Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Found Out Today
that one of my friends from pastry school died last week--at the age of 37. The funeral is tomorrow, and perhaps I'll find out more then; no one w/ whom I've been in contact knows the circumstances. She's one of the two who made that fab 50th-birthday dinner for me last year, and she was my first partner in school. Among the weird things is that I was going to call her today to see if she wanted to get together this weekend. I'm gonna miss you, Sara.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Stuffed Cabbage
Whenever I start looking at my stuff, I'm reminded of one of the 2,000-year-old man conversations, the one where he claims he doesn't eat anything, except cool, clear, mountain water, because nothing is good for you, it's all bad, just the water . . . and stuffed cabbage. Because who doesn't like a little stuffed cabbage?
I don't have that much stuff, I tell myself, and then I rummage around in a closet for something and think, um, yeah, actually, I do have a lot of stuff. (And that's not even when I'm boxing things up to move.) There's a disconnect, because, on one hand, I know that things do not bring happiness. Being without necessities, constantly worrying about eating or sleeping or clothing oneself, wondering how the mortgage or rent will get paid, using hope as an insurance policy for one's health or home or vehicle--all of that will bring UNhappiness, particularly for those of us who've had the luxury of not worrying (or not worrying much) about those things for long stretches of our lives. That is, I don't look to things to make me happy, or fill a void, and I don't have to worry about the necessities. But still, stuff seems to accumulate.
Partly, I suppose, it's because I don't throw stuff out as much as I should. Pencils I'll never use; scraps of paper I won't use, even though I've only printed on one side; old clothing that I won't wear, that isn't in decent enough shape to take to the Salvation Army, and that I'll never get around to using for rags (because I don't use the rags and then toss them, no, I wash them and reuse them, so I have more fucking rags than you can imagine); plastic bags that are big enough for trash or mailing, but, well, I just don't have that much trash or mailing; shoes that are worn out--but not completely!, I can still wear them a few more times (unless it's raining, because there's a hole wearing through the sole of one of them). Partly it's also that getting rid of stuff--or, more to the point--recycling stuff that's still useable--is difficult without a vehicle; even I have a limit to what I'm willing to haul on the el.
Some of this is a result of growing up in a house where there wasn't a lot of money for what we regarded as luxuries. We were by no means poor or in want; we were solidly working class, and my parents were good at husbanding the resources we had available, and I was a kid at precisely the juncture in time when solidly working class meant you could actually afford some things. (Buying in bulk and/or stocking up when things are on sale is something I learned at my mother's knee.) But we also were expected to take care of our stuff; mend things and reuse things and squeeze nearly every ounce of usefulness out of something. (And, frankly, I regard this as a good thing.)
But take, for instance, the Fiestaware bowls I have: there's one dark blue serving bowl that Chuck got for me one year, and there's a set of three green ones that a friend gave us as a wedding gift, and there's a red platter and an orange gravy boat from Chuck's mom. I love them all--but how often do I use them? Almost never. I barely cook for myself any more, much less for a dinner party. Yes, I cook at Friend's house, but you'll note that it's at Friend's house, not here, where the bowls are. (I'd like us to spend more time here, but he has a cat and a fireplace and more TV channels and couches than I have, so he is somewhat reluctant to dislodge himself, and even I have to admit that the cat and the fireplace are nice things to have at one's disposal. On the other hand, my apartment is much much (much) warmer than his house is in the winter.)
So I end up with stuff. Despite my best efforts, despite the occasional sort and purge that I do, there are piles of stuff, and I find myself getting MORE stuff. Lately I've been reassuring myself that I am going to, once again, go through all of my stuff before I pack it for the move I'm anticipating in May, and, who knows, maybe I'll actually do that. It would be appropriate, somehow.
Back in 1993, for a tedious set of reasons, I ended up packing all my worldly possessions, such as they were, over Memorial Day weekend, and moving the following week. I'd been living in furnished university housing, so I didn't have a lot of furniture (which was fine with me; it meant I could leave behind stuff that had mostly bad memories for me), but I had clothes and books and kitchen stuff, as well as all the papers and notes and whatever from seven years of grad school. I had no time to sort anything, I just crammed it into boxes and moved on to the next pile, and the apartment into which I moved was sufficiently spacious and had enough closets such that I could avoid dealing with the stuff for years.
