Pumpkin Nirvana

As mentioned in the last blog post, I like to eat wonderful food. Three years ago, to celebrate our 25^th anniversary, my husband Calvin took me to Paris. It was an indulgence in art, architecture, and food. 

Les Papilles was one of the restaurants we visited. And a few years ago, I found a recipe that they'd posted online. It was for cream of pumpkin soup. Not something I’d normally be interested in. But I had cream of squash soup in their restaurant. I hate squash, but the soup was gastronomic bliss. I printed the pumpkin recipe.

 After all three years, I finally made the soup.

My husband is on sabbatical, so I had a sous chef/dishwasher available. Very handy, because whenever I make anything “weird,” my sons need an “alternative food opportunity.” Tonight, it was andouille sausage.

The recipe called for garnishes that included: crumbled bacon,
chives, shaved almonds, bits of fresh pumpkin, croutons, and
a sprinkle of cocoa.

What I didn’t notice three years ago is that Google had put the recipe through Google translate. I could have cooked from the French recipe. The "Franglais" recipe—that was harder.

For example, I’m not sure what “have harmoniously” was supposed to mean. And then there were the words that were neither French nor English...

In the end, the soup was pumpkin nirvana. Instead of andouille sausages, my sons had second helpings of cream of pumpkin soup.

Cow Appreciation

This Friday was Cow Appreciation Day at Chick-fil-a. That means that if you dress like a cow from head to toe, the wonderful folks at CFA will give you a full, free meal. So the six of us dressed like cows and went to CFA for dinner. And they gave us $38 in free food, including their spicy chicken sandwiches, sodas and waffle fries. (If you’ve never had CFA waffle fries you have missed one of the world’s two fast food delights. The other being In ‘n’ Out Burger’s “double-double, animal style.”)

Here’s a photo of two members of our herd.

Half the fun in going, besides the free food, was seeing all the other semi-crazed free foodies dressed in bovine attire. They ranged from babies in cow suits to kids in trash bags with black spots to grown men with tails.

CFA also gave us cute stuffed animal cows to take home. Fun, fun. We'll definitely go next year.

Carrot Coveting

The other day, we were watching NCIS on a Netflix disk when I stopped the movie. Amidst the protests, I heard “Why did you stop the movie?” After all, they hadn’t seen any reasons that I normally stopped a show like inappropriately attired females, etc.

“I’m sorry,” I explained, “but I have to get vegetables.”

All the noise and chatter ended. “What?”

Me: I saw a character eating a carrot and now I’m coveting.

Them: Who?

Me: Agent Lee was eating a carrot in the background.

Them: You’ve got to be kidding. We didn’t even see her.

Honestly, this is from kids who eat every fifteen minutes, when possible. You’d think they’d be the least bit understanding. But I don’t think it was the fact that I wanted to get something to eat as much as the fact that I’d stop the show to get something as “lame” as carrots. They’d understand ice cream, cookies, hamburger, or potato chips. (Okay, I could get a serious craving for salt and vinegar potato chips, but I wouldn’t indulge it because I’d eat the whole bag.)

But carrots... They’re a healthy indulgence—vitamin A, beta carotene, fiber, etc. Besides I’ve always had a thing for carrots. When I was little my mom took me to the pediatrician because my skin had taken on an orange cast, it turns out that I was eating way too many carrots.

While the kids waited, I went to the kitchen. But our carrots were a bit limp. So I settled for cucumbers and lettuce. The kids rolled their eyes. Then we got back to Gibbs and Abby and Ducky. They solved the murder. Agent Lee didn’t help. I guess she’s there just to increase carrot sales.

Cheap Food

Last night was College Fellowship at our house. It includes food (chips and homemade salsa, brownies, French bread pizzas, and soda), prayer, and games. Usually we play “mafia.” If you’ve never played the game, here’s the short version: two people are secretly assigned to be the “mafia.” Everybody closes their eyes, and the mafia kill someone. Everyone wakes up and then we decide who must be guilty. This continues round after round until either the “townspeople” win or the “mafia” win.

