Thursday, December 30, 2010

Disordered


Cold weather and I are not MFEO.  Of course, neither are hot, humid weather and I.  In Washington, DC, that basically means for two seasons of each year I am virtually worthless.  When the temperature's below 40 degrees, I just want to sit inside all day, wrapped in a blanket, growing fat.  Depressing.  Of course, sweating enough to take three showers a day in the summer doesn't really appeal to me either.  Therefore, every summer...and every winter...since I moved back to DC from California I have seriously questioned what I was thinking.  In California, every day is more or less like this picture (give or take a little fog and possibly some rain in winter).  Yet, when I was *in* California, I really convinced myself I missed seasons.  Turns out I really only missed fall and spring...and, oh!, those happen to be basically the only seasons they have on the West Coast. sigh.  I've never been the most practical decision maker.

Yet, here I am in DC, trying to make the best of the season.  (As I rather gallantly try to do for the first few months every winter...until it snows 2 feet and I resign myself to pizzas and beers as support for just making it out alive.)  This week, my winter apathy has put me in a real bind.  I planned a New Year's Day Brunch as part of my "Avoid Winter Depression" project for this year.  Although I've had basically nothing on my calendar this week, it's now Thursday (2 days before New Year's, if you're counting), and I've done nothing to prepare-choosing instead to succumb to lethargy and make like a couch slug all week.  My house is dirty, I haven't grocery shopped, and my kitchen counter looks like something like this: 


Of course, me being me, I'm still refusing to cut any of the brunch items I originally intended to make.  Thus, I have about 48 hours to seriously get my act together, and I kind of need some sort of guardian angel sous chef to show up.  Immediately.

To make things extra exciting, I have no idea who is coming.  In the spirit of a "fresh start" and relaxed hospitality (something I'm trying to develop a bit more), I literally invited everyone I know; told them to invite people and did not require an RSVP.  So, come Saturday, my 800 square foot apartment could be filled with 50 people or 2.  Brilliant.  However, as of today, it *has* cured my winter blues.   

RECIPE
The one thing I did try to do was pick a few easy recipes that I know are crowd pleasers.  I love an appetizer that's easy to throw together (you can even grab a party guest to help) and yet tastes a bit fancy.

MAPLE SAGE APRICOTS (rolled in...BACON!)
These are hit everywhere I've tried them- from the Boonies in PA to the big city in DC.  Not to mention, they are delightfully simple to make.



Ingredients
Bag of dried apricots (I try to get the kind that have no sugar added)
Package of bacon (I like Niman Ranch or a local farmer's market variety for extra flavor)
Handful (or package) of sage
Maple Syrup (get the 100% pure good stuff)

Directions:
1.  Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Cut bacon into thirds (or halves, if the strips are small), you want to be able to wrap it fully around the apricot.
2.  Wrap one sage leaf (if especially large, you can tear it in half) and one apricot inside a bacon piece.  Lay on a cookie sheet (with wrapped edge down).  Repeat until you have used at least one of the ingredients up.
3.  Bake for about 10 minutes or until bacon gets browned.  Brush with maple syrup immediately.  Serve with toothpicks.  Expect them to be gone within 1/2 hour.

More brunch recipes to come!

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Bad Company

Recently, I've been engaging in an on-going battle with my parents about a trip to a conference in Key West next week.  Seemingly out of nowhere, they freaked out about me traveling to Key West alone for a week and asked me not to go (really, just so many levels of weirdness with this, but let's just deal with one for now).  Out of nowhere because I have been traveling *everywhere* alone for pretty much all of my adult life.  In fact, since I became a full-fledged grown-up, I have only planned two trips with other people. I might go to visit friends, but I rarely end up vacationing with them.

The second of these trips was planned for the beginning of December this year.  I was anticipating meeting some girlfriends for a weekend of Christmas, food and shopping in Chicago.  I spent lots of time finding a hotel, picking restaurants and making reservations.  Unfortunately, my friends had to cancel at the last minute, so I ended up going alone albeit meeting up with some old friends that live there.  In the end, it was a fabulous trip (as Chicago always is) filled with gorgeous Christmas sights (see photo below) and an awesome way to renew friendships with people I hadn't seen in a while, but the point is...I didn't travel to a destination with anyone.


                        [Yes, that's falling snow at the Kris Kringle Market in Chicago.  Dreamy, right?!]

Which means, that I have really only vacationed once with friends.  Three years ago this week, I went to Mexico.  I have blocked out many of the details of this trip (I tried to remember the airport we flew into all morning, but for the life of me, I have no idea where in Mexico we really were).  The very kind and wonderfully understanding people I went to Mexico with probably remember.  They definitely remember my role in the trip.  Basically, I played the part of "freaked out tourist".  Seems that I signed up for a vacation that was a bit more then my imagination might have pictured.

My trouble (and by association, the trouble I caused to all my traveling companions) started almost immediately.  Apparently, we needed to grocery shop in the town we flew into before making the drive to our "villa" (again, my imagination of the word "villa" was very far from the actual reality...which kind of shows how out of touch with reality I may be as everyone else was pleasantly surprised by our open-air accommodations).  After stocking up with a week's worth of groceries and beer, my nervousness started.  Where was this place that we wouldn't have access to other food sources?!  As we traveled the 2 hours to the destination, past many a spot with those little shrines of crosses and pictures of loved ones lining the side of the road, over one-laned cobblestoned and dirt roads that literally had chickens and goats running in the street, up steep mountains while the sun set and while our driver let out periodic "dios mios" as we bounced along (my friends on the trip swear the driver never uttered anything like this - and I'm inclined to believe them, since I was experiencing some sort of psychotic break and these thoughts may have been coming from inside my own head), I clutched with increasing desperation the crate of eggs we had purchased at the supermarket.   Meanwhile, the only thing that was freaking out anyone else in the van was ME as I alternated between silent tears and manic laughter (you think I'm kidding, but I'm so NOT kidding...I was like a textbook mental patient).  Soon after our arrival, our van driver bolted out of the driveway leaving us, essentially, stranded (for me, this meant stranded on a Mexican mountainside...for everyone else, it meant stranded... with me) and that's when the real breakdown began.

