Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail

or, How I Confirmed I'm Still Rebelling After All This Time.

I finally summoned the strength and courage to return to the Den of Iniquity kitchen. The blueberry jam sessions and subsequent jelly sessions went a long way toward boosting my confidence that I can, in fact, handle cooking while pregnant. At least this trimester. Then I also washed, par-boiled, and froze 20 bags of pink-eyed, purple-hull peas. And I want to make and can many pints of the base for butternut squash soup.

I clambered into bed Sunday night with a glimmer of a plan to make breakfast for Burgundy on her first day of school. Let me explain something to the world about having an independent, easy-going, joy-filled teenager. Sometimes, it's too easy. I have never, ever been the get-up-and-make-breakfast mom. Ever. And she has never complained. Just asked me to buy another box of cereal.

Monday morning the alarm went off at 5:30, and I clambered out of the bed, caught a quick shower, and made my way to the kitchen. I threw five strips of bacon into one of my skillets and two slices of bread into the decrepit little toaster I've had for at least a decade. While I waited for the bacon sizzle to start, I found a pancake recipe online and started mixing the batter.

Halfway through the batter, I flipped the bacon and set aside the last three eggs in the refrigerator to be fried and scrambled. I added the melted butter to the batter, beat it in with a fork, the thick sludge oozing around the fork while I smashed flour lumps against the side of the bowl until I had a nice, consistent goop.

I flipped the bacon again and gathered my salt and pepper. I folded a paper towel in half and scooped the bacon into it, setting it onto a plate on the opposite counter and hoping enough grease would drain to assuage my guilt. I cracked the first egg into the still-spattering bacon grease and quickly sprinkled a smidge of salt over the top. I ground a little pepper over that and let it fry while I washed out the eggshell and threw it into the oatmeal box I converted into a holder for eggshells (Mark likes to spread them in the garden).

I flipped the egg, grabbed another paper towel and folded it, then slipped the egg onto it and laid it next to the bacon to drain. I did the same for the second egg and breathed a little easier knowing I still had 30 minutes to clean the skillet of bacon grease, melt some butter, and scramble an egg for my vegetarian daughter's breakfast.

While the second egg fried on side one, I broke the third egg into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and I beat it frenetically. I hate half-beaten scrambled eggs. Gross. Flipped the second egg, whipped the pancake batter, set egg number 2 to drain with number 1 and the bacon, and poured the bacon grease into a dirty pot to cool for the trash. Used yet another paper towel to wipe out the skillet, threw in a dollop of butter, and after a final quick thrashing, poured in the final egg. It took about 32 seconds to cook.

After that I spent what felt like hours at the tedious task of pouring, flipping, and scooping out pancakes. By 6:15, we all were seated at the kitchen table for one of our few real breakfast meals ever as a family. I said a prayer, and we dove into our food with the reckless abandon of a family that eats out too often.

The pancakes lasted through Tuesday, and I made more bacon and eggs to go with them.

Please excuse the crappy, cell-phone
quality photo. I wanted to eat, not take
photos, so this was my compromise.

Oh, the quiche. I don't know how to tell you what a lovely, wonderful cook and writer is Julia Child. Her quiche "base" recipe is so perfectly simple and elegant; it cooks perfectly every single time I've ever made it. Tuesday evening I also undertook to make her pie crust for the first time. If it's possible, I didn't keep it cold enough. Next time I will freeze the butter, flour and shortening for a little while before I make it, and I'll use ice water instead of just the cold refrigerator water.  I had a hard time getting the dough rolled out to a consistent, thin thickness. Anyway, the quiche rose high and serene from the gorgeous pie crust, standing like a tower of princess eggs over her realm. We ate half for dinner Tuesday night, and I forbade Mark to touch it again before morning, when we shared the remainders for breakfast with bacon and toast liberally smeared with butter and homemade blueberry jelly.

Inspired by my incredibly repeatable success with her quiche recipe, I decided to try her recipe for fish poached in white wine and baked in a sauce mornay made with swiss cheese. I served it with bow-tie pasta served with very slightly wilted spinach all mixed up with the liberal amount of leftover sauce mornay from the fish.