Last night in the final round, it was down to Ariel, Tim, and me. I wasn’t a Mafioso so it had to be Tim or Ariel. Tim argued why he wasn’t the mafia. Then Ariel mouthed, “It’s not me, Mom.” I voted against Tim. I lost. Ariel won. Incredulously, I said, “Ar, you lied to me.” She said, “Mom, I played you.”

Normally, my mafia/organized crime instincts are much better; after all, I’ve come into contact with them a couple of times. Okay, I haven’t actually met them (I don’t think), I’ve just come into contact with their money laundering schemes. The first time was in Santa Cruz. Cal and I found this wonderful Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of the city. The first hint should have been the two-way mirrors all over the restaurant. The second hint was when my dear friend (an immigrant to the US who happens to be Chinese) was visiting, we took her there. On the way she said, “Um, I don’t like to eat Chinese food in the US. It’s not very good.” We assured her this would be different. She smiled, politely.

After she tasted the food, she said, “This is amazing. This is authentic. But, it’s so strange because the prices are so cheap—you can’t buy the food for what they’re charging.” On a side note. We asked Ling why the waitresses, who didn’t speak a word of English—when you ordered you just pointed to things on the menu, always rubbed Matthew’s head whenever they walked by the table. Ling smiled. “You have three boys. That’s incredibly good luck—they hope by touching it will rub off on them.” Ariel was duly insulted.) At any rate, the second indication of crime ties was when the ATF shut down the restaurant for one weekend. A small article in a newspaper told us that the restaurant was “the money laundering arm of the biggest gun running operation from China to the US.” Within two days the restaurant was up and running. Why? Walls full of photos of the owner with politicians, including Bill Clinton, seemed to answer that question. Did we continue going? Absolutely. However, Cal couldn’t help but order “gun pow” chicken every time we went. I kicked him under the table and hissed that the restaurant was probably under surveillance. He laughed.

Our second experience was with a wonderful restaurant in New Haven. Imagine a small restaurant whose walls are covered in original art work, where the wait staff only serves a table or two per person, and you get bread, bowls of home-cured olives, salad, tournados of beef tenderloin in Roquefort sauce, etc., and the bill is under $20 (we did have a coupon). Yes, you read that right—under $20. The first time we visited we thought that the restaurant must be going out of business. But, no, we could always find a coupon and the food was always five star quality. We couldn’t figure it out until various politicians were arrested for kickbacks to the mob, etc. In the seven years we were in Connecticut, one governor, two or three mayors, and assorted other politicians all went to jail for “mob relationships.” Right before we moved to Chattanooga, we went to the restaurant one last time.

We have yet to find a money laundering restaurant in Chattanooga. Consequently, we’re not eating out very much. Maybe someone could start a mob venture down here. I like cheap food.

Food Fixation

My children are extremely tired of cabbage. Although, in all fairness, I don’t serve it too often. But they’re tired of seeing a big bag of shredded cabbage in the refrigerator along with a massive container of cottage cheese. You see, I’m in the midst of a food fixation. Currently, I crave cabbage and cottage cheese for snacks—not together. I did try it once. It wasn’t pretty, or tasty.

I realize most people crave ice cream or cookies or salt and vinegar potato chips (actually, I crave those too, but I don’t buy the chips because my lips will shrivel up before I can stop). Before these current obsessions, I had a thing for Greek yogurt, which is basically plain yogurt mixed with white wine vinegar, garlic, salt, and pepper. It was delicious. But Calvin complained that it smelled like a men’s locker room. And since I used to eat it in bed while we watched movies...anyway, I had to find a new food love. Enter cottage cheese. In my defense, this isn’t your ordinary cottage cheese. This is the Olympus of cottages cheeses, mildly flavored with the velvety texture of ricotta.

Currently, cottage cheese is pushing the cabbage out. Apparently, cabbage with balsamic vinaigrette smells just like a 19 year old boy’s athletic sock. (Do you sense a theme here? I do.) I have to admit that these food obsessions aren’t new, nor did they start with pregnancy. According to a reliable source (my mom), as a child I was taken to the pediatrician because my skin had turned orange. Why? Too much beta carotene. I had a carrot fixation. Speaking of carrots, I need something to replace the cabbage...

