Stuff it!

Step 1 for making an awesome cornbread stuffing:

Bake a batch of cornbread. Cut into small squares.

Like so.

Busy cooking. (Can you tell?) Will do real post tomorrow.

Thanksgiving Countdown

Double double,  boil and trouble

Thanksgiving may be Thursday, but I've been making food for four or five days now.

Today's adventures included Apple Cider Caramels from the Smitten Kitchen. (Deb Perelman is a god, by the way.) Do you say kair-uh-mel or car-mul?

The best part of making caramels? Feeling like a witch over a cauldron as the concentrated liquid love grows and grows and grows in the pot on the stove. The color deepens as the sugars, well, caramelize.

I would make an excellent witch, mostly because I heed carefully constructed and documented scientific procedures. Heat the potion to precisely 252 degrees Fahrenheit? Check. Remove from heat and stir in final ingredients? Check. Chill in refrigerator for an hour, then cut into precise one-inch squares? I got this.

Go ahead. Try one. I promise it isn't poison. 

'Soup?

Whose idea was it to make soup out of cheese? For this person, I would like to start a church, sacrifice some virgin cows. What good would virgin cows be, otherwise? Everyone knows the first step on the road to cheese involves a knocked-up lady cow.

The pinnacle of this culinary breakthrough came to my house tonight, in the form of a cheddar and ale soup with crispy shallots. I found the original recipe in this cookbook from Williams-Sonoma. Soups are my favorite way to pack a bunch of nutrient-dense vegetables into a meal without having to go to all the work of chewing them.

This recipe is no exception, though the veg is balanced by approximately a metric ton of dairy. We start with some basic produce: potatoes, onion, celery, carrots, garlic, shallots. 

All is fine and good until we consider my market, the premier purveyor of mutant produce. This market only stocks vegetables that could take down Tokyo, or one of its many distinct neighborhoods, at the very least. Only the largest, most robust produce will do. 

For example, this carrot.

The runt of its litter

I'm pretty sure that, when the recipe calls for two carrots, it's not thinking of this fellah. But I started with two gigantic carrots and one enormous onion. For some reason, though, I could only find baby yellow potatoes this week. Next to their 2-pound Russet brethren, all scale was lost. So, I brought home three baby potatoes instead of the two regular-sized ones the recipe demands. In the pot they went. 

As more produce made its way to the stove, I realized that this thing had gone off the rails. A real shitshow of guesswork and compensation, the mass continued to grow and morph, like an illness. Or an alien pile of organic matter.

The soup began to take over my stove. "Soon, it's coming for YOU."

Next, I added non-produce things. I had to round up the quantities for good measure. In order to maintain balance, I needed more more more. Two-thirds cup cream became one full cup. Twelve ounces of ale was promoted to sixteen.

I feared the soup was getting away from me.

Exhibit A:

What do you mean, I still have to add the cheese?

We'll talk about those biscuits in the background later.

For now, let's talk about the soup. The bite from the ale underlines the hot, cheesy, creamy nectar. This soup, if properly applied, could bring about world peace. I should submit it to the Nobel committee. Certainly they would like to open up a new category for food, which this soup would dominate.

Thanks to my oversized vegetation, I now have enough of this world-changing concoction to eat every night for a week and a half. I settled for freezing most of it in individual-sized containers, labeled GOD LOVES ME, Nov 2014.

For tonight, though, I poured some in a soup bowl, sprinkled with those crispy shallots, and sidled the whole thing up to to freshly baked buttermilk biscuits. It's the very definition of comfort food, perfect for curling up on the couch and eating in front of an episode of the Gilmore Girls.

Dinner: It is served.

Dontcha wish your girlfriend made dinner like me? (Dontcha Baby, dontcha)

Hello Jewel, Is That You? It's Me, Megan. (I Think.)

A strange thing happened tonight.

Overwhelmed with the desire for cake, I rushed to the grocery store. I hemmed and hawed, Which kind of cake do I want? What sounds good? I settled on chocolate with buttercream frosting, just enough to get me into trouble, but not so much that it would tower over my entire weekend.

I wandered through the store, picking up this and that, all needed in my kitchen. With my items acquired, I made my way to the registers to check out. Suddenly, I was overcome with a desire to not eat cake. My head and my stomach told me not to eat anything sweet, in fact.

At the register, I handed the cake over to the cashier. "I'm sorry; I changed my mind. Can you take this back?"

I know. It doesn't sound like me, does it?

And now I'm hungry.

