Hiding in the kitchen

Sophie as a lap dog
She is doing so much better, but with
occasional worrisome moments.
Still, I am grateful.

A writer’s group I belong to has been tossing out ideas about spirituality and following your path and reaching toward the divine—and it all leaves me feeling sort of lost in the wilderness. To aspire to closeness to the divine would be, to me, audacious. Yes, I talk to the Lord every night about what’s gone on in my day, what’s going on in the world, and so forth. That is an entirely different subject, though I’ve talked a lot about the recent fatal shooting near our high school. As the story comes out, it grows more distressing. But that’s not my subject for tonight.

One woman wrote recently that she found calm, strength, whatever from dabbling with watercolors—and that triggered something in my mind. I may not meditate—I  have never been able to quiet my busy mind enough. And sometimes, at four in the morning, I find myself obsessively concerned with one thing or another. One night recently it was a puzzling communication from the IRS (any communication from them is at the least puzzling, at the worst frightening). Last night my thoughts kept circling back to my cardiologist’s office over the matter of a $45 reimbursement—sure I want the $45 back, but in the larger scheme of things it’s not that much money. But still, try as I might, I could not divert my thoughts to something else and surely not to sleep. But in all this it has dawned on me that when I find calm, when I come the closest to meditating, is in my tiny kitchen when I’m cooking. You knew I’d get around to cooking, didn’t you?

I’ve been doing some creative cooking recently. Saturday night Jean came for supper. I’d had such a week with Sophie that I wasn’t sure I could dredge up the energy or imagination for an experimental dinner, though Jean is always open to my experiments. I intended to make tuna pasties, but it was mid-day Saturday before I got puff pastry from my family-run grocery delivery service. So I opted for something easy. I know Jean loves lamb as much as I do, and I had a pound of ground lamb in the freezer. We would have burgers with a three-bean salad. Turned out great, and I have had lamb burgers for lunch for two days. Each time I thought I’d only eat half but that proved untrue.

Last night, Christian and I collaborated on a roast chicken with chimichurri sauce. Our deal was I’d make the sauce—chopping all those herbs—and he’d spatchcock the chicken and roast it. So in the morning I measured out two packed cups of cilantro and two more of parsley (do you know how much that is? A lot!). What made it less of a chore was that I got out the food processor (I usually use the hand mini version) and used it. And I followed directions, doing things a step at a time (as opposed to my usual method of thinking I know a shortcut). Not only was it easy, but minced herbs didn’t fly all over the kitchen. I coated the chicken with chimichurri, and we let it marinate for several hours, and then served the extra sauce with it. Delicious!

Later in the evening I discovered that in their zeal to get Sophie to eat, Jordan and Christian had hand fed her a whole lot of that chicken. Thank goodness they scraped the chimichurri off first—garlic is hard on dog’s stomachs, and it was just spicy enough she didn’t need it. I now have some chicken in my fridge, but I am uncertain if it is for me or the dog. She has been ravenously eating dog food all day, so I am hoping for chicken and bean salad for lunch tomorrow.

I seem to have mostly single women as friends, no surprise at my age and single status. But, blessedly, several of them are open to eating anything. So Mary (not my Tuesday night Mary but another) came for supper tonight. When she walked in the door I asked, “Do you eat sardines?” and she said of course. So we had a hodgepodge plate: baguette slices, toasted, rubbed with garlic and buttered, layered with sliced tomato, chopped sardines, sweet onion, and drizzled with olive oil and lemon. This was accompanied by an egg mayo each (known internationally as ouefs mayo—there’s even a society devoted to preservation of the dish). It’s a hard-boiled egg, sliced in half, set cut side down on the plate, and coated with mayonnaise (in this case thinned with a bit of buttermilk and garnished with minced basil). Finally I split an avocado, sliced it, and put half on each plate. 

The sardine/egg/avocado plate
for tonight's supper

Can you tell I have fun in the kitchen? In a week or so, Jordan is going to be gone for several days on a work trip, and I will feed Christian and Jacob—mostly Jacob, because Christian has some evening work responsibilities. Watch for a dramatic change in the menus. Pigs in a blanket, anyone?

Will success spoil Judy Alter?

 

Carnitas plate
I prefer mine this way rather than rolled into a tortilla

After my resounding failure with eggplant last week, I am happy to report a cooking weekend with a couple of successes on my part and a culinary home run for Christian.

Friday night, in the midst of the found dog episode (read last night’s blog) I made salmon en croute. I’ve never made Beef Wellington, though the idea intrigues me. But if you get right down to it, I like salmon better than beef. And truth is, I’ve been collecting salmon en croute ideas for a while. When I’d go through my recipes looking for things to cook, I’d linger over several versions, including one where an anonymous cook just winged it and described what she did. Finally last week, I chose one recipe, put the ingredients on our weekly grocery list, and fixed it. It was really good, but I won’t describe it here because I’m quite sure it will be my recipe of the week on Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. I will hint, however, that I used the new canned salmon I ordered from Alaska Gold, and it was every bit as good as a fresh filet. If I haven’t said this before, Alaska Gold is a cooperative of small fishermen, so the fish is wild caught.