BTW, I'd love to hear comments about any of your food fixations, especially if they're odd.

Newtonian Physics

According to Newton, and I believe him, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” My intellectual mind knows this, but my practical, day-to-day mind forgets.

The other day I was making a massive pot of “creamy black bean soup.” Some for us, and some for a family in the church that just had a baby. Everything was going swimmingly. The onions and garlic were browned in olive oil, the chicken broth had been added, and the corn, the chilis, tomatoes, spices, etc. But, I still needed to add the beans. The first two cans were opened, and their contents were added to the simmering pot. The third can proved more stubborn. The pull-top that was supposed to open the can pulled off. Without even breaking the seal.

At this point, a mind that was functioning on an intellectual plain would remember Newton’s first law. But, that was not my brain. Instead, I grabbed a wooden spoon and pounded on the can with the end of the handle. Nothing happened. I pounded more. Still nothing happened. The can didn’t even appear dented.

Clearly, all that was needed was harder pounding. So, I pounded hard. The handle of the spoon forced its way into the can along with a good portion of the lid. And since the contents of the can decided to obey Newton’s First Law, I was covered with seasoned black beans. Bean juice was in my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth (it actually tasted quite good). Bean juice soaked my clothes and I shivered. Beans and juice covered the floor—the dog pushed me out of the way so she could eat it before I could find a sponge.

For the second time this month, I’ve gotten a food facial. My skin better start looking really good. Either that or I need to figure out how to get the smart part of my brain to talk to the dumb part.

Without Words, Almost

Although I am a “word person,” I will admit there are times when words fail. Times when in desperation to describe something I break out my Roget’s and come away empty. Tonight’s dinner was one of those times.

This morning I went early to Sam’s Club (if you go early Monday morning the meat that didn’t sell over the weekend goes on sale—and I can buy meat I otherwise couldn’t afford) and found a fantastic beef roast.

This afternoon I rubbed it with a spice mixture I found on an “Emeril” website, which is nothing like Emeril’s rub because I had the serendipitous experience of not having some of the required ingredients and that made it perfect—a rub that enhances the meat without overpowering the essential flavors. While I slow roasted the meat, I made a creamed horseradish sauce (yes, I grated the horseradish root while my eyes watered), which came from a recipe book with recipes dated from the times of the American Revolution (or if you’re British, Colonial Rebellion). And before you ask, the horseradish root didn’t have mold yet—next time. (see Mold ) I also served perfect beans—long, thin beans barely heated through with butter, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Because we were having Rebellion Roast I had to make Yorkshire pudding, which absorbs the meat juices and the spilled rub. YUM. To cleanse the palate between bites was a lovely Italian red table wine. (Thank you, Darren and Maggie!)

I could say the meal was delicious, delectable, or even divine (excuse the “D” thing), but none of that will suffice. It was as good as food gets. A feast. A promise of something that we rarely experience in this life.

Where’s All the Food Going?

Things they are a’changin’. For years now, Luke has always had a second meal around 10 pm. He goes to the refrigerator and collects a plate full of dinner leftovers, reheats and eats. On occasion, when there aren’t any leftovers he makes a pan full of scrambled eggs or several PB&J sandwiches. There have been more and more of these leftover-less nights, but Luke hadn’t noticed this yet. It appeared to be a random glitch in the system.

Then the other night, Luke came to me. He was incensed that he couldn’t find the leftovers because he knew there were leftovers. (NB: “incensed” means Luke’s eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl.) I explained that Jacob beat him to leftover fajitas.

Luke’s eyebrows now rose, and his forehead furrowed. How come Jacob ate his food? What Luke has failed to notice is that Jacob has now entered the bottomless-pit-I’ll-eat-butter-if-I-need-to phase of life. This is why we’ve had the glitch in the leftover area.

I’m wondering what will happen next. Will Luke move his fourth meal to 8:55 (Jacob has his fourth meal at 9 pm)? Will both boys decide to gorge themselves at dinnertime? And what happens when Matt joins the fray? Join us next time for: “Food hording at the Kellers.”