When I decided to move in 1998, I started going through my crap two months before the move--every single thing I owned. I got rid of a lot of stuff--at least 80% of my books, and just a lot of papers and things that I hadn't had time to sort through in 1993 and that I had avoided in the intervening years, because it just reminded me too much of that awful time at the end of grad school.
Scroll forward to 2006, when Chuck had more or less moved out and I had to move because i could not afford to stay in that apartment by myself (and probably could not have afforded to stay there with him). When I had to find a new place, I had no clue what was going to happen with us or whether he'd ever move back in with me, but I had to find someplace to live. Then he was diagnosed around the time I signed a lease and prepared to move, so there was still tremendous turmoil. Plus, just to add a delightful note to everything, as I was packing my stuff, a lot of it was stuff we'd gotten as wedding gifts, less than a year before. It was horrible for me, and, I know, for him as well; my gut still wrenches when I think about it. End result, though, is that I still have boxes stuffed into closets that I have not sorted through since I moved here in 2006, and it's time. So many things have ended in that time--my employment at the biotech company, our marriage, my dream of owning a bakery, my job at the bakery--that I have hesitated to rummage through the detritus, but it's time.
It's just stuff, after all, and it's time to reduce the amount of it.
I don't have that much stuff, I tell myself, and then I rummage around in a closet for something and think, um, yeah, actually, I do have a lot of stuff. (And that's not even when I'm boxing things up to move.) There's a disconnect, because, on one hand, I know that things do not bring happiness. Being without necessities, constantly worrying about eating or sleeping or clothing oneself, wondering how the mortgage or rent will get paid, using hope as an insurance policy for one's health or home or vehicle--all of that will bring UNhappiness, particularly for those of us who've had the luxury of not worrying (or not worrying much) about those things for long stretches of our lives. That is, I don't look to things to make me happy, or fill a void, and I don't have to worry about the necessities. But still, stuff seems to accumulate.
Partly, I suppose, it's because I don't throw stuff out as much as I should. Pencils I'll never use; scraps of paper I won't use, even though I've only printed on one side; old clothing that I won't wear, that isn't in decent enough shape to take to the Salvation Army, and that I'll never get around to using for rags (because I don't use the rags and then toss them, no, I wash them and reuse them, so I have more fucking rags than you can imagine); plastic bags that are big enough for trash or mailing, but, well, I just don't have that much trash or mailing; shoes that are worn out--but not completely!, I can still wear them a few more times (unless it's raining, because there's a hole wearing through the sole of one of them). Partly it's also that getting rid of stuff--or, more to the point--recycling stuff that's still useable--is difficult without a vehicle; even I have a limit to what I'm willing to haul on the el.
Some of this is a result of growing up in a house where there wasn't a lot of money for what we regarded as luxuries. We were by no means poor or in want; we were solidly working class, and my parents were good at husbanding the resources we had available, and I was a kid at precisely the juncture in time when solidly working class meant you could actually afford some things. (Buying in bulk and/or stocking up when things are on sale is something I learned at my mother's knee.) But we also were expected to take care of our stuff; mend things and reuse things and squeeze nearly every ounce of usefulness out of something. (And, frankly, I regard this as a good thing.)
But take, for instance, the Fiestaware bowls I have: there's one dark blue serving bowl that Chuck got for me one year, and there's a set of three green ones that a friend gave us as a wedding gift, and there's a red platter and an orange gravy boat from Chuck's mom. I love them all--but how often do I use them? Almost never. I barely cook for myself any more, much less for a dinner party. Yes, I cook at Friend's house, but you'll note that it's at Friend's house, not here, where the bowls are. (I'd like us to spend more time here, but he has a cat and a fireplace and more TV channels and couches than I have, so he is somewhat reluctant to dislodge himself, and even I have to admit that the cat and the fireplace are nice things to have at one's disposal. On the other hand, my apartment is much much (much) warmer than his house is in the winter.)
So I end up with stuff. Despite my best efforts, despite the occasional sort and purge that I do, there are piles of stuff, and I find myself getting MORE stuff. Lately I've been reassuring myself that I am going to, once again, go through all of my stuff before I pack it for the move I'm anticipating in May, and, who knows, maybe I'll actually do that. It would be appropriate, somehow.
