Is it midnight yet?

 

Jacob at three
but the cookbook has some 
of my favorite reciipes

Ever have those nights when you feel at eight o’clock that it surely must be midnight already? That’s how I feel. Although I am constantly trying to rid myself of obsessive schedules, I’m pretty much tied to my own routine. I don’t want to go to bed at eight or nine, because I don’t want to wake, sleepless, in the middle of the night. I try to sleep from eleven to eight, the Lord and Sophie willing. But tonight I’m sleepy, worn out by some conflicts swirling around me. I tell myself—and others—I don’t want to be involved in intrigue, but sometimes I can’t remain aloof. And so it is tonight.

To soothe my soul, I began to do some menu planning, always an activity I enjoy. For instance, I found a recipe tonight for rosemary pot roast. Between now and the holidays, the calendars around here are full, and I foresee meals on the at-home evenings of leftovers or heavy hors d’oevres. But it’s never too early to stash things away in my “never tried” file, which is bulging. Periodically, I go through it and firmly say to myself, “It sounds great, but you’ll never fix it” or “You like this, but your family wouldn’t.” And, plop, it goes in the trash. I waste a lot of printer ink and paper that way, but I haven’t gotten sophisticated enough to keep my recipe collection online. And if I did, I’d just have to print each recipe out as I cooked it. As it is, I do that with recipes from the manuscripts of my cookbooks. But I foresee rosemary pot roast on the January menu—see how I’m jumping ahead?

Tonight, looking through appetizer recipes for our neighborhood ladies very small happy hour next week (Jordan wants to make my salmon dip), I came across my mom’s pickled shrimp. She always said it would keep a week in the fridge. In early adulthood I developed an allergy to shrimp—made me break out, so I was afraid to try it for fear the next time would be anaphylactic shock. Allergies come and go, and I might well be able to eat shrimp now, but the fear lingers. Still, for nostalgia’s sake, I’d like to fix that. We do still as a family treasure Mom’s cheeseball recipe. This year, sixteen-year-old Morgan said she would make it, although she pointedly said she would not eat it.

Funny what one person will eat and another won’t. For our four-person neighborhood event, I said I would buy a small jar of pickled herring—one of the ladies and I both love it; the other and Jordan turned up their noses. But when Jordan suggested goat cheese log with wasabi, the pickled-herring friend said, “I don’t eat wasabi.” I’ll probably make it pesto instead of wasabi, but it’s good quick appetizer. Just split a log, small or large, of goat cheese lengthwise, put wasabi (be cautious, not too much—a wavy “S” pattern) or pesto down the middle, put the two sides together again, and roll the log in toasted sesame seeds. So good. Are you like me and have to toast two batches of sesame seeds because you always burn the first one?

This morning I was productive. I’m trying to clear the decks as it were as I prepare for the holidays and try to focus more on my writing projects. The trouble is that I’m programmed—there it is again, that routine I can’t let go of. I do this every year, get so efficient about Christmas and all my projects that by about December 10 or 12, my desk is clear and I wonder what I should do next. Too close to Christmas to start a new project—but I have old ones in limbo I can work on.

At any rate, back to clearing the decks. Yesterday I wrote my December column for Lone Star Literary Life. The schedule is changing so I’m not sure when it will appear, nor when the January column will. But today I wrote the January column—I was on a roll, with good material, and it flowed easily. So I wrote the publisher and said I’d just written the most interesting column I’d ever sent her. And then I said I’d send it in a few days, which made her laugh. But it was fun—two women who team up to write fiction, and a woman who decided she didn’t need a super sleuth but needed a team. If you don’t subscribe to this weekly free literary newsletter, you might consider it. Just go to Lone Star Literary Life

Enough. I’m written out. Going to calm myself with a book. Sweet dreams of sugar plums and all thinks good.

On kitchen duty

 

Today I spent far too long making potato salad for our Mother’s Day lunch. Which really means I spent far too long peeling potatoes. My plan was to use Yukon gold, because I like the texture and because I wouldn’t have to peel them. But when it came to it, I couldn’t put unpeeled potatoes in a salad. I remember Paul Simms, now long gone, who was infuriated when restaurants started serving mashed potatoes without peeling new red potatoes.

