong with recipes on the back of a jar, per se. Not at all. The Tollhouse cookie recipe from the Nestle's bag? The best! (Although I do miss that 1/4 tsp of water that used to be in the list of ingredients. Anyone else remember that? What was that about? Was Tollhouse Cookie creator Ruth Wakefield just being scrupulously honest--did she perhaps originally flick her wet hands at her bowl full of cookie dough and felt compelled to transcribe that extra bit of moisture? Is that what the "add 1/4 teaspoon of water" was trying to recreate? Or was there some sadistic home economist at Nestle's test kitchen circa 1940, who giggled herself to sleep at night for decades, thinking of all the dutiful cookie makers who had earnestly filled their teeniest, tiniest measuring spoons with tap water and carefully carried it over to the mixing bowl all the way across the kitchen. Because those neophyte cookie bakers were only eleven-years-old and didn't really think these things out, you know?)

But this recipe, the bad one. It is off the back of a jar of Hellmann's mayonnaise. It goes roughly like this: Mix mayonnaise with parmesan cheese. Coat skinned chicken breasts with mixture. Place in baking dish, sprinkle bread crumbs and an additional tablespoon of Parmesan cheese on top. Bake for half an hour. That's pretty much the original, but we've messed around with it a bit. Added our all purpose Fage yogurt to the mayonnaise mix, and a bit of heavy cream as well, upped the (freshly grated) Parmesan cheese. It comes out of the oven golden brown and the kitchen has the cosy smell of toasted cheese. It tastes okay--it's just basically a creamed chicken. Helleman's calls this dish Chicken Parmesan but as we already have a Chicken Parmesan (a stovetop version with a labor intensive sauce), someone here named this baked version Dumpling Chicken. Cute name, and it does help alleviate a little bit of the guilt I feel those evenings when cooking a real dinner is just not an interesting goal. Those evenings I madly twirl the fatty condiments together (sometimes even using the yogurt or mayonnaise container as my default mixing bowl--how's that for depraved, huh?) and feel just a little crazy and desperate.

Although tonight as I slopped cut-up chicken breasts into a Pyrex dish and smeared cheesy mayonnaise over the naked purpley-colored pieces, I did have a thought that soothed my cooking anxiety. A freaky, grasping at straws, back-of-the-box thought. An insight into my own particular food dementia. As long as I am not making Kellogg's Rice Krispie Treats for dessert I am doing okay. Yep. I am not cracking open a bag of squishy corn syrup-based marshmallow puffs. I am not melting them in a big pot with lots of butter, not shaking six cups of processed and baked faked-up rice into the steaming sugary goo, not shoveling giant hot sticky globs of the cereal mixture into my mouth before pressing it into a pan...yep, I am doing juuuuuuust fine.

Because those back-of-the-box recipes? They will take you down with them.

You heard it here.

March Metapost

ain't almost although apparently archive around away baby beef best bit blog book box butter carrots celebrates characters chicken college confused cook cream cut damn diner dinner easter eggs everyone family feel food form fried funny garlic general goodbye gravy greens ha half hash history hmm holiday husband idea inches internet irish life links lots love meal metapost nice nothing offering oh once onion overheard people photos post potatoes pretty puzzle pw quite really recipes roz samantha seen six sometime sorry soup stir story terrible things think threw tiny today turkey until used waiter weeks winter wondered world writing yes

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