                                         {I know, I know...this doesn't *look* scary, does it?!}

                            [But this does....Eeee!!!  Especially since it was inside a friend's shirt!]

Fast forward four days, and the van was back to pick me up for my (pre-scheduled) early return to the U.S. (most certainly to the relief of everyone else continuing to vacation on the Mexican mountainside and beach).  I left behind a group of people to whom sleeping in open air with mosquito nets, scorpions, strange jungle monkeys/raccoons and a random stray dog was not only tolerable but *relaxing*.  It was like having my "companion vacation" cherry popped.  Apparently, you CAN'T just stroll into the middle of someone else's dream vacation and expect it to be your idea of paradise as well.  I'd always fantasized myself as a solid travel companion, but when I actually became a vacation buddy, I realized I was not only a downer, but possibly institutionally unstable.

                                     [This is the paradise where my sanity was called into question.]

Since then, I have been extremely wary of joining friends on a trip.  (Lest I have to spend hours on self-talk that involves statements like, "You CANNOT ruin ______ 's vacation! Get it together! You can do this!" or rocking back and forth and hugging myself.)  Even when people have suggested trips that do sound more suited to my ...um..."sensibilities" (I am, apparently, a delicate flower when it comes to travel), I tend to err on the side of caution and politely decline.  (My one exception:  when my friend Jonathan moves to work in Paris, I am totally moving into his flat and becoming a kept woman...but that will be different.  It will be more like living there then vacationing.  Also, because it is Paris.)  Thus, I continue my travels alone.

As it is, despite my parent's exultations, I am off to Key West by myself next week.  Because let's face it, I'm clearly more dangerous traveling in a group then I am traveling alone.


RECIPE
This recipe has nothing to do with my trip except for the fact that it contains tuna which live in the ocean.  I have no idea *which* ocean we were even actually on or if tuna live in it.

TUNA AND WHITE BEAN SALAD
Adapted from a Food and Wine recipe
This tangy (and healthy) salad is great with crostini, served inside lettuce leaves or Belgian endive spears or tossed with pasta.  Make sure you buy really good (and preferably wild) tuna.

Serves about 6

Ingredients
1 garlic clove
1/2 cup fresh parsley leaves (a big handful)
1/4 cup fresh basil leaves (a small handful)
1 1/2 tablespoons oregano leaves (fresh)
1/4 cup capers (drained)
2 tablespoons pine nuts (if you want a cheaper alternative, use walnuts...but not around me, please)
1/4 cup olive oil
1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
Salt and pepper
About 21 oz. of high-quality tuna packed in oil (drained)
2 15 oz. cans of cannellini beans (drained)

Directions
1.  In a food processor or blender, combine garlic and herbs.  Add capers and pine nuts.  Last, add olive oil and lemon juice until pesto is combined, but still a little chunky.  Season with salt and pepper.
2.  In a bowl, break tuna into chunks.  Add the beans.  Toss with pesto and season as needed.

Mmmm.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Untitled (aka All the Titles I Thought of Today Sounded Dirty)

[Photo exclusion: I wanted to open this piece with my dreamy little photo of Alex O'Loughlin shirtless, but that seemed a little misleading.  After all, I'm looking for more substance then someone who just looks good (absolutely, freakin' fantastic) with his shirt off.  Of course, if Alex turned up on my doorstep, I might change my mind. In the moment and everything.  Just sayin'.]

I'm feeling a little restless.  This tends to happen in winter, particularly after I've spent too much time secluded with my family in rural Pennsylvania.  Most of my farmer's markets have gone underground for the winter, my friends are less inclined to go out in the cold and my accessibility to eligible males sinks significantly lower then even usual.   I'm *dying* to flirt.

As has probably become clear, I'm not looking to get married.  That's not to say though, I wouldn't mind being romanced a little; swept off my feet even...maybe even, to fall in love.  [Note: If you don't think there's a difference in wanting to get married and wanting to fall in love, I suggest you think about it a little more. Big difference in which you rank first in priority.]  Ok, fine, I'd settle for lust.  Or even just a good crush.  Man, I do love a solid crush.  The butterflies, the anticipation, the hidden meaning behind every look or exchange, the rush of...possibility.  (Granted, most of my crushes remain nearly entirely one-sided, but whatever, my imagination is vivid.)

Anyhow, I start to become a bit itchy to flirt.  To create hope again.  To be desired...and *to* desire, again.  I'd just like to feel... something.

So, what do I normally do when this happens?  Well, like any 21st century girl in a big city, I head to the internet.  I have tried a variety of the (less tawdry) dating sites - match.com, eHarmony, chemistry.  This year, though, I just can't bring myself to do it.

Yes, internet dating creates possibility.  It gives you the hope that maybe, just maybe, something will spark.  And, I know for some people it has (and does).  But, not me.  Even on the internet, I only seem to attract delusional stalkers (really...I am not sure how to take it when a 58-year old man 5 states over with a bad tobacco habit and an overbite emails me and asks me to marry him; do I seem attainable to this demographic? Talk about an ego-buster.), boring office/Hill workers (I watched Schoolhouse Rock, ok?  I already know how a bill becomes a law), or not-immediately-obvious assholes (like the guy I mentioned previously who told me the thing he misses most about lacking a girlfriend is not having someone to have sex with at halftime during football season...on second thought, I guess that guy was kind of an immediately-obvious a-hole).