Back in 1993, for a tedious set of reasons, I ended up packing all my worldly possessions, such as they were, over Memorial Day weekend, and moving the following week. I'd been living in furnished university housing, so I didn't have a lot of furniture (which was fine with me; it meant I could leave behind stuff that had mostly bad memories for me), but I had clothes and books and kitchen stuff, as well as all the papers and notes and whatever from seven years of grad school. I had no time to sort anything, I just crammed it into boxes and moved on to the next pile, and the apartment into which I moved was sufficiently spacious and had enough closets such that I could avoid dealing with the stuff for years.
When I decided to move in 1998, I started going through my crap two months before the move--every single thing I owned. I got rid of a lot of stuff--at least 80% of my books, and just a lot of papers and things that I hadn't had time to sort through in 1993 and that I had avoided in the intervening years, because it just reminded me too much of that awful time at the end of grad school.
Scroll forward to 2006, when Chuck had more or less moved out and I had to move because i could not afford to stay in that apartment by myself (and probably could not have afforded to stay there with him). When I had to find a new place, I had no clue what was going to happen with us or whether he'd ever move back in with me, but I had to find someplace to live. Then he was diagnosed around the time I signed a lease and prepared to move, so there was still tremendous turmoil. Plus, just to add a delightful note to everything, as I was packing my stuff, a lot of it was stuff we'd gotten as wedding gifts, less than a year before. It was horrible for me, and, I know, for him as well; my gut still wrenches when I think about it. End result, though, is that I still have boxes stuffed into closets that I have not sorted through since I moved here in 2006, and it's time. So many things have ended in that time--my employment at the biotech company, our marriage, my dream of owning a bakery, my job at the bakery--that I have hesitated to rummage through the detritus, but it's time.
It's just stuff, after all, and it's time to reduce the amount of it.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Nothing to See Here
So for this week in food, the c'testants provided more confirmation of their qualities and personalities. The four best chefs are clearly the Brothers Volt, Keith the Pig Man, and Jen. The other four remaining chefs are all pretty mediocre, despite their opinions of themselves. Their failures may have been from execution, but the failures are at least as likely to be failures of ideas, or failures of just not knowing enough to put something good together.
Robin does seem to be annoying, in several dimensions, but Eli and Mike I-for-Idiot are just sexist assholes. Both of the guys seem to think they are great chefs, which they are not; both seem to think they're oh-so-much-better than Robin, evidence of which I haven't seen; and both act as though every week that Robin remains is an affront to them personally, which is getting really quite tiresome. The fourth chef, Laurine, doesn't seem all that super-talented, but she has a pretty low profile on the show, too. She clearly doesn't have the experience that the top four have, or the chops in general, but she's also not running her mouth all the time.
Mike, in particular, is just an ass. He acts and talks as though he is completely the shit, but he doesn't seem to know how to cook in very many cuisines or styles, and he does not seem to have a grasp of many of the basics. Perfect example: he was teamed with Robin last week, and their bag of food was Asian-themed. Mike asked Robin if she knew anything about Asian food and flavor profiles. She said yes, she did; he said that he did not, but that he was going to run the show, he was going to make all the food, he was going to let her make whatever she wanted and then not serve that part. Simple Asian isn't that difficult to do, if you've got the ingredients in front of you (garlic, soy, ginger, and pepper of some kind will get you pretty far), and two of the other dishes failed much more spectacularly, so neither of them was in danger of going home, but it was just so incredibly dismissive. I've run into men like that throughout my life, and they are so very very very tiresome.
I stumbled across Colicchio's blog yesterday--he's one of the hosts/judges of the show, as well as the owner of several NYC restaurants--and it was quite interesting. I don't know if he does his own writing or if someone edits it or takes dictation, but it's quite well-written, and it definitely provides additional insight and commentary on the actual cooking and the judging thereof.
Anyway. Today was another of my exercises in doing everything on public transportation. I woke up "late" (i.e., about 6:30), puttered a bit, worked out for 20 minutes, showered, and left the house at about 8:20. I took a train (where a kid--teenager?--sat down next to me, despite the multitude of completely empty seats, and then proceeded to crowd me, rub against me, and generally try to get a rise out of the White Lady (he was black); when I got up to get off the train, he promptly got up, and sat down next to another white woman sitting alone, and started up with the same shit, which confirmed that it wasn't my imagination; what an asshole), then a bus, then walked about 1/4 mile to the restaurant where I was meeting kstyle (!1!!) and her husband, who were passing through town, for breakfast. We had a fine time until 11:30, then I walked 2 miles to the acupuncture place. Left there about 75 minutes later, took a bus, then another bus, to a shopping corridor. Went to Trader Joe's (butter, nuts, dried fruit, carrots), Bed Bath Beyond (new water purifier thingy, plus two extra filters), the liquor store (four bottles of wine on sale), Peet's Coffee & Tea (four canisters of tea, plus a free cup), then took a bus two blocks to the el, then took the train home (after waiting for 20 minutes because there was some kind of breakdown), then walked about four blocks lugging all the crap listed above. I got home a little before 5. If i'd been driving, I would have left the house at 9:00, and I likely would have been home by, oh, 3:30, and I would have been able to buy a case of wine--and get the case price--instead of 4 bottles.
