Spoon on the floor

I am in the decidedly odd position of making sure there is no food in the kitchen. Hannah, with her impossibly blue eyes, has emerged as more than a little aggressive when it comes to her next meal. She shares her catches (three birds in one day is gluttony, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let her eat the Easter rat), but she seems to think that means she can help herself to ours. A towel draped over thawing meat is not enough; a lid perched on a pot can be knocked off. Water glasses are pushed off tabletops with alarming regularity. And you’d better not leave your cornflakes unattended for even a minute.

And so it was that this morning I found a lone plastic lid on the table after last night’s spaghetti, no cheese container in sight. Living with men, I decided that they must have finished it and thrown out the container but not the lid (it’s the same gene that causes them to place an empty milk carton back in the fridge). I sighed and chucked the lid.

Then I went around to the living room and looked back: there on the floor was the empty container and its spoon. Sprinkled about this general area was the fine crumble of a tangy aged sheep milk Romano. Sherlock Holmes was not needed to solve the mystery.

So, to the men in my life, I owe you an apology. For my cat, obviously of exquisite taste, we need to have a little chat. Once you finish your catnap, of course.

I’m not making this up, really

The folks from Coca Cola have a new product for us: Diet Coke Plus, now fortified with vitamins! What’s next, mineral-enriched Cheetos? High fiber vodka?

With over 119 million servings of Diet Coke consumed daily, they say they’re doing their part to support us in our active lifestyle, and have gone so far as to launch a campaign with an RN telling us that proper hydration is important when exercising: to make every drop count, we should drink this product.

I note they are keeping silent on the mounting evidence that artificial sweeteners (this product is sweetened with aspartame and acesulfame potassium) mess with metabolism and lead to overeating and obesity, which in turn contribute to adult onset diabetes.

So did they really turn Diet Coke into a multivitamin? No, they’ve concentrated on only a few nutrients, adding niacin, B6, B12, zinc and magnesium. The label says that a can of this green-tea flavored antioxidant brew provides 25% of the RDA for the B vitamins.

Now, I’m betting that the folks in Atlanta are hoping that their marketing focus on the wholesome goodness of vitamins will lead women (clearly their target demographic) to drink more. Aside from the fact that soda is not good for you and adding vitamins doesn’t change that, there is a very real concern then, that some might go overboard and overdose on vitamins. Let’s look at niacin: if a can provides 25% of the RDA, 4 cans would give someone16 mg or 100%, and if she eats a serving of chicken (19 mg) or an energy bar (25 mg) in addition, she’s getting even more. Niacin overdose, starting at a mere 35 mg, is associated with minor reactions like facial flushing and itching (treated with aspirin), and indigestion. Increase the dosage and we start seeing serious matters like liver damage, cardiac arrhythmias and rising blood sugar levels. And here’s the real kicker: pregnant women who think they’re doing the right thing by drinking their vitamins in Diet Coke may actually be increasing their risk of birth defects from the excess niacin, not to mention the risks associated with artificial sweetener use during pregnancy.

Darling Husband sometimes sighs when he notes that I’ve bought yet another mismatched drinking glass. But he and I both know that the cash outlay is less than a couple of cans of soda, and the drink I put in it—tap water—is far better for me. And us.

Connections

The Internet is a wonderful thing, bringing targeted research so very close to what Bill Gates termed information at your fingertips. It has done nothing less than revolutionize my profession. What the PC guru didn't predict though, was just how much time can be sucked up by aimless browsing.

My brother just discovered the "best-of-Craigslist." I made the mistake of pointing him to a side-splitting for sale listing for an almost street-worthy Geo Metro. I had an excuse--I was sick in bed and the kids were home for Spring break, which meant that if I tried to do anything the least bit interesting or productive, they would immediately melt down and require my full attention. Conversely, if I wandered about in cyberspace with no purpose or read equally mind-numbing women's magazines, they happily puttered in their rooms for hours on end with nary a peep. Go figure.