Perhaps it has something to do with my age...although I would happily date a 28-year old I met in real life, I just can't bring myself to respond to someone looking online for older women.  And the guys who are my age seem to be very, very focused on getting married and having babies.  (I know!! It is so weird to even type that, but it's totally true.  When you're a woman in your mid-30s and you tell a guy you're just looking for some traditional fun and laidback dating, he looks at you in horror.  Horror!  Or, he totally thinks you're lying.  One or the other.)  In the past three years, I haven't been on a single internet date who hasn't talked about getting married and/or having kids on the first date-if not in his profile or the first email. (Maybe the conversation has not been specific to me as said wife/mother...but just him wanting it to happen soon.  It's SO CRAZY!  You remember that if a *girl* tried this in her 20s, guys would sprint to get away.  But now...totally acceptable. Go figure.)  There is just no possible way to weed these guys out.  I've tried avoiding the ones whose profiles or initial emails are heavily accented with words like "commitment" or phrases like "I love kids".  (Both of which I got slightly nauseous just typing.) None the less, when I meet them, it becomes a Q&A of life priorities and an interview instead of a flirt fest.   Bummer.

If I was looking for a husband, I would jump back on the Internet train, but, I'm not looking for compatible life goals that align well and will lead to 1.5 kids and a house in the suburbs (uh...not that there's anything wrong with that, of course).  I am looking for a spark, damn it.  Someone that I can't wait to see and be around, who makes me laugh, who I can't stop imagining kissing (even after we've already kissed).  Talk is fabulous (I mean, hello?!, this is me we're talking about), but I'd really like to go on a date with a little feeling behind it (not a DNA checklist).  Every date seems rushed (and where 10 years ago this might have meant into bed, it now means down the aisle).  To make a cooking analogy (I mean, this *is* a food blog and all), it's like I'm being forced into a microwave instead of allowed to develop a little flavor with a slow simmer to build heat.

I'm looking for some real chemistry, people.  Excitement.  And, yeah, maybe I want to be woo'ed a little, too.  Ain't gonna find that on the internet.  It's just become kind of depressing to even try.  Now, if you're one of those folks that thinks romance is dead and true love is just a fantasy; who thinks that someone who matches well with me on paper is the best I'm going to get.  Well...then... I think I'd just rather continue to go it alone.

Give or take a healthy little one-sided crush.



NO RECIPE
When I get like this, I really can't think about eating.  I just think about wine.   And beer.

A few suggestions:
I belong to a great wine club that delivers everywhere in the U.S.  www.fruitforward.com
If you'd like to expand your wine horizons, this club is spectacular.  I have been receiving wines from them for almost 10 years now and have loved almost all of them.  Each month, I get one red and one white (you can specify all red or white, if you prefer) for less than $35, including shipping.  Most of the wines-if you really like them- you can order more of at a discount through fruit forward.  You can also find the majority of them at local wine stores.  Really fabulous company.  Love.

If you live on the Hill and want wine choices, go to Schneider's on Mass Ave.  Ask for Stuart.  Just like Fruit Forward, Stuart has never picked a wine I didn't love.

If you live in Virginia, there's a great wine shop in Shirlington called the Curious Grape.  They do fun tastings and also carry a lot of delicious canned beers.  (Beer actually retains its flavor better in a can then in a bottle.  I've been testing this theory by consuming as many different types of beer as possible.  I'm a big Dale's Pale Ale and Oskar Blues fan.)

If you live in Virginia closer to Arlington, Best Cellars in Clarendon has very affordable, tasty wines.  I'm not a big fan of their grouping strategies, but you can't beat the prices.  I think there's still a Best Cellars in Dupont on Connecticut as well.

If you live near Columbia Heights, there's a great little wine and beer store right off the Columbia Heights metro stop (I'm blanking on the name right now).  They are particularly adept at recommending tasty brews.  Most recently- Hibernation Ale which I love and have been drinking all winter.   Largest speciality beer selection I've seen in the city.  (See picture below- my favorite double-whammy stop in the city...a veggie Chipotle burrito and a recommended beer.  Dogfish Head double-IPA, in this case.  yum.)

I am totally freaked out by all the wine stores I just recommended.  I am officially a lush.



Monday, December 27, 2010

Yes, I'm a Cliche


Ahhhh...the countryside of rural Pennsylvania.  Beautiful, peaceful and a welcome respite from the madness of the city.  Uhhh....for the right person, that is.

I've just returned from celebrating the winter holidays in St. Mary's, PA (where the above scene is filled with snow and clouds this time of year but equally idyllic) where, as usual, I departed at least a day ahead of schedule.  As lovely as the Boonies are, I just can't comfortably stomach them for more than a few days.  Yes, I am a cliche...a city girl who doesn't deal well with rural life.  Not necessarily in a Lifetime movie sort of way (I mean, I'm not wearing high heels to walk my dog in a forest or wandering around trying to find a latte), but in a modern-conveniences-are-essential-to-my-mental-welfare sort of way.  It's just that the Boonies, PA, are so far away from many things I take for granted (some people might say this is the beauty of the Boonies...I, however, am not one of those people).  State College (not exactly a booming metropolis) is over an hour and a half away and Pittsburg (the closest place with a Banana Republic...my marker of true city-dom) is over three hours away.  The last vet in town just closed and people have to go forty miles for the closest vet.  Stories about people becoming seriously ill in St. Mary's end with either being relocated to the Pittsburg Hospital or dying.  There is no organic food market, only two restaurants, no airport/train station/bus stop and not a single gift shop.  This is serious small town...not "small town feeling" with a city within spitting distance.

[At this point in the piece, you are either with me and a city-person yourself OR you think I'm nuts.  Whatever.  I'd like be to more "woodsy" and "rugged" but I'm just not.  I like to experience nature but sleep in a heavenly bed.   At least I'm in touch with my true essence.]

As I approach the two decade anniversary of my last camping trip (an ill-fated backpacking experience too early in the spring that resulted in hyperthermia and a really bad rash), I spent some time thinking about why being away from the comforts of the civilization gets under my skin.  Besides the obvious worry wort inconveniences and some minor discomforts, I have come to two conclusions.  Creatures.  And bugs.