Today I served breakfast for the fourth day in a row, bacon, eggs and toast - an English muffin each for me and Burgundy - and Burgundy tentatively remarked that she felt so much better at school for having eaten a good breakfast. Normally I will take a grateful, loving remark like that and turn it into a reason to beat myself up for the 14 years of breakfast opportunities lost. Not today, though. Today I will use it to say, "Well done, Mel. You're a good mom Right Now." Even though I employ random capitalization for emphasis, unnecessarily provoking the wrath of the Minor God of Anal Grammarians.

Tonight the main dish is spaghetti and meatballs so I can focus on doing something evil and delicious with the box of fresh brussels sprouts in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure it will involve the last of the white wine from yesterday's adventure, some garlic, and a number of fresh herbs from Mark's garden. I feel such delight and joy to be back in the kitchen.

So you wonder what this has to do me being rebellious? It's this: I took one look at today's topic and thought, "What? Food. That's dumb. I don't want to write about what I ate. I want to write about what I've been doing in the kitchen." *headdesk*

Dog Barf

Mark got himself in trouble a couple of weeks ago.

I tried a new recipe: pasta with arugula and parsley cream sauce.

Now I like arugula in salads, so I thought, "Hey, why not be adventurous?" I am a fool.

First, in accordance with the recipe, I went outside and picked a handful of Mark's arugula. Now the recipe called for a bunch, so I felt that with only 5 or so leaves, I was really skimping. It also called for four sprigs of parsley, so I dutifully picked those as well.

Back inside, I washed and dried each leaf, then chopped them up fine and put them in the blender. I put in a cup of my precious homemade sour cream and another 1/3 cup of goat and feta cheeses and pureed it all together for a nice, springy, Easter green sauce. I have to admit: it smelled funny, but I decided to trust my sense of adventure. "It smells woodsy and earthy," I told myself.

I boiled the pasta, thinking, "Oh boy, this is going to be gourmet." (Note to self: If you start having delusions of gourmet about a given dish, it might be best just to throw it out preemptively.) I drained the pasta and sprayed it with cold water. One of my nicest serving bowls appeared perfect to showcase this spring green pasta wizardry: two-tone cornflower and sky blue, and set the table. Congratulated myself on getting adventurous in the kitchen, on feeding healthful food to my family, and on using the food in our garden. I poured the "earthy" sauce onto the pasta and mixed it together in that beautiful blue bowl.

Burgundy came into the kitchen; I speared a piece of pasta and said, "Taste it!" with a big grin. Burgundy grinned back; she's learned to trust my cooking. After all, how many times have I said, "I know! It sounds awful, but just try it." Without trusting me, she'd never have had buttermilk pie. Zucchini bread. Peanut butter and honey.  I held the fork between us, smiling happily, flush with the accomplishment of a new dish, fresh from our yard and my labors. She sniffed the fusilli and immediately, involuntarily assumed her Careful Face. "I know," I said. "It smells funny; just try it."

Ever the obedient child, Burgundy opened her mouth and gingerly took the fusilli from the fork. Her eyes widened, her head tilted to one side, then the other. The Careful Face prevented me from determining whether these were signs of surprised delight or surprised disgust. I decided to walk the line: "It's not bad, is it?" She shook her head and swallowed. "See? It's maybe not something I'd make again; I mean, it's not delicious, but it's a passable meal." Her sweet smile and affirmative nod, eyes still wide, should have told me everything. Unfortunately, I lay in the grips of my own inflated ego. I ate another piece myself and waggled my eyebrows. Burgundy excused herself to do algebra. Another clue.

About that time, Mark came home from work. Sauntered in, smiling innocently, and kissed my cheek. "What's for dinner?" I grinned and told him about my awesome arugula-sour cream-goat-cheese-and-feta pasta. "Arugula?" he said timidly?

"Yeah, smell!" I said, and thrust the bowl under his nose. He inhaled deeply, recoiled sharply, and didn't even try to hide his disgust. Count on Mark for honesty. "I know, It smells funny, but it really tastes okay, honest!" Unfortunately, Mark trusts me in the kitchen as much as Burgundy does, and I still suffered under my delusions of culinary grandeur. "Here, try it," I said, holding out another lone noodle on the end of the fork. He looked at me, looked at the fork.