One of the more interesting sections of Craigslist is the missed connections. We all know about these moments: the opportunity to connect that we somehow let slip by, usually out of fear of the unknown, of making a fool of ourselves, just a deer-in-the-headlights kind of moment. When you live in a big city, you are likely to see hundreds, if not thousands of people on a daily basis (unless you're cooped up in suburbia with bad sinuses), and anonymity is the rule.

I went to deposit checks last week, and discovered that the two bank tellers who knew me by name (and thus didn't have to look up my account number) have moved on: one up, one out. This should come as no surprise, as it is a notoriously high-turnover position. Still, it's a disappointment, to have to start all over to get to know someone, to turn an anonymous process into personal banking again.

It's cold again, cold enough that I worried about my tender young lettuces as the snow fell yesterday (and may again today). If I'd been more energetic, I would have got some row covers over the poor dears. As it was, I pulled my winter coat back out of the closet, since I knew I was going to need it at the market this week. After last week's festive, spring-like atmosphere, it was back to winter mode, with purveyors sporting fingerless gloves and sticking close to their propane heaters. One fellow noted that his chickens just weren't laying as much this week; folks didn't bother with the crushed ice to keep samples cold. I noticed that the butcher cut very slowly: no one wants to cut an appendage off, easy to do when said fingers are numb. It was cold enough that I did not tarry, pocketing my booty of chicken, thick pork chops, rye bread, butter (the ladies from the Golden Glen Creamery were there!) potatoes and garlic quickly, but still leaving enough time to greet Pete and the bread lady (my duck egg friend wasn't there, I shall have no eggs this week. I hope he's not ill).

As I waited for the light to change on the way back to the car, donning my gloves, and puffing steam, a woman of my vintage stepped up to wait next to me, carrying a bag of groceries and a holding a tight bouquet of red tulips and yellow daffodils in her gloved hand. She smiled at me, and her smile conveyed the same happiness that I feel too: the joy of getting to know the hands who grew the food for our week to come, and the exquisite anticipation of the good meals I have tucked in that lowly canvas bag. No, I didn't catch her name, but I don't need to post anything on Craigslist: this connection was not missed.

Eating like peasants

I was reading an article in the San Francisco Chronicle a while back about a food purist who had fallen on hard times. Her answer was to continue eating well, but injecting things with a sense of frugality unheard of since our parents’ generation. She would buy local free range chicken, but straight from the farmer, and feast on it for a week. You see, a whole chicken is quite useful. We’re so used to the sanitized pieces in the fluorescent-lit meat department that we’ve forgotten that chickens have things like feet and bones and livers and a heart that are actually valuable items in the kitchen. Six thighs? Who ever heard of a six-legged chicken? But two feet will give you a quart of stock fit for a king. Ask any Jewish grandmother.

The whole chicken that came over with friends for a joint Easter roasting was largely demolished in that one sitting: fresh air and the garlicky aroma wafting through the air had engendered hearty appetites indeed. But after we had bid our visitors good night, we turned to straightening up the kitchen. There were two pieces leftover, and a pan full of congealed yellow stuff. In true debauchery, we had not only fought over drumsticks (with the golden crunchy skin on them!), but had smothered our roast potatoes with gravy made from stock from the neck bone (with kidney giblets). The liver had also been in the stockpot to cook, and was fished out to make a quick pâté on crackers while the beast roasted. The tough heart went to the cat.

Of course, most people wouldn’t have had to face this apparent mess—their chicken would have been stripped of its skin and bones before it arrived in their house on a plastic tray, but I digress. Were I not my tightwad self, I would have unceremoniously chucked the greasy yellow gunk down the disposal and put the two odd pieces in the fridge to mold in a dark corner. I drained a bit of fat off the pan (into the food composting bin provided by the city), but the lion’s share went into a mason jar from the cupboard. I had to use a spatula to scrape the gelatinous glob from the bottom of the pan, but oh, what a treasure!