In a remarkable and hasty misjudgment, even for me, a few years ago, I decided to move into my parents' cabin in the Boonies for a few months while I applied to schools and relocated back to the East Coast.  (They spend most of the year in Florida.)  Other than being a little lonely, the first few weeks weren't terribly eventful.  Then, autumn rolled around and things precipitously declined.

Fact: Small woodland creatures like to move to warmer locations when the winter starts to become cold. This location is quite possibly inside your house.  I found this out when one chilly morning, I was scooping a tupperware of food for my dog.  I noticed a string amidst the kibble and went to pull it out.  Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to quite get a hold of it.  It took more than a few second for it to don on me *why* I couldn't grab this piece of string.  Then, very slowly, I lifted the tupperware up to eye level and pressed up against the plastic were four tiny paws.  (When imagining my reaction, if you envisioned wild screaming followed by some sort of flinging of said mouse, you'd be about on track.)  Flying out the cabin door, I flung the food, mouse AND tupperware container far into the woods.

Here are the woods where I flung them:

I then took the remaining dog food, threw it in a trash bag, threw THAT in a trash bag, threw THAT in a trash bag and sealed into a can for the garbage people.

Sadly, it seems that mice rarely roam in ones.

Enter my helpful and handy uncle.  Upon coming over to assess my mouse situation, my uncle's mice-catching batting record was 0 for about 200 (estimate).  He told me not to worry that we would set some traps.  Here is what he brought:

Apparently, mouse technology has not improved much in the past 200 years.

The thing about old-school mouse traps: they are loud.  Very loud.  And when they actually catch a mouse, a little squeal often follows the snap.  This is particularly unpleasant when it falls around dinner time.  Night after night, just around the hour I sat down to dinner, I would hear SNAP-squeal, SNAP- squeal.  Nothing keeps you from going back for seconds or an after-dinner snack like a dead mouse in the pantry.  Eight mouse carcasses later, and my uncle's record had significantly improved.  In good news, I had also lost 5 pounds.  Although my uncle assured me that he thought we had contained the problem, anytime I walked around in the semi-darkness I made loud stomping noises to clear a path.

Speaking of loud stomping noises, let's move on to a new creature, shall we?  Less than a week after The Mouse Incident, I had the french doors open to the screens on an unseasonably warm day.  I looked over at the dog, just before seated on the floor taking in the breeze, now standing with every inch of fur raised on her back but otherwise completely silent.  Being a very vocal dog, I was alarmed.  I eased around the corner to follow her line of sight.  And, there, kind of just sitting and chilling on the front porch, was a bear. Heart pounding, I slammed every open door shut and locked them.  (Whatever...search "bears" on You Tube and I swear you'll find a bear that can open doors.  Probably a deer, too.)  I then tested the extreme limits of my dog's bladder by refusing to leave the house until well into the next day.

Right, so there's a lot of wildlife in the Boonies.  And also bugs.  Particularly, the most hated of all bugs to me...the tick.  Now, in California, the ticks were huge.  Easy to spot and pick off.  In Pennsylvania, they are teeny-tiny and crawl quickly right up to the skin.  Now, you can tell yourself that you give your dog flea and tick medicine and the ticks will all die and fall off because of this.  But, let me tell you now, YOU ARE WRONG.  I learned this the hard way.  Even though I obsessively (and this is a real understatement) checked the dog for ticks several times a day, I woke up one November morning to find Lola- and a very engorged, unwelcome visitor- staring me in the eye.  In DC if this happened (which it wouldn't because we don't *have* ticks in the city), I would hop in my car and drive directly to the vet.  But our "vet" in the Boonies was over 40 miles away and often made statement to me like, "It looks like your dog might bite me.  Do you think she might bite me?  Maybe *you* should give her this shot."  So, the vet was out.  It was me versus the tick.  I tried to channel my inner Jen Ammenti (seriously, my friend Jen is like my woodsy folk hero...on one of our school camping trips a kid basically impaled herself on a campfire and Jen handled it like a certified medical professional...she also flicks ticks off like gnats) and grabbed some rubbing alcohol and a pair of tweezers.  Sadly, I am not Jen.  And removing a tick off a dog is *not* a job for one person.  You really need two, maybe three people, if one of them is me, to get a tick off a dog.  One person to hold the dog, one person to work the tweezers and one cheerleader (I'd be happy to take that role in the future).  Suffice it to say that doing it alone...well...there are probably still parts of that tick inside my dog.

Thus, sadly, I must take my Boonies in small portions.  But, isn't that what vacation is for...to give you a little taste of something different but ultimately make you grateful for what you've got?  I've got take-out, Banana and a 24-hour animal hospital.  And I like it just like that.

RECIPE
Now, if I was a true woodsy woman, I would make today's recipe one that could be cooked over an open campfire or eaten raw with just a pocket knife and two hands.   Hahaha...right.  Here's my recipe for my favorite cornbread instead.



CHIPOTLE HONEY CORNBREAD
I have forever been searching for a from-scratch recipe as good as the Jiffy mix (what?!  that stuff's tasty).  I think I finally found it with this recipe.

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups yellow cornmeal
3/4 cup flour
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/4 buttermilk
2 large eggs
3 tablespoons honey
3 tablespoons butter, melted
2-3 chopped chipotle chilis in adobe sauce, optional

Directions:
1.  Preheat oven to 425 degrees.  Butter an 8-inch square or round pan.
2.  Whisk together first 6 ingredients (through baking soda).
3.  Whisk buttermilk, eggs, honey and butter in a small bowl.
4.  Add buttermilk mix to dry mix and stir just until combined.   Fold in chipotle, if desired.
5.  Pour batter into pan and baked until golden, about 30 minutes.  Cool 10 minutes and remove from pan.