"Um." He looked back at me and sniffed the concoction again. "Well, there's always Casa Ole." Casa Ole is our go-to crap food. Everything is smothered in cheese, lard, and corn syrup. It's awful and awesome and a threat and fun. He leaned forward, took the fusilli between his teeth, and pulled it into his mouth. I waited; he chewed. Swallowed. "Hmm," he said, looking at my hopeful face, "uh, how about Casa Ole tonight?"

I admitted defeat. Suddenly I knew the dish really was that bad, and I had tormented my child and my own stomach in hopes of its salvation. Burgundy, who'd come back in to watch Mark taste it, heaved a long sigh of relief and punctuated it with, "Oh thank God." I suppressed a self-conscious giggle, and we all prepared to leave.

I know. If you're still reading, you're wondering why Mark would be in trouble. Well, honestly, at that point he wasn't. He simply told the truth, and I know the food really was that bad. It's what happened next that really has him in the doghouse.

While Burgundy got ready to leave, I looked at the bowl full of expensive sour cream and cheeses and pasta and said, "God I hate for this to go to waste."

Mark nodded and said, "Mm, yeah. Cost a lot?"

"Just the cheeses and sour cream, but yeah." We both looked mournfully at dinner's lost cause. "I bet the dog would eat it."

Mark looked at me a fraction of a second too long, and then said, "Uh, do you really think he'll want that?" He placed just a little too much emphasis on 'want that'.

"Only one way to find out," I said, and I place the bowl on the floor. Soren immediately began inhaling the green, smelly pasta without even a hint of hesitation. I turned to Mark in triumph. "See? Not a total waste."

Mark looked from me to the dog, who paused to hork a fusilli spiral out of his lungs and transfer it to his stomach. Soren looked up at us warily, as if we might try to take this miracle of deliciousness from him. He bent his head back to the bowl, now half empty.

"Maybe," Mark said, not weighing his words, not considering the punishment he would earn or his impending immortality on this blog, "Maybe we should put him outside on the patio in case he barfs it all up."

Ice Cream

I hate that I'm posting so sporadically. I'm beset by a pretty harsh apathy lately; I think it's the result of coming home to This Mundane Life after the week of vacation. I've resisted laundry, wanted only to nap in the afternoons and sleep in every morning, and I hope against hope that my love of the kitchen will snap me out of it.

Tonight I marshaled my resources for a second attempt at strawberry ice cream.  Last night's attempts ended in failure when I didn't read the directions carefully enough. I ended up with an expensive, lumpy mess that noone would eat. I fed it to the dog.

Tonight I started over. I had to supplement the cream with some from Kroger; I knew my cream was richer, yellower, and generally better, but it was like looking at the difference between an egg white and an egg yolk.

That's how I feel lately about all the foodstuff in the grocery store. It feels like our Science and Sanitation culture has taken over, and everything should be Properly Sanitized, Whitened, Homogenized. All the eggs in a carton must be brown or white. None of the beautiful blue-green ones I get from my coworker. The cream - heavy cream - was thin, white, and tasteless. I'm bummed that I had to use it in my ice cream.

I won't go off on that rant though. We've been doing pretty well with our home eating. We're still working on the chicken that I roasted Sunday morning with carrots and potatoes and served with the leeks, kale, and mustards. Monday we had black bean burritos, and for lunch, Burgundy and I had the leftover kale/mustard concoction. Last night, I made leek and potato soup, and tonight we had salad (Mark bartered some of his garden herbs for two lettuces on Saturday) and black bean burritos. Mark and I added chicken to ours.

I invited my family over for Easter, but I don't know whether they'll come over or not. Mom said something about going somewhere with Dad for the three-day weekend. I want to try boeuf bourgignon again, this time with the dog firmly locked in his kennel.

The timer's just gone off, telling me I should check in again on my ice cream. I still had 5 pounds of strawberries left, so I've been eating them with my granola. Last night I pureed and strained a couple of pints of them, and tonight I took my second stab at adapting the recipe for raspberry ice cream from Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Fruits. Lord, please let it be good.

This Week, I Want to be a Chef When I Grow Up

Holy cow, how did I make it to Wednesday without posting? Clearly, this isn't my day job.