With both Darling Husband and myself still fighting our sinuses, we declared Monday leftover night: the leftover roast potatoes got fried up with some (duck) eggs and a bowl of rice and beans went into Number One Son. Little One and Darling Husband worked their way through savory loaf and rillettes and cheese, but I declared the chicken off limits. It is destined for chicken curry for rice night.

And that single cup of goop? Well, this morning I scraped the top layer of fat off the jar and used it to brown some onions. The demi-glace—for that is the French term for ze rich-tasting gelatin from the bottom of ze roasting pan—went into the pot with two quarts of water and some salt. Then I stole a corner of meat off of one piece and chopped it up, along with the last four market carrots. Two handfuls of barley, simmer for an hour, and eat piping hot. A king should have it so good.

Chicken soup

I know I’m not the only one to get colds, especially in this wet clime, but my melancholic nature means I tend to wallow for a day or two before one of either two things happen: either I get so horribly miserable and cry, which believe me, does not help clear the nasal passages, or I luck out and encounter a bowl of chicken soup that melts the sinuses just enough to help me turn the corner to health.

It should come as no surprise that the weather has a great influence on this outcome. If it’s miserably cold and wet, I simply can’t get motivated to dig out from under the covers; I may even add a blanket and hibernate. But when the day dawns sunny, with Disney-like birdsong, I may not throw the covers off the bed and burst into a song-and-dance routine, but I do get up and get dressed.

Vacation does have the advantage of not forcing me to rise too early, for we can dispatch cello lessons during the week, and take an extra hour in bed on Saturday morning. This morning the sun rose, and I followed, albeit very slowly. I was quite unsure of how I was going to muster the energy to get through the day, let alone make Easter happen.

With all the boys in tow, we dropped Number One at his rehearsal, and headed to the University district. First stop for me was Weaving Works, on a quest to match yarn for Little One’s worn rainbow elbows. Darling Husband and Little One immediately disappeared into the neighboring fire station, so I could browse in peace, and I ended up with green and yellow for patching, as well as some electric blue silk that called to me from the shelf. I think it will make a fine little bag for summer.

Then we hoofed a short two blocks to the farmer’s market. Darling Husband wanted to make sure that I was only seeing Pete for his (perfect) toffee and Tiny for his aptly named apples, and Little One wanted to see everything. While I stood in line for some fresh lamb (shades of last Easter!), they circulated the market, meeting and chatting up Pete and Josh (honey) and Anne (truffles of the chocolate persuasion), and picking up their own treasures. I added garlic and a rosemary bush to the treasure, and pronounced I was done.

With a cup of hot cider someone had pressed into his hands, Little One said he was hungry, and Big One said he was going to pick up some bread (apparently sampling is an effective marketing tool, especially for the Tall Grass bakers pushing their chocolate loaf). That left me to navigate the concessionaires, which have swelled their ranks to four tents, adding pizza, and—oh, heaven—soup! Not just soup, but chicken soup, and, miraculously, with rice instead of noodles! My heart leapt. Little One was happy to sit, tapping his feet to the ladies with the washboard and mandolin, sipping his apple juice and nibbling a quesadilla, while I deliriously slurped soup. Between the fresh air, sun on my face and a tart rye bread I dipped into the hot chicken broth, the clouds in my head parted, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. How interesting that a bowl of soup—or was it just the soup?—should give me all that.

The odd thing is that when I got home, energized to bake, I realized I was out of staples like flour and laundry powder, so must head for the co-op if we are to have hot cross buns tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll get a bit of chicken so I can have a wee drop of soup this evening. Some energy for all the hopping I want to do tomorrow.

Local leftovers

Being surrounded by a three guys sneezing and coughing finally caught up with me, so as they came out of their low energy state, I hied myself to bed with tea and orange juice. Because this is the way things work out, the boys are on break, which means I can’t just sleep through their school hours and bumble my way through the two hours before Darling Husband can come home. Nope, this is full-day parenting. Darling Husband, my hero, always rises to the occasion, juggling telecommuting with dadding with amazing alacrity.