Negotiations Are for Turkeys

I'm shoring up shopping plans for tomorrow. This, of course, means consulting a half dozen cookbooks and the Thanksgiving Spreadsheet. The following conversation with Husband ensues:

ME: We need to buy a turkey of 12 to 14 pounds.
HIM: What, now? I'm not wearing pants.
ME: No, tomorrow. When we're at the store.
HIM: Hmm. Okay.
ME: Good.
HIM: Wait. I think we need a bigger turkey.
ME: No, we don't. Remember last year?
HIM: No, it's more than a week ago.
ME: Last year, you picked out the biggest turkey they had. Kitchen disaster ensued. And we had waaaay too much turkey.
HIM: No such thing.
ME: Yes. You even admitted as much.
HIM: That doesn't sound like me.
ME: I don't know what to tell you.
HIM: Shouldn't we do some math, figure out how many pounds of turkey per person?
ME: Who's eating POUNDS of turkey?
HIM: Me, easy.
ME: Listen, it's like four people who will actually eat turkey, and you're one of them. I think 14 pounds of turkey will suffice.
HIM: I don't know...
ME: Pal, this is not a negotiation. We are getting a turkey of 12 to 14 pounds.
HIM: 14 pounds, then!

It's All in the Stuffing

What I remember most about Thanksgiving when I was a kid is my mother’s stuffing. I would sit up with her late at night, Thanksgiving Eve, thinly chopping celery and dicing onions. (Onions didn’t make Young Megan cry.)

For this magic concoction, Mom used a special cauldron. She’d duck into the garage to hunt it down, bring it inside, and wash it in the sink. Only this pot could hope to contain her creation as it morphed and grew.

The sausage went on the fire…pop pop pop.

The onions were browned in butter…sizzle.

Then the celery.

And cubes of stale bread…chink chink chink.

Finally, some herbs.

All in the pot it went.

Then the tasting began. In dove the small spoon, quickly disappearing into Mom’s mouth. I could see her rolling the flavors around, deciding what she needed to add.

                                                                                          

A dash of pepper here. A bit of salt there. Maybe some more celery?

The mixture grew in the pot as flavors were added and balanced, like a terrific-smelling abacus there on the stove. Finally, Mom would consult me. “Taste this. What do you think this needs?” Of course, I didn’t know. But I loved to taste, anyway.

Only when Mom was satisfied was the stuffing declared ready. What followed was twelve hours of torture in which I tried not to think of what awaited us in the refrigerator the next evening.

Years later, stuffing remains my favorite part of the meal. You can take my share of the turkey; just pass the stuffing.

Dinner Time

The door closes; my fleeting view of the hallway narrows to a sliver, then it’s gone. I can still smell the neighbors in my nose.

I heave a sigh and turn away. There are things to do.

I patrol the grounds: kitchen, living room, den, bedroom, living room. I stand sentinel at the living room window. (There's a bird!) I start my rotation again. My nails (too long, now; someone should really do something about that), tap a soft staccato rhythm into the hardwood floors.

I stop to sniff a scarf carelessly left on a chair. I prod it with my nose and take in the intoxicating layers of smell: the factory where it was made, the store where it was sold, the house of the person who gave it as a gift, and finally of the owner. Her scent I know well. But a new smell lies on top of them all—one of my own kind, but no one I recognize. I inhale one last, deep sniff of the scarf, and then turn away and shake it off. What a great shake, all the way from my nose to my tail!

Moving on…Something interesting happened on the floor over here. What is that? Sweet potato? Pumpkin? Tentatively, I touch my tongue lightly to the spot. Sometimes I smell better with my tongue.

Nope. Still not sure. Must be something new. I take a little longer taste and decide I like it.

What a full morning! I find my bed, pat it down just right, and curl up in a ball; it’s cold, after all. I drift off to sleep, pondering the new smell on the floor.

I wake up with a giant yawn and take a big stretch I can feel in my toes and tail. Time for patrol; maybe something’s changed.

I make another go of the floor, the scarf. The bird has moved on from the window, but I stand guard a few minutes longer in case he comes back. This is how my day passes, patrolling the rooms of our home, checking on the neighborhood, keeping the family safe.

I’m napping when the door opens; someone’s home! I jump up (no stretch this time) and run to the door. In the quiet monotony of my morning and afternoon, the promise of family coming home makes every muscle in my body zing with joy.

Let me tell you about my day! Did you know there was a bird? And that scarf! Where has it been?

You set down all these things you carry and I watch patiently. You start wandering through the house, patrolling the grounds. No need, chief. I’ve got this. We’re all clear.

Now you’re doing that thing with food in the kitchen. It’s my favorite part of the day. Almost. I love watching you working. I especially love when you’re not so good at it and a little something drops on the floor. Floor nibbles are the best kind.

Speaking of nibbles… Oh no, you’re right. You better eat first. I’ve just been protecting the home all day, but whatever. I sit patiently and wait. You eat your dinner off the fancy plate. I only look back at you a few times, to make sure you’re still there. Be cool. Beeee cooool.

You stand up and start walking from room to room, picking up this, putting down that. Your movements are erratic and nonsensical; you don’t smell anything. Still, I follow closely at your heels. Don’t forget about me!