Post Scriptum: For those of you wondering, I’m almost done with re-re-re-editing my YA novel. Sadly, this means I have piles of ironing to do, not to mention the Regency gown that’s giving me nightmares.

Killer Salsa

I love Mexican food. Not Taco Bell. Not the frozen taquitos that you can buy in bulk at Sam’s Club. Not the lard-infused, deep-fried (not that I have anything against greasy food necessarily) Mexi-slop that you get at some dives that masquerade as real Mexican restaurants. But the honest to goodness, fresh, texture-taste layered food that I adore.

When we lived in San Diego, you could get the most delectable swordfish tacos—the fish was firm yet tender with a hint of charcoal and lime. (Okay, I’ve mentioned it before so I'll move on.) But here in Chattanooga, we struggled to get good Mexican food. Until we found a place near the mall called El Meson. Mall-area restaurants tend to suck. But we tried it anyway. They made their own tortillas, always a good sign. The food wasn’t bad, but it was Southern-American Mexican food, i.e. mildly spicy enchiladas, tacos, and burritos. Boring. We noticed a lot of Hispanic people in the restaurant, but they all ate in a different section. Cal said, “I bet they have a different menu.”

The next time we went, Cal met the manager. He and Cal lived up near the same place in California. Then, we got a Hispanic waitress who didn’t speak much English. And I asked her, “What do you recommend?” She asked, "You like spicy?" I said, “Of course, we’re from San Diego area—we’ve spent time in Tijuana.” She pointed to Jalisco Shrimp Enchiladas. I ordered it. (Cal ordered something else.) I took one bite (imagine the flavor of luscious shrimp, jalapeños, and fresh veggies—wrapped in a warm tortilla and covered with melted cheese and what I think was a tomatillo sauce) and knew I’d found real Mexican food. I gave Cal a bite. Euphoria. His fork hovered over my food.
Me: “No way.” I pulled my plate out of reach. “Eat your own dinner.”
Cal: “But you always get the good food when we go out for dinner.”
Me: “Yeah, because I always ask the waitress what she likes.”
Cal: “You can have a bite of mine.
Me: “I don’t want yours.”
Cal: “Yeah. It’s not as good as yours.”
Me: “Duh... How about if I give you my leftovers?”
Cal: “Okay.”

The only thing they don’t have is killer salsa. They served two kinds, which were okay—once again Southern-American inspired stuff. Although I did spy a leaf of cilantro, but alas it was the only one. I have a peculiar palate for salsa. It’s got to be fresh with herbs, spices, and freshly chopped cilantro and diced onions. And it’s got to have jalapenos. It should leave a nice sizzle on your tongue. I make homemade salsa every Saturday for taco night at our house. And I make it for College Mafia Night (aka Prayer and Fellowship Time). Once I tried to make something else—there was much groaning and gnashing of teeth among the college students, especially those hailing from California. Never again have I forgotten the Killer Salsa—otherwise I’m sure I’ll be the first one killed off in Mafia. “Mrs. Keller was killed during the night by irate college students who didn’t get their salsa fix!”

Mason-Dixon Food

Three years ago if you asked my children “What are greens?” They would have stared at you and said, “You mean like pea green or sea foam green?” Okay, only Ariel would have known that sea foam green is a color, but you get what I’m trying to say. My kids were Northern children and would have had no idea that you were asking them about food. If you made it clear to them that it was a vegetable discussion, they might have come up with broccoli, asparagus, cabbage, lettuce, and maybe even bok choy. But that would have been it.

One of our trips to Walmart brought it home to me.

Keller child, pointing to vegetable bin: Mom, what’s that?
Me, reading bin label: Mustard greens.
Keller kid, pointing to another bin: And that?
Me: Uh, Collard greens
Keller kid: And those weird things?
Me: Well, it looks sort of like kale, but the bin says “turnip greens.”
Keller kid: So, people actually eat that?
Me: Apparently.
Keller kid: In a salad?
Me: No, they cook them
Keller kid: Why?
Me: (shrug)
Keller kid: What do they taste like?
Me: No earthly idea.
Keller kid: They look gross.
Me: Yep—another reason to be thankful you eat at our house.