On most levels, I don't mind this at all; the only time I've had it any other way was when Chuck and I lived together and he could shlep me to the store, but on errand days like today, unless he was coming along for all the errands, I might well have done big chunks of it on public trans anyway. (Of course, I was living downtown then, too, so many trips were shorter.) Some days it does feel like a chore, though. I know that to do anything, but especially to do a full day's worth of running around, I have to allot time in every slot for waiting for and riding on buses and trains, and I know that I have to make sure not to buy more than I can carry, and I have to make sure to plan my route to minimize the distance I'm going to be fully laden. I also bring a book, because there will be waiting and riding; that part is kind of fun, actually, because I end up with plenty of time to read.
Thus, today I started reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and I am absolutely loving it; it's one of those books where I'm torn between wanting to do nothing except read and wanting to slow down and read it only a bit at a time, so the experience lasts longer. (Yes, I know that's weird.) I purposely put Peet's at the end of the list of visits so I could get my free cup of tea and sit and read for awhile, with no agenda and no rush to get home, which is really one of the great pleasures in life.
I also spent a bunch of time tonight on the phone with an old friend from college--someone I met my very first day of school, back in February of 1977--and it was wonderful. We've known each other for nearly 33 years (really? can that possibly be true?), and there's something special about talking to someone who has known you that long but who isn't family (and who knows your family!). I don't have any friends at all from high school or my home town, so it's really my college friends who have been around the longest.
I'm sure I have some Profound Observations somewhere, but they're not appearing tonight, so you've had another lunch post; oh well. I've been fighting off something for about 10 days; I have no clue whether it's a cold, or just side effects from lots of dry air, or just general malaise, but I've managed to avoid all symptoms except an incipient sense of my body doing battle against something.
Robin does seem to be annoying, in several dimensions, but Eli and Mike I-for-Idiot are just sexist assholes. Both of the guys seem to think they are great chefs, which they are not; both seem to think they're oh-so-much-better than Robin, evidence of which I haven't seen; and both act as though every week that Robin remains is an affront to them personally, which is getting really quite tiresome. The fourth chef, Laurine, doesn't seem all that super-talented, but she has a pretty low profile on the show, too. She clearly doesn't have the experience that the top four have, or the chops in general, but she's also not running her mouth all the time.
Mike, in particular, is just an ass. He acts and talks as though he is completely the shit, but he doesn't seem to know how to cook in very many cuisines or styles, and he does not seem to have a grasp of many of the basics. Perfect example: he was teamed with Robin last week, and their bag of food was Asian-themed. Mike asked Robin if she knew anything about Asian food and flavor profiles. She said yes, she did; he said that he did not, but that he was going to run the show, he was going to make all the food, he was going to let her make whatever she wanted and then not serve that part. Simple Asian isn't that difficult to do, if you've got the ingredients in front of you (garlic, soy, ginger, and pepper of some kind will get you pretty far), and two of the other dishes failed much more spectacularly, so neither of them was in danger of going home, but it was just so incredibly dismissive. I've run into men like that throughout my life, and they are so very very very tiresome.
I stumbled across Colicchio's blog yesterday--he's one of the hosts/judges of the show, as well as the owner of several NYC restaurants--and it was quite interesting. I don't know if he does his own writing or if someone edits it or takes dictation, but it's quite well-written, and it definitely provides additional insight and commentary on the actual cooking and the judging thereof.