Friday, December 24, 2010

The Worst Oven on the Planet

I am currently in the Boonies, PA for the holidays (more on that in the next post).  The past seven days here have basically been filled by me doing the following: planning what to cook, shopping to cook, and actually cooking.  As I've mentioned before, my parents don't cook.  At all.  I think some people underestimate what this really means, but it means- really and truly- THEY DON'T COOK.  As far as I can tell, when I am not in town, their meals basically consist of sandwiches and things that can be heated in the microwave.  Upon first arriving at the cabin, I am always greeted by a completely empty fruit and vegetable drawer (ok, ok, sometimes there's one little, sad 1/2 onion in there).  Overall, it seems best for me to not imagine what transpires in the kitchen when I'm not here.

My parents don't *force* me to cook when I visit.  However, since I like to consume food that is fresh and at least remotely healthy for me, I don't really have a lot of options.  Plus, I clearly enjoy making food.  And, there isn't a whole lot to do in the Boonies (particularly in winter; one can only take so many snow hikes), so it keeps me occupied.  Maybe a wee bit more occupied then I might like, but entertained none the less.

Sadly, despite the lovely size of the cabin kitchen, it has a few serious flaws.  Number one amongst these is the oven.  Here is what the oven looks like:
Doesn't look scary, right?  It's all shiny and silver looking and even has a label that says "professional series".  As in life though, appearances can be deceiving.  Beneath it's shiny exterior, this oven is waiting to lure diners to their death (or least an extreme bout of food poisoning).

Problem number one:  the dial.
[Side note:  As I've mentioned before,  I bought this gorgeous new camera thinking it would really up my picture taking abilities.  However, I can't seem to really get its use straight and I either seem to get pictures that are all blurry and badly focused or ones that glow in a weird orange color like this one unless the light is absolutely perfect.  Over Christmas break, I was determined to learn how to use it better but instead, I've been way too busy...cooking.   I've resorted back to just taking pictures with my cheapy little digital number, because I get better results.  Annoying.  Anywho, this whole little preface is to highlight the fact that the next picture is about to suck.]

From this poorly lit picture, you can still see that is quite difficult to decide where the arrow is pointing on the dial.  Thus, it's basically a crapshoot to what temperature within 50 degrees or so you are cooking food at.  This wouldn't be a dire problem if not for that fact that...

Problem Two:  The oven has no "preheat" sensor.  It's hard to tell when the temperature even approximates the chosen range on the dial.  See...

[This picture is already better than the last one because I have learned how to use my flash in the last 24 hours.  Go, me.]

Problem Three:  After using the oven a few times after purchase, we quickly determined the oven was miscalibrated.  Best estimate: about 25-30 degrees.  However, it now appears this was not a static problem.  I learned this the hard way when I attempted to roast a 2 1/2 pound chicken on Tuesday night and it took 3 hours.  When we finally decided we could not cook it any longer (and the internal temperature appeared to be around 165 degrees), we pulled it out and had a pale, sick looking chicken that hadn't turned golden or brown on the skin at all.  My mom was so freaked out about eating it that she made my dad cut it apart and then microwave the whole damn thing on a plate.  Meanwhile, I got a great lecture on the merits of frozen meals and how "this never happens" when they cook their fish sticks in the oven.

This problem, unfortunately, repeated itself multiple times during my visit- culminating in a pork shoulder that took over 6 hour to roast and came out with half of it tasting delicious and the other half tasting like shoe leather.  Clearly, there are more sinister forces at work here.

My mom has decided that the only option is not: (a) getting an internal thermometer to really figure out the internal temperature of the oven or (b) calling a repair person (that they have never done this in the 6 years they have had the oven speaks volumes about the amount of cooking that is done when I am not here), but instead is option (c) buy a whole new oven.   Many promises have been made about having a whole new oven by the next time I visit.  Which I guess means I will also still be doing the cooking.

Until then, I have tried to do the majority of my cooking on the stovetop (which isn't exactly genius either, but still helps with having dinner ready before midnight).  My dad raved (trust me, this is rare since he considers the majority of what I make "not for normal people") over this stovetop pork.  The sauce is easy and could easily be used for chicken as well.

RECIPE

MAPLE-MUSTARD PORK CHOPS
adapted from a Cooking Light Recipe

Ingredients
4 center-cut pork chops (bone-in or bone-out...just adjust cooking times)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

1 tablespoon butter
1/4-1/2 cup finely chopped shallots (about 1 large shallot)
1/4 chicken stock/broth
2 tablespoons dijon mustard
2 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

Directions
1.  Season pork chops on each side with a little salt and pepper.  Allow to sit at room temperature for about 15-20 minutes.
2.Heat a skillet over medium-high heat with a little olive or canola oil (enough to coat the bottom of the pan).  Add pork and cook about 3 minutes on each side- there will be a slight pinkness to the center.  Remove from pan.
3.  Add butter to pan.  Then add shallots and saute about 3 minutes until clear.  Add broth/stock and bring to a boil, cooking for about 1 minute.  Stir in mustard, maple syrup.  Cook another minute or so until slightly thickened.
4. Return pork to pan and cook another minute on each side to rewarm.  Serve each piece with a little sauce drizzled over.

Easy and delicious!  My dad's exact quote, "The only problem with this meal is that there wasn't more it."

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

A Love Story

[Side note: Lola's alive and kicking.  That's why I wrote this now.  I've decide I'll be in Spain and Italy when she's not...drowning my sorrows in chianti, tapas and exotic men.]


The first time anyone noticed I was about five years old.  My grandmother was babysitting me for the afternoon and took me to the movies.  We watched the first five minutes of Bambi before I started screaming and crying so hysterically that she was forced to leave the theater.  Fond of saying she was "scotch", my grandmother was not willing to sacrifice her movie money so easily.

(Side note:  It took me years to discover that scotch was *not* actually our family heritage but instead a word my grandmother liked to use in place of "cheap".  Today, in a dictionary, you will find the word offensive placed before giving this definition.  In her defense, political correctness was not high on the concern list for people who grew up during the Depression.  They were more focused on other things...like money and avoiding starvation.)