Finally, my patience pays off. You look down at me with all the love in your eyes, a smile quirked on your lips. You ask the question you already know the answer to. “Are you hungry?”

Yes, yes, yesyes, yesyesyesYesYesYesYESYESYES!!! Every cell in my body dances; I can’t decide between my Let’s Play stance and my Front Paw Half-Jump. So, I alternate between the two. You walk toward the Magic Closet, and I start to prance in place. It’s time. It’s happening.

Every moment since the final click of the door shutting on me this morning has led to this: one level cup of dry kibble. I wait off to the side as you pour it in my bowl: chinkedy chinky chink. Let’s Play Stance. Front Paw Half-Jump. Prance prance prance.

As a young one, I inhaled my food. Now, with the wisdom of age, I appreciate these finer moments in life. I savor the food, actually chewing every fifth piece. Funny how the food never changes, but never fails to delight.

Too soon, I’ve eaten the last bit of kibble (but left the half-pill you tried to sneak to me on the floor, thank you very much). I take a quick drink of water, fresh how I like it, and lick my lips. I pad out to find you and put my head on your lap. I thank you with my eyes, pouring love and gratitude from my heart straight to yours. My tail wags and I wait until you acknowledge my thanks with a pat on the head. Satisfied, I turn around and walk away, leaving a puddle of drool and my love on your lap.

The Thanksgiving Spreadsheet

Wait. So you've never heard of a Thanksgiving spreadsheet?

As a vegetarian on a food-centric holiday, Thanksgiving historically offered little to me. That is, until I was able to host my own. Not only did it guarantee me food I actually like to eat, but it really let my inner Julia Child shine. Now, Thanksgiving is the Big Show. Step aside, bitches; I am a kitchen diva and this is my day.

You all know Charles M. Schultz, right?

Rolls are made from scratch. The turkey is moist and tender. My mashed potatoes are the creamiest you'll eat. (Got spoon?) Stick with me, kid, and you'll have your choice of homemade pie.

All of this, pulled off in a two-bedroom in Albany Park, doesn't happen without planning. I'm a nerd, so of course I make a spreadsheet. I'll tell you how it's done.

I gather my dishes--good little soldiers that work hard, look hot, and make the perfect team. Once I have the lineup complete, I catalog the dishes in a spreadsheet. For every one, I list each ingredient and required quantity. Next, I sort the ingredients in alphabetical order.

Finally, the coup de grâce, I program the spreadsheet to calculate the total amount of each ingredient I'll need for the entire meal. Sure, I need flour for my rolls, pie crust, and the gravy. But how much do I need overall? I use the calculations to generate my grocery shopping list, which is, of course, organized by store and section.

You think I'm done? Not a chance.

Next up is mapping out my time the week of the big day. Dishes are color-coded by day they will be prepared. For the night before and the big day, I break down the time table to an hour-by-hour accounting of prep work, oven space, reheating requirements, and cooling time.

Perhaps this all makes me a spreadsheet nerd. But days of planning and shopping also makes for weeks of anticipation. You may think of Thanksgiving the week it happens, but it lives in my heart for much longer.

Bring it, Thanksgiving 2014.

Jam On It: How to Make Jam

Apple season means jam season in our house. As I share my jamventures with others, I hear over and over how intimidating jamming seems. It's a simple process, really. To demystify it, I offer a primer.

1. Get to work peeling some fruit. Husband walks in the door. Use him to test market your clever "Jam On It" catch phrase.

Crickets.

Keep peeling...

Husband walks past you to the den. Shortly thereafter, you hear the dulcet tones of Bob Marley coming from the other room.

“Very funny!” you yell out. But really, you have jam to make.

2. Good. Peeling's done! Now chop all the fruit.
Now Husband is playing Michael Jackson? You suspect something is amiss. Seriously, though. Keep chopping.

 

3.  Finally! Fruit in a pot! You've been making jam for almost an hour and this is as far as you've gotten? Never mind. Boil that fruit. Boooiiil it...

Husband plays Christina Aguilera. You find yourself singing along, “getcha getcha ya-yas heeeere,” and wonder what the hell that has to do with jam.

4. Meanwhile, the recipe seems to think you should zest a lemon. No problem. Wait. Seriously? The white part too? 

“REAL LADY MARMALAAAAAADE.” Ah.

Now the recipe wants you to chop the fleshy bits of lemon. No parts left behind, I guess. Avoid getting the food processor down at all costs. Maybe your mad knife skills will chop up that lemon pulp nice and fine.

NOPE. Lemon flesh is too fickle. Fine. Use a food processor, but only because you have a baby one.

Use every burner, now.

5. All that boiled fruit is now soft. Your face is shiny and your hair has frizzed beyond all hope, but no matter. Add sugar. More sugar. More…that oughta do it.