We are having Christian’s family—his parents and his sister, her husband, and their two daughters, ages something like eleven and thirteen. Let me tell you that making potato salad for this crew of ten is no simple matter. Two of them—Jacob and his grandfather—do not eat onions. The grandfather is so vehement about it that I’ve never heard what his objection is, but Jacob has said, more gently, its not the taste but the texture. That surprised me, because I turn down few foods because of texture. I can even eat tripe in pepper pot soup, a good tongue sandwich, or the chicken-fried lamb kidneys my mom used to fix. Yet I know texture is a thing—we have family members who will not touch a mushroom.

Christian admits to being a picky eater, and today I replayed the cause. His mom always said she fixed four separate meals for a family of four. I swore I would never do that, but right now there are two single-serving containers of potato salad without onions in my refrigerator.

I was following a recipe from daughter-in-law Lisa, which called for a good bit of pickle relish and then an astounding amount of salt, which I reduced. I also cut back the mayonnaise, but the salad is still soupy. I’m hoping the potatoes will absorb some by tomorrow. There’s a reason you do best making these things ahead.

And then there’s the matter of eggs—the recipe calls for four hard-boiled. Christian doesn’t eat hard-boiled eggs. I’ve left them out, but I’m wondering if that’s not the reason there’s a bit too much dressing for the number of potatoes. I did add celery just to have something besides potatoes to justify the term salad. But truth is neither Jacob nor Christian like celery.

What happened to three bites for politeness? Or even, “Sit there until you eat it or go to bed”? One of my children didn’t like lamb, but he ate everything else in sight, sometimes ravenously. Instead of picky, he was sort of all-embracing, so I respected the one thing he really didn’t like, just as I ask people to respect my aversion to bell peppers.

Making potato salad for ten just wore me out. Maybe it was all the figuring of who eats what. Let’s see, what was I supposed to be doing today? Oh yes, writing a mystery. I did a big 300 words today—at that rate, I’m sure I’ll leave an unfinished novel. Maybe someone will turn it into a posthumous publication for me!

A truth about me: left alone, I would turn into slob. I’m eating dinner alone tonight. Jacob wants to order in, so we just ordered hamburgers from Shake Shack, which he tells me are the best. I shall eat in the pajamas I’ve been in all day. And I sort of haphazardly pulled the covers up on my bed.

Usually, I nap in the afternoon and then make my bed, so when the family comes for supper, it’s neat and I look disciplined. The physical therapist I just worked with was adamant that making your bed is a sign of a disciplined mind—he makes his kids do it every morning. So when he was coming, I made mine in the morning. Several years ago, the same therapist worked with me before I had surgery and when I was having a lot of problems. I remember I felt guilty or inadequate because my bed was always a rumpled mess. I simply didn’t have the energy to make it—just getting through the day took all I had. Somehow the fact that I make my bed every day is an indicator of how far I’ve come from those days. But today I give in to laziness.

It’s good to be lazy every once in a while. Try it. Tomorrow will be a busy, full day. I’m storing energy.