Thus, she persuaded the movie theater manager to let us into another Disney movie just beginning- Pinocchio.  I made it through about one third of that cartoon before again dragging my grandmother out of the theater when Pinocchio was swallowed by the whale.  (True story:  For the remaining two decades of her life, my grandmother refused to set foot in a movie theater with me.  Even when I offered to pay.)

You see, from the very earliest time I can remember, I have had a thing for animals.  (Oh...did you think I was concerned about little wooden Pinocchio?!  Nope...I was convinced the whale would die from swallowing him.)  More specifically, I've never been able to handle an animal death.  Early on, my mom tricked me into watching Old Yeller, and it was pretty much the cruelest thing she's ever done to me (except feed me Spam...but still, in the grand scene of cruel mommies, I guess still not so bad).  I cried for WEEKS (in fact, I'm crying a little right now).  In school, we read Bridge to Terabithia and Where the Red Fern Grows in the same term. Yes, I thought it was sad when (Spoiler Alert!) Leslie died in Terabithia, but I was positively *devastated* when the dogs bought it in Red Fern.  I never trusted my teacher's reading suggestions again.

Thus, at a very young age, I vowed never again to read a book or see a movie where an animal is a main character.  After all, it was clear to me that animals were used predominately as emotional manipulators in the plot.  It seemed especially cruel and unfair to kill off these defenseless creatures.  Despite my parents' entreaties to go see Benji ("It's a *happy* animal story!! Nobody dies!!") or my friends' love of Black Beauty ("You're soo not cool, Melissa.  Everyone's seen Black Beauty."), I declined invitations.  I never read those children's dog detective books or even The Wind in the Willows.  (Is it any surprise my least favorite ride at Disney was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride?!)  I didn't see Turner and Hooch or The Shaggy Dog remakes.  And, as an adult, I quit watching "Lost" after the third season because I couldn't take the "will they or won't they" stress of whether Vincent (Walt's lab) was going to get offed.  (Just *hearing* about the final scene of Lost with Jack and the dog had me in convulsive sobbing hiccups...it's THAT bad.)  I don't care how many people tell me that Marley & Me will crack me up.  I'm not reading it.  (Or seeing it, for that matter...Jennifer Aniston really ruins a movie anyhow.)  I will NOT read, watch, listen or even hear about (if I can avoid it) an animal story.  I'll drop a book after 200 of 300 pages if they suddenly kill an animal.  I stopped watching Damages with Glenn Close as soon as the dog was killed.  The list goes on and on.

What brought on this visceral reaction to animal stories?  Did I lose a beloved pet in my childhood?  Witness a tragic canine death?  No, none of the above.  My only pet as a child was the World's Meanest Cat (an official title) who even in death tormented my mother by waiting for her to pull her car into the garage and then promptly dying behind one of the tires, making it look like my mother had run over it.  (The vet later confirmed lack of tread marks and crushed bone indicated otherwise.)  I don't remember any of my friends having any pets I was particularly attached to either.  I really can't explain it.

So, after years of this aversion; of safely protecting myself from the world of animal death, what did I go and do?!  I got a dog.  I'd always wanted a dog growing up, but my parents were not "dog people" (which I find very suspicious as now most people who don't like dogs, I tend to find, I don't like them), so they refused.  (Instead, we had 3 cats in the course of my 18 years at home.  All of which caused me considerable allergic pain. In retrospect, maybe my parents didn't really like me.)  As soon as I got my own apartment after law school, I was determined to get a dog.  I marched right over to the shelter and picked out the one dog that was completely neurotic and totally smart (she had to have her kennel padlocked because not only could she open her own kennel door, but she would then free the other dogs from their kennels) and had already been returned twice.

And although - or maybe because- it was so much work to get through her "issues", I have madly, deeply and entirely fallen in love.  I have taken this dog to 38 states, lived in 5 different houses, been through countless dog sitters, visited the vet three times as often as *I* see a doctor and endured lots of episodes of crazy, inexplicable behavior.  I have also been greeted like I was the most wonderful person on the Earth EVERY TIME I OPEN THE FRONT DOOR, received thousands of kisses, been snuggled through many a cold night, gotten plenty of fresh air and exercise, and had a faithful companion for the past nine years.

How does a girl who never read an animal story or saw an animal movie or endured the loss of a beloved pet deal with the fact that she has an "old" dog?!  What was I thinking, you might ask when, of all people, I decided to get a pet?!  And I would reply, I wasn't thinking...I was wooed.  Wooed by a three-foot high, snow-loving, energetic, affectionate, fluff ball.

As for the rest of this story, I think this is a good time to close the book, leave the theater, and avoid the maudlin ending.  Think of it not as an animal story, but perhaps, instead, a love one.


RECIPE
This time of year people are getting all sorts of fattening goodies.  I like to make this granola and give it as a "healthier" treat.  It's full of omega-3s, Vitamin E and antioxidants.  And, it's quite delicious.  Be careful or you'll snack your way through it before you can give it away.  This year, I brought it by the bucketful to give to my wonderful, wonderful vets at the Northside Veterinary Clinic in Arlington.  They are the best vets a hypochondriac dog-owner could ask for.

I (heart) CRANBERRY NUT GRANOLA
Adapted from a Giada De Laurentiis recipe

Ingredients (4 to 6 servings):
1/3 cup pumpkin seeds
1/4 cup sunflower seeds (if I am out of one kind of seed, I just use more of the other)
1/3 cup maple syrup (the pure kind)
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup cranberry juice (unsweetened...I used the concentrated kind if I can find it)
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
2 cups old fashioned oats
1/2 cup chopped almonds (roasted/salted work best)
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1 cup dried cranberries (you could also substitute cherry stuff in place of the cranberry stuff)

Directions:
1.  Preheat over to 350 degrees F.
2. Spread seeds on a baking sheet and toast for about 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly browned.  Be sure to keep your sniffer active...you can smell when nuts are starting to get too toasted.
3.  Reduce over temp to 325 degrees F.  Rub canola or olive oil on the bottom of a baking sheet.
4.  In a small saucepan, heat maple syrup, brown sugar, cranberry JUICE (not the berries themselves), and cinnamon over medium heat.  Stir constantly until sugar is dissolved.
5.  In a large bowl, combine cooled seeds, oats, chopped almonds, and salt.  Pour syrup mixture over and stir to combine.
6.  Spread mixture onto the oiled baking sheet.  Bake for about 20 minutes.  Remove from the oven and stir in cranberries (you will have to do a sort of rolling scoop along the sheet).  Return to oven for about 10-15 minutes more- or until browned.
7.  Cool completely.  Granola will harden more as it cools.  Will keep in a container for up to a week or so.