In our home, we tend to eat things that aren’t leftover when the plant has already been harvested for something else like turnips or mustard. (Though in all honesty, I don’t really know that mustard greens are what’s left over when you harvest mustard seeds.) But it seems like a good excuse to me.

The rest of the kids came in contact with “greens” when the church was collecting food for poor families in the neighborhood. Big baskets were left on a table at church, and members contributed to the baskets. My children were looking through the baskets and came across big cans of “greens.”

Keller kid, holding up a can of greens (not the one who accompanied me to Walmart): What is this?
Me: Greens.
KK: People eat this stuff?
Me: Some people.
KK: I thought you always said we were supposed to give the best of what we had to the Lord, instead of the stuff we wanted to get rid of.
(At this point a Southern church member gets involved.)
Church member: Honey, haven’t you ever had greens before?
KK: No.
Church member: Connie, you’ve had greens before, right?
Me: Nope.
Church Member: They’re delicious.
Me and KK, trying to humor obviously crazed church member: Really?
Church member: Yes.
Me: I think we’ll be sticking to salad and corn with our turkey.
Church member, feeling sorry for my deprived family: Oh.

I also don’t do yams/sweet potatoes/rutabagas/black-eyed peas. I have been known to eat hush puppies and lacey corn bread—but that’s the whole fat, flour, salt thing. Some people have tried to convince me that greens are cooked in fat, salt, etc., but I’m not buying it. I’ll stick to bok choy with green curry sauce.

Mold, the Way It Was Meant to Be

What is it about salt, fat, and flour? Why is that so yummy? Why can’t beets, or spinach or even cauliflower taste like that?

Last night I made a roast (I got one on sale last week). I coated it with a spice rub and served it with Yorkshire pudding and a homemade horseradish sauce. Okay, I made peas too—you gotta have a vegetable. But I didn’t eat any, just cut me another piece of Yorkshire pudding (it’s flour, salt, eggs, and milk baked in roast drippings) and serve me another dollop of horseradish sauce.

The horseradish sauce is made from sour cream, lemon juice, paprika, salt, and freshly grated horseradish. Of course, I didn’t tell my daughter that I had to scrape off mold before I could peel the horseradish until after she’d eaten it. Deceptive? Not really—I just didn’t want her prejudices getting in the way. And I think the experience confirms what my French friend Suzie says. This is a vague quote since I can’t remember her exact words, which I’m sure would sound even better in French: “If you don’t have to scrape the mold off something for the meal, it’s probably not worth eating.”

After Ariel found out that mold was involved with the meal, she became philosophical. She doesn’t quite agree with Suzie’s assessment, but she was willing to admit that mold probably wouldn’t deign to grow on American cheese or bologna, which Ariel believes are food scourges on the country. I agree.

Maybe we could start a Ban the Bologna protest, or hold an Ax American Cheese demonstration. Though I’d probably alienate most children, and then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of introducing them to mold. Come to the Kellers and experience mold the way it was created to be enjoyed. Yum.

Culinary Possibilities

Hank the ham debuted at Christmas dinner. Luke made the most apropos comment. He said, “This is great” and then ate for twenty minutes without saying a word. So, I guess we’ll be doing country ham again. Even the very weird “glaze,” which consisted of brown sugar, pepper, and corn meal (yes, cornmeal), was delicious. After the meal was over and I was safely in the kitchen where no one could see me (after all, to be in the kitchen means you will surely get stuck washing and drying china and silver, so on one goes there on purpose), I picked glaze off the leftover ham—it was that good. And I had it all to myself.

But there are other treats to be had in the Keller home. One needs simply to be open-minded towards culinary possibilities. For example, Jezebel likes to eat caladium. I had a lovely green and red caladium plant in front of the floor-length arched window of the living room. Jez ate it. Every beautiful leaf of it. I checked to make sure it wasn’t poisonous. It’s not. It just has an acid that burns the skin, especially the tender skin of the mouth. Apparently, Jezebel doesn’t care. Must be a masochistic streak in her.