Anyway. Today was another of my exercises in doing everything on public transportation. I woke up "late" (i.e., about 6:30), puttered a bit, worked out for 20 minutes, showered, and left the house at about 8:20. I took a train (where a kid--teenager?--sat down next to me, despite the multitude of completely empty seats, and then proceeded to crowd me, rub against me, and generally try to get a rise out of the White Lady (he was black); when I got up to get off the train, he promptly got up, and sat down next to another white woman sitting alone, and started up with the same shit, which confirmed that it wasn't my imagination; what an asshole), then a bus, then walked about 1/4 mile to the restaurant where I was meeting kstyle (!1!!) and her husband, who were passing through town, for breakfast. We had a fine time until 11:30, then I walked 2 miles to the acupuncture place. Left there about 75 minutes later, took a bus, then another bus, to a shopping corridor. Went to Trader Joe's (butter, nuts, dried fruit, carrots), Bed Bath Beyond (new water purifier thingy, plus two extra filters), the liquor store (four bottles of wine on sale), Peet's Coffee & Tea (four canisters of tea, plus a free cup), then took a bus two blocks to the el, then took the train home (after waiting for 20 minutes because there was some kind of breakdown), then walked about four blocks lugging all the crap listed above. I got home a little before 5. If i'd been driving, I would have left the house at 9:00, and I likely would have been home by, oh, 3:30, and I would have been able to buy a case of wine--and get the case price--instead of 4 bottles.
On most levels, I don't mind this at all; the only time I've had it any other way was when Chuck and I lived together and he could shlep me to the store, but on errand days like today, unless he was coming along for all the errands, I might well have done big chunks of it on public trans anyway. (Of course, I was living downtown then, too, so many trips were shorter.) Some days it does feel like a chore, though. I know that to do anything, but especially to do a full day's worth of running around, I have to allot time in every slot for waiting for and riding on buses and trains, and I know that I have to make sure not to buy more than I can carry, and I have to make sure to plan my route to minimize the distance I'm going to be fully laden. I also bring a book, because there will be waiting and riding; that part is kind of fun, actually, because I end up with plenty of time to read.
Thus, today I started reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and I am absolutely loving it; it's one of those books where I'm torn between wanting to do nothing except read and wanting to slow down and read it only a bit at a time, so the experience lasts longer. (Yes, I know that's weird.) I purposely put Peet's at the end of the list of visits so I could get my free cup of tea and sit and read for awhile, with no agenda and no rush to get home, which is really one of the great pleasures in life.
I also spent a bunch of time tonight on the phone with an old friend from college--someone I met my very first day of school, back in February of 1977--and it was wonderful. We've known each other for nearly 33 years (really? can that possibly be true?), and there's something special about talking to someone who has known you that long but who isn't family (and who knows your family!). I don't have any friends at all from high school or my home town, so it's really my college friends who have been around the longest.
I'm sure I have some Profound Observations somewhere, but they're not appearing tonight, so you've had another lunch post; oh well. I've been fighting off something for about 10 days; I have no clue whether it's a cold, or just side effects from lots of dry air, or just general malaise, but I've managed to avoid all symptoms except an incipient sense of my body doing battle against something.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Rogue
Because nothing says "work" like a full-day meeting; why, yes, I DO have a bad attitude.
Rather than engage in that bitching, I'm going to describe our meal on Sunday, which was one of the best ever. We got some pork loins on sale; Friend has been trying to make one on the grill, but they keep coming out kind of dried out and tasting more poached than grilled. So I rummaged in the cookbooks, and remembered that we had some fresh sage and fresh rosemary in the fridge; I pointed to the recipe, and he modified it a bit--mostly by not letting it sit for several hours. He poked a hole through the center of the loin, poured in a salt/pepper mix, followed by sage and rosemary, then covered it in crushed garlic. He threw it in the oven with some white wine on it, and turned it every 15 minutes or so. He also used his meat thermometer, a relatively recent purchase that has revolutionized his already-prodigious meat-cooking skills. It has been particularly useful with, say, a thick cut of venison, or the elk steaks we had a couple of weeks ago, or this pork, i.e., things that are best if they're cooked to a specific temperature.
Meanwhile, we threw some brown rice on the stove, and I sliced up a couple of eggplants that were getting a little old. I rubbed olive oil on both sides of the slices--just a thin coating--then sprinkled corn meal, salt, and pepper on them. I threw the baking sheet into the oven with the pork, and eventually turned the slices and sprinkled some finely grated parmesan on top. The eggplant wasn't cooking quite quickly enough, so once everything else was done, I pulled it, sprinkled it with this other cheese (a semi-hard cheese that had been soaked in red ale of some kind; I've been going a little nuts at the farmers' market cheese stand, including getting a five-pound hunk of parmesan to get me through the winter), and put it under the broiler for a couple of minutes to finish it. Meanwhile, while the eggplant was in the oven, I sliced an onion very thin, sauteed it in a little butter and olive oil, added a crushed clove of garlic and some parsley, and then added a thinly sliced apple. This mix went on top of the pork, and the pork/apple/onion combination was unfuckingbelievable.