Share with someone you love.

Monday, December 6, 2010

What the Cluck is in Your Chicken?!

Chicken’s Health vs. Human Health:  Does It Matter?
Introduction:
In the early Fall of 2010, a new type of genetically modified salmon came under scrutiny from the FDA as well as local food and environmental groups.  Protests were staged, pamphlets were handed out and labels of “Frakenfish” and accusations of “human test subjects” were thrown around.  In the end, the FDA decided more research and study were needed before they made a decision on whether genetically modified salmon was safe for human consumption.
In contrast, poultry production in the United States has been undergoing modifications somewhat unnoticed for the past fifty years.  Most Americans believe they are making a “healthy” choice when they choose chicken over another meat.  But, is the chicken sold in today’s markets really healthy for human consumption?  Or is it just another type of “genetically modified” animal on the market?
Having recently read a great deal about the poultry industry left me questioning the belief that chicken is really as “healthy” as it has been touted to be by the American media.  Animal treatment concerns (and there are many) aside, can the way poultry is being raised and slaughtered actually be nutritious -or even safe- for the American public or have we unwittingly become test subjects of chicken-like food?
History:
To understand where chicken is today, we need to understand where chicken came from in its domestication.  Once upon a time, chicken frolicked free plucking snacks from the earth and fending for themselves in the wild.  By 8000 B.C.E., humans had learned how to domesticate chickens and contain them to work as part of a larger farming system.  However, it wasn’t until the 1920s that chicken production took a dramatic turn.  In 1928, Herbert Hoover promised “a chicken in every pot” and didn’t realize just how accurate that statement would become.  In fact, since then chicken consumption has increased by 150 times what it was at Hoover’s time (Foer, 105).  Part of this increase was due to the innovations in industrial agriculture acquired during World War II:  cheap feed for chickens in the form of newly hybrid corn, debeaking of chickens to allow them to be confined in close quarters, and fans and lights that allowed larger numbers of chickens to be housed indoors (Foer, 106).  In 1945, A&P Stores’ poultry research director, 10 poultry organizations, the USDA and 2 poultry magazines got together to create a “National Chicken-of-Tomorrow” contest with the goal of creating a cheaper, more “efficient” (i.e., more meat) and easier to produce chicken.  The cross-breeds that reached the finals became the precursors  of the “new breed of chicken”-a chicken with bigger breasts, thicker drumsticks and full of “growth” vitamins thanks to the newly developed synthesis of vitamin B12 as well as other growth stimulants and hormones (Levenstein, 109).
The increasing demand for chickens necessitated that chickens could no longer wander farms to mature at their leisure.  Instead barn raising (and near constant confinement) became the norm.  However, chickens full of growth hormones kept in close quarters often became ill quickly because of weakened immune systems.  So, beginning in the 1950s, antibiotics administration became common and lifted housing numbers from 3,000 in one “barn” to between 20, 000-40,000 birds in the same area (about the size of a football field).  In fact, the Delmarva Peninsula- the “Poultry Capita of the World” at this time- produced about 250 million broilers a year (Foer, 105).  Although this provided plenty of economy in the area, it also led to pollution, contaminating nearly 1/3 of all groundwater with nitrate run-off from the poultry farms.
The 1950s also witnessed the advent of chicken “specialization” with birds being split off into the “broiler” or “layer” categories.  Layer hens are typically squeezed into cages and subjected to heat/light and food deprivation strategies to get them to lay as many eggs as possible.  They are also “debeaked” because chickens in tight confinement tend to revolt and attack one another.  They are also often drugged until barely conscious because if they can’t hurt other hens, they try to maim themselves on the side of cages (Pollan, 317-8).  Laying hens (all artificially inseminated) lay approximately 300 eggs a year, two-three times the norm in nature.  They are then killed because laying declines in the 2nd year and space is at a premium (Foer, 60). 
Broiler chickens are raised to produce chicken meat.  And by the late 1970s, the anti-saturated fat, anti-cholesterol movement was gaining ground and encouraging people to consume more chicken then red meat (Levenstein, 211).  In fact, although in 1980 most people were still purchasing whole chickens, by 2000 90% of chickens were purchased as “parts” (Schlosser, 140).  Demand for chicken’s parts by companies like McDonald’s inspired companies like Tyson’s to create broilers with unusually large breasts (Schlosser, 140).  Production demands also began to concentrate poultry production in the hands of just a few large companies.  These companies worked to create the broiler chicken of today which grows twice as large in 1/2 the time and has increased its daily growth rate since 1950 by over 400%.  Whereas chickens used to live 15-20 years before slaughter, they now live about 6 weeks (yes, weeks) (Foer, 60).
To understand just how much chicken production has increased, consider this: Between the years of 1950-2000, a new house increased 1500% in cost and a new car 1400% in cost, but the cost of eggs and chicken have not even DOUBLED (50%) in cost.  The low cost of factory production of broilers and layers- now basically viewed as a machine would be in a factory- has allowed numbers to skyrocket.  Chicken is cheap.
Conditions/Slaughter:
The “factory bird” developed so quickly, swept up in the “convenience” food movement that blossomed during the same time period, that health considerations were often overlooked or sidelined.  The late 1950s brought some heightened fear of the possible cancer --causing effects of hormones given to poultry, but this concern faded fairly quickly.  By the early 1970s, large food companies were under more scientific attacks over the concentrations of pesticides and hormones in their food, but rather then reducing use, most companies instead came up with increasingly more sophisticated defenses (Levenstein, 174).