We made good time on the trip home from Hill Country. We stopped outside of Schulenberg at Stryk's Dairy for more raw milk. I found cream and buttermilk, too, so I'm delighted about that. I have a little under a gallon and a half of raw milk, plus a half-gallon of buttermilk and a quart of cream. I have been waiting a while to pick up enough extra milk to process into cream cheese and yogurt. I'm not sure what to do with the buttermilk. I honestly picked it up mostly because it was $3 for a half-gallon, and I figured I could find something to do with it, even if I just used it for pies.

So if the world out there has any good buttermilk recipes, let me know!

While on vacation, I also picked up a small pasta machine and a frittata pan set. I made a frittata Sunday night using onions and red and green peppers we had in the refrigerator along with parsley, basil, chives, and marjoram from Mark's garden, and I augmented the eggs with a bit of the abundance of raw milk in our refrigerator.

I made another frittata last night, this time attempting to use up some of the kale that my friend Hannah picked up for us at the farmer's market. It's in season right now along with mustards, leeks, brussels sprouts, and lots of other noms. Eighty cents for a HUGE bunch of kale. Anyway, I made the frittata with onions, garlic, marjoram, and some of Stryk's local cheddar cheese. I wanted to add another local, small dairy's goat cheese to it, but it's a spreading more than crumbling cheese, so I left it out.

Tonight I want to use the pasta machine. I figure I'll master the "art" of pasta making using the called-for unbleached all purpose flour first, and once I have it down, I'll begin the trial and error process of converting to my self-ground whole wheat flour. I'll get there, slowly but surely.

Anybody want to guess what book I'm reading right now?

I Love Saturday Morning

To begin with, I have nowhere to run. I can make a leisurely breakfast, or I can reheat soup and make cupcakes. I can sit and type, or I can do several loads of dishes. The coffee tastes better. The counters look cleaner. Whatever I do, my progress is of my own choosing, and I feel happy, like Mark's plant, reaching joyfully for the sun.

This morning I made the cupcakes for Burgundy's party tonight, and Burgundy spent a few minutes putting away her books, bags, and props for yesterday's science fair. We really did have soup for breakfast, too.

Last night I made white bean and kale soup with kale I'd bought at the Houston Farmers' Market last Tuesday with Hannah. The recipe, from the absolute must-have book Greens Glorious Greens, is incredibly simple and wonderfully tasty. I omitted the three cups of butternut squash and added extra kale and an extra can of beans. I love butternut squash as much as the next gal, I promise, but I didn't have any on hand and didn't want to leave the house in pursuit of it; not to mention that I'd then have to use the rest of the squash on something. It called for about half a squash. Regardless, it was delicious and fairly intuitive.

Basically, saute onions in olive oil until they're translucent. Add garlic, curry, and cumin and saute for a minute or two longer. Add the beans, reserved bean "stock" plus vegetable stock, fresh marjoram or basil (I used marjoram because it has taken over Mark's garden, choking out everything else he wants to grow including the basil), butternut squash (I think you could also use potatoes or sweet potatoes), and cook it for about 10 minutes. Add the kale and cook an additional 10 minutes.

Honestly, it's a little too late in the year for such a hearty soup, but it tasted so good. Ironically, it felt a little sinful because it was so rich. I suspect my experience has more to do with my body's absolute craving for the nutrients in kale than with the actual taste of the soup. I found myself daydreaming about fish tacos with lightly steamed kale yesterday. I'm sure the family is glad I went for soup instead.

And another recipe. This one is all mine, so I can give you the exact amounts and tell you just how I make it. Except that as with any "all mine" recipe, it's a little bit of whatever I have on hand at the time.

Lentil soup is our go-to meal. Very seriously, this is one of the most important staples of our diet. I rather suspect that kale or mustards would make a really good addition as a throw-in ingredient, so if they're in season where you are, give it a shot and let me know what you think.

Lentil Soup

• 1 onion
• Olive oil (I just pour until it looks right. Don't skimp though! I was stunned at the difference it made the first time I used all the oil a recipe called for.)
• Garlic (1-2 cloves depending on mood, body odor concerns, and general household health)
• Cumin
• Parsley
• Marjoram
• Oregano
• Rosemary
• Curry (I've never added this before, but it was amazing in the soup last night, so I'm definitely trying it next time)
• 5 - 7 Carrots, peeled and roughly sliced. 
• About a pound of lentils - I buy 25 pounds of lentils at a time, and I don't measure a pound every time I need one. Instead, I have one of those 16 oz plastic Dixie cups that holds just shy of 1 pound of lentils. So I pour one full Dixie cup of lentils into the pot.
• Chicken or vegetable stock - maybe 6 - 8 cups depending; I eyeball it. I measure 8 cups of water, pour it in until the lentils and veggies are swimming, and figure out how much I added based on how much is left. Then I add the appropriate amount of powdered bouillon.