For dessert, I'd made Apple Cake 2.0; last week's version had some old hazelnuts in it, so it had that off, slightly rancid taste to it. This week's version wasn't as baked through as I would like, but I'd added some oats (instead of ground nuts), and the flavor was close to what I want. I have an idea what to do for 3.0; when I've got it right, I'll be happy to share the recipe if y'all want it.
There have been no more discussions of Thanksgiving, but I'm sure they'll arise. I was thinking about Orange's comment below, and I realized that what she said is true--if you have the same holiday every year, with roughly the same people. Given that I've lived alone for most of my life, and have done a wide variety of things for holidays over the years--from making dinner for 15 to hanging out by myself, and a lot of things between--I don't have a Special List. And, with my family (and with many other people), I often feel that my own experience of life is invalid(ated), because it isn't Normal.
Don't get me wrong; I've genuinely enjoyed the things I've done, and I don't regard that range of activities as a bad thing. What it means, though, is that I generally feel like I'm expected to live by other people's expectations for a holiday--my wishes don't count for as much, because I haven't done a whole lot of Normal Marriage and Life. Basically, the unspoken assumption is that, because I have this pathetic non-normal life, I have to accommodate everyone else's (Normal) wants and needs--because, of course, I would have had that Normal Life if I weren't so pathetic. Luckily I can roll my eyes at this and then do what the fuck I want, and I can even challenge the assumptions sometimes, rather than humbly agree that I am pathetic and don't deserve to have what I want because I'm not Normal.
And I'm going to do a beer-tasting with and for my dad, including some Rogue and Flying Dog beers, which will be fun.
Rather than engage in that bitching, I'm going to describe our meal on Sunday, which was one of the best ever. We got some pork loins on sale; Friend has been trying to make one on the grill, but they keep coming out kind of dried out and tasting more poached than grilled. So I rummaged in the cookbooks, and remembered that we had some fresh sage and fresh rosemary in the fridge; I pointed to the recipe, and he modified it a bit--mostly by not letting it sit for several hours. He poked a hole through the center of the loin, poured in a salt/pepper mix, followed by sage and rosemary, then covered it in crushed garlic. He threw it in the oven with some white wine on it, and turned it every 15 minutes or so. He also used his meat thermometer, a relatively recent purchase that has revolutionized his already-prodigious meat-cooking skills. It has been particularly useful with, say, a thick cut of venison, or the elk steaks we had a couple of weeks ago, or this pork, i.e., things that are best if they're cooked to a specific temperature.
Meanwhile, we threw some brown rice on the stove, and I sliced up a couple of eggplants that were getting a little old. I rubbed olive oil on both sides of the slices--just a thin coating--then sprinkled corn meal, salt, and pepper on them. I threw the baking sheet into the oven with the pork, and eventually turned the slices and sprinkled some finely grated parmesan on top. The eggplant wasn't cooking quite quickly enough, so once everything else was done, I pulled it, sprinkled it with this other cheese (a semi-hard cheese that had been soaked in red ale of some kind; I've been going a little nuts at the farmers' market cheese stand, including getting a five-pound hunk of parmesan to get me through the winter), and put it under the broiler for a couple of minutes to finish it. Meanwhile, while the eggplant was in the oven, I sliced an onion very thin, sauteed it in a little butter and olive oil, added a crushed clove of garlic and some parsley, and then added a thinly sliced apple. This mix went on top of the pork, and the pork/apple/onion combination was unfuckingbelievable.
For dessert, I'd made Apple Cake 2.0; last week's version had some old hazelnuts in it, so it had that off, slightly rancid taste to it. This week's version wasn't as baked through as I would like, but I'd added some oats (instead of ground nuts), and the flavor was close to what I want. I have an idea what to do for 3.0; when I've got it right, I'll be happy to share the recipe if y'all want it.