So, what goes on in the poultry farm of today?  Well, it’s hard to say exactly.  If you wonder why you don’t see much about poultry farms in the news, it’s because they’re very carefully guarded.  Media is almost entirely banned from entering.  That in itself, might speak volumes.
But, let’s look at what we do know.  99.9% of all poultry is produced on factory farms (Foer, 86).  To give “birth” to a new chicken, a mother must be artificially inseminated.  (Because of the way we have “bred” chickens, 99.9% are no longer genetically viable, ie, they can’t reproduce naturally.  This includes organic and free range chicken.)  With the exception of “organic” chickens (designated according to the USDA description) but INCLUDING “free range” or “natural” chickens, hormones are administered at birth that will lead to the chick developing muscle and fat tissues at such a rapid rate that their bones develop deformities from trying to support the weight.  Because this leads to immune deficiencies (and because of crowded conditions that spread disease), antibiotics are administered preventatively (again, excluding “organic” chickens).  Of these chickens, 1-4% will die from something labeled “sudden death syndrome” (a term created for this situation that did not exist before factory farms), 75% will have some sort of deformity and 25% will be virtually immobile.  (Foer, 130).
At this point, chicks are debeaked and subjected to lighting and temperature controls to alter egg production (laying hens) or growth rates (broiler chickens).  They live in an area approximately the size of your computer screen (or an open hard-backed book).  Chickens are slaughtered between day 36-42 of life, basically so they don’t die from disease, filthy conditions, in-bird fighting or (in the case of non-organic chickens) before massive amounts of drugs and hormones kill them. (Foer, 131)  Organic chickens live in the same size space, and must also be killed by day 36-42 due to genetic unviability.  Although the “free-range” designation sounds great, the description only requires that a door somewhere in the barn be “open” to a small patch of dirt outside.  In reality, most birds hardly ever leave their indoor areas (Pollan, 172).  Most of the chickens can’t walk because their breasts are so “efficiently” grown that they will topple over if they try to walk or stand (Pollan 171).
20,000-40,000 chickens in a space the size of the football field creates a lot of feces, dirt and bacteria.  It is estimated that over 95% of factory chickens become infected with E.Coli (despite antibiotic administration) from fecal contamination.  70-90% become infected with campylobacter bacteria and 8% become infected with salmonella (this might surprise you since salmonella is most commonly associated with chicken...but due to more widely and specifically administered antibiotics rates have declined since 2004 when almost 50% of broilers were contaminated).  It is these rates that lead to the food poisoning epidemics one hears about on the news (like the egg recall in Iowa) and the ones that strike even more commonly that are under- or un-reported (Foer, 131).  (Estimates are somewhere around 3.3 million illnesses and 650 deaths for salmonella and campylobacter bacteria in 2004.  Howard.)
The slaughter of chickens (and the workers that perform it) are subjected to a great deal of gruesomeness that I will not go into here.  Suffice it to say that contamination runs rampant.  Workers in slaughterhouses are often illegal and paid minimum wages, working long hours at dangerous work (turnover rates are estimated near 100-150%) (Foer, 133).  Because they are forced to work quickly, chicken carcasses are often ripped open in a way that allows fecal matter from intestines and other organs to contaminate the plant with feces.  Although USDA inspectors are at slaughter plants for inspections, they have about 2 seconds (literally) per chicken to inspect and see almost 25,000 birds day.  In addition, most U.S. poultry producers use a water immersion type of cooler in the last stages of slaughter that is often filled not just with cooling water and chicken carcasses, but also feces, bacteria and filth (up to 11% of which can legally be “absorbed” by the chicken before sale) (Foer, 133).  (Again, organic chickens are, for the most part, slaughtered in the same facilities as non-organic chickens since slaughterhouses in America are increasingly dwindling.)
Where does this leave Americans health-wise?  Unfortunately, not a lot of studies have been done about how the treatment and raising of poultry can effect human health long-term.  As of July 2010, there was still no scientific study that unequivocally linked antibiotic use in animals to antibiotic resistance in people (USA TODAY).  However, that is not to say that the hormone injections, antibiotics, and housing conditions have no effect on human beings.  As Jonathan Safran Foer points out in his book “Eating Animals”, we frequently subject athletes to intense testing and scrutiny for using growth hormones.  Yet, we have no problem injecting chickens with these hormones to the *point where they CANNOT even stand on their own two feet.*   Are we really eating “chicken” when we are eating something that could not SURVIVE for longer than 6 weeks without receiving assistance from human beings?  99.9% (that’s pretty much ALL) of the chickens in America could not survive on a working farm...let alone in the wild.  
Although chicken is often presented as the “healthy” alternative to meat (which, by the way has 78% of its stock produced on factory farms), can a drugged, hormone-riddled,genetically unviable, fecal and bacteria-tinged “chicken machine” really be good for us?  The jury may still be out on scientific evidence, but common sense will undoubtedly tell consumers to proceed with caution.
Bibliography
Dooley, Erin.  “Scratching Out Data on Animal Antibiotic Effects.”  Environmental Health 
Perspectives: 112.  Sept. 2004.
Farm Forward.  “Poultry-Anything Goes.”  www.farmforward.com.  Farm Forward, 2010.
Web. 25 Nov. 2010.
Foer, Jonathan Safran.  Eating Animals. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2009.
Print.
Howard, Brian.  “Poisoned Poultry.” E: The Environment Magazine: 14:2.  Mar/April 2003.
Levenstein, Harvey.  Paradox of Plenty: A Social History of Eating in Modern America.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003. Print.
Pollan, Michael.  The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals.  New
York: Penguin Books, 2006. Print.
Schlosser, Eric. Fast Food Nation. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Print.