The kids jumped to her defense and explained the Jezebel just destroyed the plant in order to better see out the window so she can keep watch for the Pomeranian devil. Maybe. So, I cut her some slack on that. After all, she was trying to protect us from the foofy incarnation of faux canine evil. That held water until she decided to eat my amaryllis. The amaryllis wasn’t in her way. And it wasn’t even tempting—they were just dry bulbs that I was trying to force to bloom. But I found her gnawing on the tiny buds of leaves coming out of the bulbs.

After a severe reprimand, she looked positively repentant. Until, Sunday when I was taking a nap. She must have snuck into the room using her infamous army crawl and made a beeline to the plant. Anyway, now I have to decide whether to put the bulbs out of their misery. I think it’s clear she has a thing for plants. I can live with that to a certain extent. But there are plants, and there are orchids. And if Jezebel ever even sniffs one of my orchids…

Hank the Ham, not the cow dog

At every holiday I try to cook something special. At Easter I make a roast leg of lamb. On Thanksgiving I cook a turkey. And on Christmas I normally cook duck. But this year we decided that duck was a little too pricy. So, I thought we’d do something regional. After all, we’ve lived in many places, and I’ve tried to learn regional cooking. When we lived near San Diego, Cal and I learned to love swordfish tacos (though it’s only recently that I found a “killer” recipe). When we lived in Little Saigon, Cal and I fell in love with lemon grass and mint. In Santa Cruz…well, vegetarian food isn’t quite our thing. Then in New England I learned how to make real New England clam chowder and Italian spaghetti (even if I learned by way of a Polish friend).

Now we’re in the South and I’ve seen all these “country hams.” So, I thought, “Hey, they’re cheaper than duck and they’re regional. Sounds like a great opportunity.” So, after researching it in the Joy of Cooking, we bought our first country ham, aka Tennessee ham or Kentucky ham. The first sign there might be a problem at home was when the children realized that it was sitting in the pantry. Ariel asked me why it didn’t need to be refrigerated. I explained that the ham had been smoked, brined, and salted. Unfortunately, that made her curious, and she found the recipes I was considering.

Her first question was: “What does this mean ‘Scrape off any mold’?!! Are you going to cook and feed us something that grows mold on the outside!?!” I explained that mold itself wasn’t the issue; she ate mold all the time when she ate cheese. In no uncertain terms, she explained that cheese was completely different and irrelevant to the discussion. I told her to trust me—I got a raised eyebrow in return.

So, for the last two days we’ve been soaking and scraping our country ham, which releases the excess salt from the meat. And every 12 hours I change the water that “Hank” is soaking in. When Ariel heard me call the ham “Hank,” she was very disturbed. I can’t imagine why—it’s not like I called him “Wilbur” or some porcine name with literary implications. But she said, “How can you name our food?” I countered, “I always call the turkey, ‘Tomas.’” Apparently, that’s different.
At any rate, Hank is now 12 hours away from his date with my cooking pot. Cal and I are salivating at every whiff of smoked pork, and Ariel walks around the house muttering imprecations and murmuring words that sound like “food poisoning.”

p.s. If you've never read Hank the Cow Dog, you absolutely must. The audio books are great, even better than the books because the author sings the most hilarious songs (my personal favorite is "When Sally Mae comes with her Broom."). I know HCD are supposed to be "little kid stories," but these audio books are listened to surreptitiously by all the teens in our home, not to mention the pre-teen. Bunnicula is also fantastic.

36 Eggs

How many days does it take a family of six to use 36 eggs? I remember days when I’d buy a dozen eggs, and they’d last forever. Eventually, I graduated to buying 36 eggs because they were cheaper that way and we had four kids so we’d eat them before they went bad. But, now…how long does 36 eggs last? Assume for this task that no one breaks any eggs or feeds them to the dog, or bakes for a get together. Take into account that I don’t make eggs for the family breakfast. How long would they last? Would you guess three weeks? Or maybe two weeks? How about even one week? Those guesses would all be wrong. 36 eggs lasted 4 ½ days. Yes, that’s 60 hours! That’s more than one egg every two hours. Maybe we should buy chickens—but that would take a lot of chickens. Well, at least eggs are cheap protein…don’t even get me started on how much milk Luke and Jacob can drink in a week.