I read an article today about the recommendations of several chefs on ordering seafood, either to cook or in a restaurant. Unanimous, know your source. They particularly advised against farm-raised Atlantic salmon and any tilapia, which is always farm raised, often in less than sanitary conditions. From the small-boat supplier from whom I’ve boat tuna for years, I’ve learned that farmed fish is also taking over the Pacific salmon market. But there are reliable cooperatives, like Alaska Gold. And from Central Market I often order Verlasso salmon which is farmed in ocean water off the coast of Chile.

Anyway, to continue with our good weekend. Yesterday, Jordan said Christian would either try the turkey burger recipe I had or order in. He came out, and I showed him the recipe, and he said he’d try. Confession: I hadn’t really meant to bully him into cooking. I was prepared to do it myself, since this recipe clearly called for skillet burgers rather than grilled. But he took the recipe and disappeared into the house. What he created was really good. He added basil and something to a very basic recipe, but it was flavorful. And more important, it held together, which was his concern. The recipe called for a bit of mayonnaise, and I think that was the binding agent. Made delicious burgers with cheese, tomato, and mayo on a bun.

So tonight, It was my turn again, and by request I made carnitas. I’ve decided everyone’s carnitas are different, and I’m about to call mine “Gringo carnitas.” Most that you get in restaurants are shredded pork; mine are cubed. Years ago from a co-worker who had lived in Arizona I learned to cook a pork butt without the oven: you cube it and simmer in salted water until the water evaporates and the meat browns in its own juices. That plain version was served with a garlicky lemon sauce. But then I found a recipe for adding seasonings—bay leaves, cinnamon, clove, onion, oregano, orange peel—to the cooking water. And there was our carnitas meal.

Still cooking it was a problem. Several times I put too much water in, and it took so long to cook down that it was almost midnight before we ate. Tonight I measured scrupulously—2.5 lbs. pork butt and two cups water, but I decided my idea of simmer and what the recipe meant was far apart. When I kept it at a low boil, the liquid evaporated, and the meat browned.

Jordan and I have often served this with black beans straight out of the can, but today I gussied them up a bit. Sauteed chopped shallot in oil, added cumin, garlic, and oregano, omitted the green pepper the recipe called for (I really can’t tolerate them) and called it beans. Really a vast improvement. 

Can you tell I had fun this weekend? Otherwise, it was sort of ordinary, with the exception of the dog incident, of course. A lot of reading, a bit of writing, a lot of thinking, a couple of light rain shower for which we are grateful. Every bit is precious.

And so we head into another week, with the world in turmoil, here at home and abroad. I am inundated with political emails, which is probably my own fault for contributing to various races and speaking my mind. But what wears me out—and comes closes to antagonizing me—is that I get five or six emails a day from the same candidate. One minute the message is, “We’re pulling ahead. We can do this.” But not five minutes later an email will bemoan their loss and proclaim, “We’re packing it up. Going home.” Well, I know they are not going home.

I am a loyal Democrat, have been all my life, but it is frustrating to get repeated messages urging me to renew my membership. When I first tried, the Action Blue website said it could not perform this action; later, it accepted my money, but I still get lots of messages urging me to renew. I wrote once to complain about something and got a standard letter apologetically explaining that they simply can’t answer individual emails.

I hope it’s not an omen. I remain optimistic about a blue Texas.

The week that was

Dinner tonight

Black bean enchilada with fruit salad

During quarantine, one of the most common complaints I read on the three cooking-related lists I follow is that folks are burned out on cooking, out of ideas, done with it, so ready not to cook but not yet ready to venture to restaurants. I read an article today about Baltimore chef and artist Krystal Mack who hails the return of the community cookbook. You know, those spiral bound cookbooks from the Junior League or the church sewing circles or whatever. My first signed publication was in such a book, put out by the auxiliary at my father’s hospital. I contributed a garlicky cheese dip, and there it was in round, childish handwriting—my name, Judy MacBain.

Today we fall into the trap of thinking cookbooks should have glossy, four-color photographs and complicated new recipes that challenge cooking skills. Not so, says Mack, who compiled a five-dollar book that includes poetry and activities. Titled How to Take Care, the book’s proceeds support national organizations that fight domestic violence. The recipes, gathered from her fellow chefs and artists, are simple and inexpensive. Recipes, she says, that give power back to the people.

Makes me think that my Gourmet on a Hot Plate fits right into that category. Recipes for non-cooks, beginners, families. You don’t have to be confined to a hot plate to follow them, but they too are simple and inexpensive.

During quarantine, Jordan and I have planned meals a week at a time. Not a rigid schedule, but one that gives us some idea of what to fix. This morning I asked her what was for dinner tonight and suggested the one take-out we planned for the week.