There have been no more discussions of Thanksgiving, but I'm sure they'll arise. I was thinking about Orange's comment below, and I realized that what she said is true--if you have the same holiday every year, with roughly the same people. Given that I've lived alone for most of my life, and have done a wide variety of things for holidays over the years--from making dinner for 15 to hanging out by myself, and a lot of things between--I don't have a Special List. And, with my family (and with many other people), I often feel that my own experience of life is invalid(ated), because it isn't Normal.
Don't get me wrong; I've genuinely enjoyed the things I've done, and I don't regard that range of activities as a bad thing. What it means, though, is that I generally feel like I'm expected to live by other people's expectations for a holiday--my wishes don't count for as much, because I haven't done a whole lot of Normal Marriage and Life. Basically, the unspoken assumption is that, because I have this pathetic non-normal life, I have to accommodate everyone else's (Normal) wants and needs--because, of course, I would have had that Normal Life if I weren't so pathetic. Luckily I can roll my eyes at this and then do what the fuck I want, and I can even challenge the assumptions sometimes, rather than humbly agree that I am pathetic and don't deserve to have what I want because I'm not Normal.
And I'm going to do a beer-tasting with and for my dad, including some Rogue and Flying Dog beers, which will be fun.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Blah.
So I decided to visit my family for Thanksgiving this year--something I haven't done in well more than a decade, possibly two. I told my mom that I would do the cooking, but already I can see that that's not going to work particularly well.
No, she wouldn't even consider roasted sweet potatos because my dad and someone else like the candied sweet potatos she makes. (What that really means is that SHE prefers the candied ones, or my brother does, but she won't say that.) Onions stuffed with wild rice, dried fruit, and sausage doesn't sound good, either. And she has to see what my SIL wants, and whether her sister is coming up, and what SIL wants to make. (SIL isn't really much of a cook, IMHO; she heats, and she grazes, and she has a couple of dishes she makes, but she is not a cook.)
Whatever. I'm going to make things that I like, even if I end up stuffing one onion and roasting one sweet potato. I'll be permitted to bake, I suppose.
I keep writing and then erasing; my family's ability to annoy the everloving shit out of me has diminished significantly over time, but not quite as much as I would hope. And I know it's mostly my brother who pisses me off, but I haven't figured out how to get around that yet. It's true that my mother can push my buttons--she installed them, after all--but she typically doesn't piss me off. And I know she and my dad miss me, which is the main reason I'm making this trip.
I just don't have much to say these days. I work. I cook and bake. I shlep to the farmers' market. Sometimes I go to a concert. I've been working out again, which is good (and I signed up today to take three "boot camp" type classes, because they were on sale and I thought it would be interesting to try them). I've been reading a lot, which is nice. The baseball playoffs are starting, as is hockey season, and the F1 and Indy seasons are nearly over, so sports get thrown into the mix.
But none of that is particularly important, and I know it. That doesn't always stop me from writing, of course, but I can't even seem to get up the energy for that lately.
No, she wouldn't even consider roasted sweet potatos because my dad and someone else like the candied sweet potatos she makes. (What that really means is that SHE prefers the candied ones, or my brother does, but she won't say that.) Onions stuffed with wild rice, dried fruit, and sausage doesn't sound good, either. And she has to see what my SIL wants, and whether her sister is coming up, and what SIL wants to make. (SIL isn't really much of a cook, IMHO; she heats, and she grazes, and she has a couple of dishes she makes, but she is not a cook.)
Whatever. I'm going to make things that I like, even if I end up stuffing one onion and roasting one sweet potato. I'll be permitted to bake, I suppose.
I keep writing and then erasing; my family's ability to annoy the everloving shit out of me has diminished significantly over time, but not quite as much as I would hope. And I know it's mostly my brother who pisses me off, but I haven't figured out how to get around that yet. It's true that my mother can push my buttons--she installed them, after all--but she typically doesn't piss me off. And I know she and my dad miss me, which is the main reason I'm making this trip.
I just don't have much to say these days. I work. I cook and bake. I shlep to the farmers' market. Sometimes I go to a concert. I've been working out again, which is good (and I signed up today to take three "boot camp" type classes, because they were on sale and I thought it would be interesting to try them). I've been reading a lot, which is nice. The baseball playoffs are starting, as is hockey season, and the F1 and Indy seasons are nearly over, so sports get thrown into the mix.
But none of that is particularly important, and I know it. That doesn't always stop me from writing, of course, but I can't even seem to get up the energy for that lately.
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