Lucky for us all, they can go off in search of fire stations or whatever it is guys do together and still have a hot supper, since we’re fixed for leftovers. Last Saturday, I stocked up on loads of local goodies at the farmer’s market, but kids with colds don’t eat as much as I’m used to, so the fridge was literally bursting. From Monday, there was corned beef, a lovely uncured one from Hempler’s, some garlic and leek mashed potatoes (I am reminded of a video of Julia Child, noting that if you didn’t want to use that much butter in mashed potatoes, well then, why not use some cream instead!), and some stubby young carrots, as well as the requisite cabbage wedges. Add to that some incredibly sweet red beets, and we have been enjoying a local feast without really cooking: corned beef hash, veggies and rice, you get the picture.

This morning, I actually got quasi-dressed and took Number One Son across the bridge to cello lesson, and Little One and I headed to Bedrock to look at recycled glass tiles for the kitchen backsplash. He always delights in the one-of-a-kind oddities that these folks create from broken bottles. While I fussed with different shades of glass tile, he tinkered in the lower bins, finding stars hiding in a dark blue sky (vodka bottles), some crinkly plates (old windows), and the place where the cat sleeps (next to the solar panel that powers the radio playing kitty jazz).

Irish neighbor still has her tricolor flag hanging in her front yard, which means we can still celebrate St. Paddy’s day. Which I think means we’re having corned beef sandwiches for lunch.

Brunch olio

Yesterday, we decided to go to that local icon, the Space Needle, for Sunday brunch. We were ostensibly celebrating Darling Husband’s birthday, but were also catching up on Little One’s choice of birthday restaurants (the calendar was too full around his real birthday). Their brunch was three courses: only one of us was able to finish all that was put before them and we came home with two boxes, one of space noodles in red sauce and other with one of two eggs Benedict. You simply can’t save apple-pear cobbler with vanilla ice cream for later, or there would have been a third box.

Little One came home and got busy in his kitchen, concocting his own Orbiter, the Space Needle specialty of ice cream served in a bowl over dry ice and topped with a sparkler candle. It’s showy and fun, and it’s parent payoff to see the delight in Little One’s eyes when he realizes it’s for him. His home version is a wooden ice cream cone tucked in a bowl of marbles, served with a loud flourish to any stuffed animal who unwittingly orders it on their waiter’s advice.

Unsurprisingly, no one was terribly hungry that evening—except for teenaged Number One, who had worked up an appetite playing a cello recital. I dug in the fridge for some treasures from this week’s farmer’s market: a pot of rillettes, a local ripened cheese, a baguette and a bowl of greens. I set about mixing a quick vinaigrette for the greens, and Darling Husband disappeared downstairs to find a suitable bottle.

He returned with a bottle of mystery wine. Many years ago, when we first arrived in this country, we tucked our tiny but treasured wine collection in the crawl space. Our resident rodents, clearly of excellent taste, did their best to get into the bottles, chewing through the lead foil (no, it didn’t kill them) and scratching and soiling the labels in the process. We had no choice but to wash the bottles, removing the last hint of their provenance. We know only that they are French and getting long in the tooth. We popped the cork, and tasted a flinty white, probably a Sancerre, past its prime, but still fine with food.

The festivities continued into the morning, as Little One plastered the hallway with elaborate diagrams leading to his restaurant, which had expanded into providing overnight boarding (hey, we had to get him to bed somehow). The only way I could get him to the breakfast table was to announce that our special St. Patrick’s day brunch was served: leftover waffles, garnished with green whipped cream and green pears, served with bacon (Mommy knows protein will be needed to get the boys through the morning).

As we cuddled up to discuss my imminent employ in his restaurant (apparently, if you want to stay more than 10 days, you have to work there) and plan our evening menu, we heard the telltale clinking of the cat’s tags on the breakfast dishes. Her quarry was the paper towel used to blot the breakfast bacon. She had dragged it across the kitchen and seemed surprised that we weren’t pleased with her menu selection. High in fiber, yes, but not up to the high standards in Little One’s restaurant.