“No,” she said. “I want to save that for the weekend.”

Duh. This is the weekend. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Where did the week go?” she asked.

The answer is I’m not sure. I have developed a schedule for these quarantine days. I sleep as long as Sophie will let me—usually about eight o’clock but sometimes, groan, much earlier. After fixing my tea, I settle at my desk to answer emails, check the world news, study the writing lists I belong to, and check out Facebook. Believe it or not, all that takes way too much time. Then I am free for my projects—these days it’s mostly writing the novel I’m working on, but it is also my neighborhood newsletter, which has gotten much busier with quarantine. I think more people have time on their hands and also more are doing good deeds for others—those reach me as contributions to a Cheers column. There are blogs to write, and I have some personal legal documents to study.

Sometime after noon, I break for  light lunch and work until two or three when I get unbearably sleepy. After nap I change clothes (having worked in pjs all day), put away any dishes in the kitchen, and once again catch up with what’s going on in the world, take care of emails that have popped up, and drink a glass of wine with Jordan. We watch the news and then take our wine to the patio.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. After supper I take a really short nap—sort of like Grandpa who used to fall asleep on the couch--and then I work or read until midnight.

I think I am a creature of habit. Routine makes me comfortable and secure. So now, with a project I’m really enthusiastic about, the days seem to flow into one another, and, yes, the weeks go by quickly. Yesterday marked nine weeks since I have been out in the world. And I’m okay with that.

Dogs, diets, and an alarming start to the day

Before: Shaggy Sophie. After: slim and trim

Well, I got my day off to an exciting start today. I let the dog out before disabling the alarm; then I made it worse by leaving the door ajar so she could come back in. The alarm’s “voice from nowhere” was issuing me stern warnings while I stumbled around to find the remote control. Then the siren went off. Sophie howled and came barreling inside to pick up her chew toy from last night—I suspect her thought was if there was an intruder, he was darn well not going to get her treat. Finally, things got beyond the abilities of the remote, and I had to deal with the actual control panel. But I did get it all stopped, so I could make myself a soothing cup of tea.

I’ve been lax about posting on the blog for a couple of evenings, but I have had such a good excuse. Jordan has been out here talking to me most of the evening. We’ve talked about family and friends, people who make us joyful and friends who disappoint, birthdays and celebrations, dogs and kids—and of course food and menus. We laughed and got teary-eyed. And yes, we drank a bit of wine.

One big topic of discussion was Colin’s upcoming fiftieth birthday—a great jolt for me. But we just got word yesterday that the children’s half-sister from California will come for the celebration, and we’ve known for some time that Uncle Mark, Aunt Amy, and cousin Emily from the Bronx will join us. A wonderful, rousing family affair. I anticipate a lot of high jinx and laughter.

On one of these evenings, Jordan looked at me and said, “I’m really upset with you.” My heart sank. How had I overstepped the bounds of the mother-daughter relationship? But I burst out laughing when she said, “It’s the biscuits. The whole cottage smells like fresh-baked biscuits, and I can’t eat one.” I had baked a tube of Pillsbury biscuits to stash in the freezer for my breakfasts. Jordan is on a self-imposed “Whole 30” diet, so no carbs. I guess all is well in our relationship, biscuits aside.

I dislike this dieting that pops into our lives occasionally – Christian is on it too, and it severely limits the things I can cook for Sunday dinner, rules out a lot of things I’d like to cook. For this week, I gave them a list of possibles, hoping they would choose trout or a lamb stew; Jordan chose one of two chicken dishes. Christian hasn’t voted yet, but he did give everyone a good laugh when Jordan caught him in the kitchen complaining, “I’m so hungry! I’m so weak!”

I’m just old-fashioned enough to believe in a regular diet of three balanced and modest meals, and I harbor a lingering suspicion that alternating dieting and splurging is not good for the body. Of course, I was this fall in the enviable position of needing to gain weight, and while I no longer have that excuse, my doctor still says, “Your sodium is low. Eat all the salt you want.” Jordan and Christian came they are in recovery from the excesses of the holidays and the rodeo season.

A former neighbor was here for happy hour last night and kept saying how good I look, slim and with a sparkle in my eye and a sharp new haircut. I wanted to urge her to continue, but then she’d say, “You really look so much better. You didn’t look so good the last time I saw you.” I’m sure my voice was weak when I asked, “How long ago was that?” I don’t like to be reminded of my down periods.

For several weeks now, friends coming into the cottage have exclaimed about the weight Sophie has gained—I discarded the idea of putting her on the Whole 30 but did cut down on the size of her supper. Today, she’s back to being slim and trim, all due to a haircut. Bobo who grooms her said it was her winter coat, and he took it back a little more than usual this time. She seems to know and prances around here as if proud of herself.

A moment I wish I’d had my phone to take a picture: when I went to brush my teeth last night, Sophie lay between me and the commode, keeping guard. You must be protective when your human is brushing her teeth! I love life with a dog.