Saute the onion in the olive oil until it's translucent. Add the garlic and whatever other herbs/spices you want to use and saute another minute or so. Whatever you do, don't go buy a bunch of those spices if you weren't going to use them anyway. I almost never use everything I listed up there. Sometimes it doesn't even get garlic. Just throw in whatever you have. That's just how this soup rolls. A hint: if you're using fresh herbs, don't saute them now. Throw them in with the lentils, water and carrots.

Pour in a bit of the water/stock and use it to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Add the carrots and lentils and pour in the rest of the water/stock (add the bouillon now if you're doing that instead of true stock). Bring to a boil, cover, reduce heat, and simmer until the lentils are tender. Serve over brown rice or over boiled potatoes. Honestly, the brown rice probably is better, and I haven't had it over boiled potatoes. It's just an idea I've had floating around.

This also could be good with leeks (I'd saute them with or instead of the onions and according to my dad, I should omit the garlic), with various dark leafy greens, and it might be good to try the squash or sweet potatoes instead of the carrots. I also occasionally throw in diced tomatoes with the lentils and water if I happen to have a can in the pantry or if I have a couple in the fridge that are about to go bad.

Lentils are incredibly forgiving, so use this as a base recipe and try anything. Let me know what you try and whether it works!

Finally, Mark attacked the back yard this morning and it looks so good. 

As a bonus, we found wild mustard greens growing out there! How exciting is that! Can't wait to serve 'em up with some sauteed leeks and white wine. Yum!

If 2 Days Slip Away, are the Days Slipping?

Or am I avoiding? I rather strongly suspect I'm avoiding. On the other hand, Burgundy didn't get home until nearly 8:00 PM last night what with set up for her science fair. I had my hands tied up in cake batter and Portuguese custard tarts when she came home. By the time she finished her tuba, shower, and getting ready for bed, I had finished the custards, cupcakes, and Swiss buttercream frosting (oh my God, die of rich, buttery, silken heaven right. now). Of course, when we finally sat down to evaluate whether she had all the information she needed to study for her 9-weeks exams that start two days after her return from spring break, it was 9:45 PM. Already 15 minutes late for lights out.

All day today, Burgundy will be at the Houston Science Fair; thus, I made cupcakes. I only made custard tarts because the Swiss buttercream frosting (oh my God, die of rich, buttery, silken heaven) required a cup of egg whites, and I didn't want the yolks to go to waste; the custard requires 6 yolks; the frosting took 7 whites. Match made in heaven. Oh, and wild kudos to Our Best Bites for the frosting and cupcake recipes.

Tonight I was supposed to meet up with some friends at another friend's new place to watch dumb movies, but the host begged off last night. Now I'm trying to decide whether to host it myself or just call the whole thing off. Love the idea of getting together, but I kinda want to be a homebody in advance of our trip to Hill Country.

And in ultimately crappy timing, my employer messed up my paycheck. It was an honest mistake; when they changed my status to be hourly instead of salaried, they calculated my pay based on half my annual part-time salary instead of half my annual full-time salary. The result was half a paycheck two days before we leave for Hill Country. Happily, we have no worries because we work it a la Dave, so we have an emergency fund that can handle the trouble. Meanwhile, the employer is plugging away at fixing the problem, and I should have my paycheck this time next week.

Good Weekend

Oh Saturday, I do love you. I slept until 8:30 this morning. Three decadent hours past my weekday wake time. And noone had to be anywhere until 10:00, so I spent a decadent hour making waffles the old fashioned way.

I do love waffles, especially with real butter and fresh, hot, real maple syrup.  Everyone else loved them too, and I put the leftovers in the freezer for the girls to toast and eat on school mornings for breakfast.



Burgundy's tutoring today at 10, and Mark and I need to build the apparatus for Burgundy's science fair project. It's due on January 20 (the project, not the apparatus).