6. Go ahead and add the rest of that other stuff and bring the whole thing back to a boil. The recipe says to simmer for half an hour, then it should be ready to set. So, set a timer. Watch an episode of Gilmore Girls (Hurray Netflix!) while you wait. “Where you lead, I will follow…”

Half an hour later. Jam’s not ready yet. Perhaps another ten minutes? (Come on, Rory: Dean or Jess. Just choose one. Sure, we've all seen this before, but enough already.)

Still not set. Maybe another ten minutes?

Twenty minutes now?

It’s been two Gilmore Girls. The recipe is a liar. I declare perjury. Libel? Anyway. LIARS.

7. FINALLY. Jam is ready to can. Pour jam into jars. Use your fancy canning funnel, ‘cause that shit changed your fucking life. 

8. Boil the jars. Remove to counter and savor the satisfying pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of the lids sealing shut. This is the sound of success.

Sure, you line up the jam in parallel lines. How else would you do it?

9. Look around you. You have laid waste to the kitchen. Somehow, you used every fucking dish in the house. Every surface is sticky, including, holy fuck, the floor. What have you done?

All in the name of apples.

Dear Diet Coke, How Do I Miss You?

(Let Me Count the Ways)

First thing in the morning,easing into the day,
The snappety pop of your lid, followed by your gentle fizz
still haunts me as I sip my morning tea.
Three in the afternoon,
when visited by doldrums
and lunch coma,
You Were There.

You ran over my lips,
tickled my tongue,
cold and tingly bubbles pushing their way
through my veins.
I felt Awake.
Alive.

With lunch, with dinner,
with pizza,
your bitter sweetness and slightly cloying aftertaste
paired perfectly with any food, unlike sweet-sour lemonade
or the sharp nip of iced tea.

In the car: on my way home, on my way out,
for Saturday errands, before a trip to the burbs,
Your sweet nectar, lovingly crafted by McDonald's--
home of the best damn DC on the planet--
Such the perfect passenger for the journey.
What do I do with my hands now?
How to punctuate the ride?
What do I reach for when traffic stops,
cars honk, pedestrians cross the street,
drivers flip the bird?
When sun fills the car,
leaving me parched and bored?

On a hot day, after a workout,
Your cold bubbles spread quickly through this
vast body of mine.
Faster than ice water,
speedier than electrolytes,
I felt your cooling effect in my fingers,
my toes,
my heart.

Dear one,

They've driven us apart
with their talk of illness and poison.
Tell me They're wrong, DC,
and I'll take their advice, throw it over my shoulder
and never look back.
Tell me that you miss me,
Tell me that things will be better,
that you're good for me.

That someday, you'll see me again,
To grace my lips,
igniting sensations from within.

Diet Coke: A Tragic Love Story

 “I’d like a large Diet Coke, light on the ice, please.”

The words trip off my tongue like the name of my lover. A familiar zing hits my brain. Soon, baby. Soon.

When I take that first sip of precious nectar, I close my eyes. Cold, fizzy aspartame lights up all the cells in my mouth: on the roof, the cheeks, the tongue. Carbonation tickles my nose. I swallow and the soda cuts its path down my throat and through my body. Molecule after molecule makes its way to my extremities--fingertips and toes light up with tingly joy. I can feel it move through my body, dispersing until the aspartame and I are one and the same.

This is bliss. This is love.

Like all tumultuous love affairs, though, outside influences insert themselves into our relationship and begin eating away at the strong bond we share.

Aspartame is bad for you, They say. Weight gain. Depression. Diabetes. Cancer. All horrors my family has experienced firsthand. My family, long-steeped in the culture and obsession with aspartame.

Since they first introduced Diet Coke in 1982, I cannot remember a time without its sweet-with-a-bitter-aftertaste nectar. My parents, firm believers in the axiom that more=better, were devout subscribers of anything low cal, low fat, low guilt. Our freezer was alternately stocked with ice milk and frozen yogurt; our cabinets housed diet cookies; and our counters always boasted two to three varieties of diet soda in two-liter bottles. What better way to curl up on the couch and watch the latest episode of Magnum PI than with a glass full of ice and the great DC?

Diet soda has been the great constant in a life of chaos and uncertainty. It's there to start the day. Need a pick-me-up? It's there. Need a reward for good behavior? It's there. Nothing cools me down, hits the spot, alights my senses like that fizzy aspartame.

After a lifetime together, it's time to say goodbye. I've tried to break it off before, but like a booty call, some catalyst throws me back into Diet Coke's outstretched arms. Once there, it's like I never left. This time, I tell myself, this time will be it. I will stay strong.

I'm breaking it off tonight. It's not me, it's you.

I will feel the pain of loss. I will think of all the good times. I will struggle to imagine a life without it. And, hopefully, I will move on.