The vegetable challenged

Sometimes it seems like I am surrounded by vegetable-challenged people. My two sons-in-law are the worst offenders, with a long list of vegetables (and other foods, like tuna salad) they won't try. Megan, who was vegetable averse as a child, eats almost any vegetable, and Jordan is getting much better, eats asparagus but still no spinach. Jacob adores broccoli but isn't adventuresome about many other vegetables.
Last week my neighbor, Jay, announced he was NOT eating cabbage. The only vegetables that I can think of that I won't eat are parsnips (my dad loved them, not sure I ever tasted them) and okra (it's a texture thing). But I love most vegetables--including spinach, turnips, and eggplant. Okay, I don't much like turnip greens but love raw mustard greens in a salad and steamed beet greens.
Tonight I fixed a cabbage casserole. When I announced that a few days ago, Jay said he had decided he had to "man up" and try it. Actually it's much like stuffed cabbage but without all the work. I once or twice fixed original stuffed cabbage where you soften the leaves in hot water, stuff and roll. Got the recipe from someone who grew up with that cuisine--eastern European. My younger son really liked it, and I found a recipe where you stuff a whole head of cabbage, hollowed out, and serve it in wedges. Made that several times because it was easier.
But this casserole was really easy and has the same ingredients: ground beef, chopped cabbage, chopped onion, rice, and tomato juice. Because the first time I made real stuffed cabbage, I was told to use lamb, I substituted it for beef tonight. Even Jay said it was good, and he'd eat it again. I worried about a side since the main dish had all the food groups, but I had broccoli and cauliflower left in the fridge, and I cut them into sizeable pieces and roasted them together with olive oil and a bit of white balsamic vinegar. Good meal, if I do say so--and hearty.
After dinner we sat around talking about the Kardashians and Bruce Jenner--I couldn't believe the conversation at my dinner table had gotten so trite (and boring!). Then, poof! everybody had to rush off to get home in time for "Downton Abbey." I threatened I might never cook for them again, and they said I should just cook earlier. Are they spoiled or what?
Of course I'll cook again--tomorrow night. I'm making my version of sloppy Joe while Jay and Jordan move furniture and unpack the new TV which is to arrive tomorrow. Jay invited Phil and Subie to join us, but Subie said she had an absolute aversion to sloppy Joe because when her mother made it, it had all that orange grease on it. I told her (repeatedly) that this recipe is really a wine casserole, and I just call it sloppy Joe. She finally allowed that she might come, especially when I reminded her there would be leftover cabbage casserole. See? I really am surrounded by picky eaters--need to find new guinea pigs.

Marrow bones and picky eaters

By next Monday, I figure most of my Christmas celebrations will be over, but boy have I enjoyed this week. Lunch yesterday with a friend at Swiss Pastry Shop, where I love the tuna salad. And we splurged in honor of the holidays and had slices of Black Forest Cake. Dinner last night at Piola, a small Italian restaurant in a refurbished older house--I had what I always have: lasagna. So good. But I mentioned my dinner plans for tonight which were the Clay Pigeon and marrow bones. One of my companions said she'd never eat marrow bones, and that led to a discussion of other things she wouldn't eat. I can't remember what they were now, but it set me to thinking about picky eater who won't try anything new.
Just as an aside: at Clay Pigeon I had a terrific roasted beet salad with goat cheese, watercress, and a balsamic vinaigrette, along with roasted marrow bones. Not sure when I've had a better dinner. Marrow bones are trendy right now, and if you haven't tried them I advise you to do so. When my brother and I were young, we used to have round steak with just a dab of marrow in the middle of the bone, and I remember we fought over it. (He may deny this). I was delighted a couple of years ago to find marrow on the menu at an Austin restaurant, but it was just a dab and hard to get at. Tonight I had a four-inch bone, split in the middle--a generous helping.
But back to picky eaters. I love to experiment and eat odd things--the only things I can think of I haven't tried are brains and sweetbreads--a bit hesitant about those. But I love pickled herring, foie de gras, liver pate, tongue sandwiches. Used to eat kidneys as a child but tried to order some at the market and was told I'd have to get a case. Not quite ready for that.
On the other hand, we have picky eaters in the family. Start with Jacob. He doesn't eat meat, and his taste repertoire behind that is limited. Once he asked for spinach, so I served it to him and he said, "I'm not eating that." Any variation from what he is used to is met with skepticism. His dad is the same way in spades--even picks the celery out of chicken salad (how offensive can celery be?)
What I dislike most is that some people sport their picky eating habits, from my dinner companion last night to my beloved son-in-law. They seem to think it's cute to be picky or firm about what you won't eat, whereas I want to say "Try it. You might like it.." I got my son-in-law to eat cabbage one night and the comment was, "It didn't do much for me." Folks, there's a wonderful world of food out there. Try things, find new adventures.
One of my dinner companions tonight said she'd never thought of eating marrow but was glad to see how it was served. "I think I'll have to try that," she said. Yay for her...and yay for adventuresome eating.