Meanwhile, Houston's enjoying (ha!) a terrible cold snap, and Mark has rigged up some unused, icicle-style Christmas lights to save our gardens. He arranged the main lines of the lights around the inner perimeter of the garden, then pulled the icicles through the plants in the garden. The heat of the lights alone won't provide sufficient heat to save the plants, but when paired with the standard blankets-draped-over-the-garden approach, it's effectively a tiny tendril heater. Nice, isn't it?

 

Cooking

Lest I leave it out, Happy New Year! But this will not be a "kicking it off" post. More like a "catching it up" post.

I'm sitting alone in at 6:15 AM in my pajamas at the kitchen table. I have a cup of fresh-perked coffee and two slices of nicely buttered toast from bread I made last night. This moment could be my favorite part of adulthood. The quiet of the appliances unused, the scent of the bread and coffee, the absence of requests for my cell phone, a ride, a list of the weekends plans, or any other input leaves me feeling still and appreciative. I guess it winds my clock.

JB leaves today. It's been another good visit; he's earned some money, and we've gotten the house that much closer to being nice. I made a list yesterday, by hand, of all the things he's done, and it was nearly a full page long.

I hope Burgundy takes it better this time than the last two visits. He's not leaving on a whim or at the last minute. They've had a couple of days of anticipation to say goodbye. She has a very full evening today and won't be out of orchestra rehearsal and sectionals in time to come to the airport with us, so we'll take him up to the rehearsal and let her say goodbye there.

Her grade is improving steadily in Algebra II. She has a major test this week and semester exams next week, and she's only one point away from passing the class. If she does really well on both tests, she could conceivably pull it up to a C. Which means she gets to have her birthday party.

As for me, Sunday evening, Mark and I went to Borders downtown while Burgundy and her dad went to MFAH. Since watching Julie and Julia, I've been feeling the call of the kitchen, but not in a "I'll cook everything in her cookbook and blog about it way," I promise. You're safe from me.

Besides, Mastering the Art of French Cooking is incredibly expensive. The two-volume set is $90. I probably should have done some research, though, because I had no idea that Julia Child had so many books. I settled on The French Chef Cookbook, which catalogs the recipes used on all of her TV shows. I've skimmed through it, and I want to try several things right away: croquembouche (aka the the lactacting spider wasp cake from Cake Wrecks), Boeuf Bourguignon (naturally, it's both famous and made with Burgundy!), chocolate mousse, and a couple of other meat recipes.

Right now, I'd really like a chance to watch the old TV shows. I wonder if it's possible to buy them as a boxed set or something?

Alas, the family has invaded. Lunch had to be made, breakfast eaten, and school attended. I suppose that's my cue to pull myself out of the computer and get ready for work.

Another One?

I baked another turkey last night. I bought a 16-pound turkey for Thanksgiving, but it was too large for the smoker. And I didn't allow enough time for it to thaw. Wednesday evening, Mark went to Kroger and bought a 12-pound fresh turkey. The cost nearly choked me at $0.89/pound; I learned my lesson this year. Buy early, buy small, and thaw early.

Regardless, I had already started thawing the 16-pound turkey, so I couldn't just stick it back in the freezer. I planned to roast it Friday. By the time we finished tree shopping, I didn't care if the turkey did the chicken dance in the living room. Saturday we lazed - the only day we did last week - and I completely forgot the poor thing. Sunday we had a counseling session at the church that consumed all our attention. By last night when I pulled the turkey out of the fridge, Mark said, "Are you sure that's safe?"

Given that it wouldn't have completely thawed until Friday, I felt it was on the edge of safe, so I washed and prepped it, stuffed it with onion, garlic and celery, rubbed it with olive oil, and stuck it in the pre-heated oven. Just as I did that, Julia walked into the kitchen and said, "Another turkey? Why?"

It finished baking around 9:30 last night, and I enjoyed the most succulent, juicy turkey breast I've had in at least four days. I plan to pull the rest of the meat off the bone and freeze it for later meals. I'll use the carcass remnants to try my hand at turkey broth. The dark meat makes excellent enchiladas. Here's how:

Turkey Enchiladas

1 small onion chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, pressed
1/2 medium bell pepper chopped fine
1 T olive oil
1-2 cups dark turkey meat
1 can (2 cups) black beans drained
1/2 can (1 cup) corn drained
1 can (1.25 cups) enchilada sauce
8-12 corn tortillas (use wheat if you prefer)
To Taste:
cumin
chili powder
cayenne (red) pepper

Pre-heat oven to 350F.

Heat the olive oil over medium-high heat and saute onion, garlic, and bell pepper together until onions are translucent. Add turkey and stir together until turkey is warm (I usually just pull it out of the freezer and chop it without thawing, using the skillet for that job). Add beans and corn, stir. Add 1/2 enchilada sauce. Add cumin, chili powder and cayenne pepper to taste. There's enough sodium in the various ingredients that I feel safe promising you won't need salt.

Scoop the mixture into the tortillas and roll into a cylinder; don't bother trying to tuck the ends. Place seam-side down into a pan with sides. I like to use a casserole dish or one of my Pampered Chef casserole stones. You could use the crock pot a la Emily, too, but I've never tried it. Pour the remaining enchilada sauce over the top. If you really want cheese, sprinkle it over the top. Bake about 20 minutes.

Serve with salsa, sour cream, or whatever else you like. I like salsa best.

___________________________________________________________

 
I need to make more bread tonight. We ate the last four slices of the last loaf this morning, and you would have thought I was chasing the girls around the house with a hot iron the way they whined about only getting one slice in their lunch. For perspective, the little vegetarians take a hunk of cheddar, a couple celery stalks, an apple (or strawberries. or grapes), a couple of carrots, water, and bread in their lunches. They are not starving.

So if I want to defend my Most-Awesome-Parent-Ever title against the cunning wiles of Mr. Comes-up-with-more-fun-stuff-than-me-and-doesn't-cuss-as-much, I'm going to have to bake more bread tonight. I think I'll set aside most of at least one turkey breast for sandwiches and side meat for dinners for Mark and I before I freeze the turkey. In my world, there is nothing more traditional or tasty than a warm turkey sandwich.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Slept in today for the first time in a week. If the last two days hadn't been so hectic and overwhelming, I might feel more guilty about ignoring my blog throughout them. However, now I have my cup of coffee and my cinnamon roll (made from scratch Thursday morning), and I'm ready to write.

We hosted Thanksgiving Dinner this year. My parents moved to the area about seven months ago, so they joined Mark's parents and us. My little brother, Brian, and Sally married five months ago and had Thanksgiving lunch with her parents in north Houston, then joined us for desserts and games. All told, we had eight people for dinner and ten for desserts and games. For a little perspective on eight people eating at our house, here's our dining room.

We enjoyed a few firsts this year:

First time to smoke the turkey (somehow, we managed not to get any photos of the actual turkey in the actual smoker). Mark used lemongrass, rosemary, wood chips soaked in Jack Daniels, white wine, and pretty much anything else that sounded good. The turkey was juicy, flavorful, divine. Perfect.

First time to celebrate with my parents at our house; I think it's only the second Thanksgiving we've spent with my parents since we've been married.

First time to celebrate with my brother and sister-in-law, and first time to have them and my parents over at the same time.

Julia's first Thanksgiving; why yes, that is two vegetarians posing behind a turkey.

First time to make everything from scratch.

Mark insisted on putting a plastic "lid" on the turkey even though it was too small to really trap any heat and it looked like the turkey had enjoyed a particularly libatious time in the smoker. The salad placed front and center is not just adorned with flowers, either. Those are nasturtium, an entirely edible, slightly spicy flower that Mark grows in his garden specifically for salads.

That's right, everything. I made a batch of whole-wheat tomato-basil rolls and mini-loaves Wednesday afternoon. These have a crap-ton of basil in them, so they taste best after sitting for a day or so. They were divine by Thursday evening. Thursday morning, I woke early and made another batch of bread dough. I used half the dough to make cinnamon rolls (there's only one left, and the girls are asleep; I wonder if Mark wants to take care of it), and the other half to make whole wheat rolls. A little later, I taught Julia how to make a batch of bread, and we used half of that dough to make a spinach and feta roll-up (cinnamon roll style, but not sliced) with tomatoes, cream cheese, and walnuts. Julia used the other half to practice her bread-rolling technique and made four more mini-loaves of whole wheat bread. Even after sending everyone home with bread, we still have enough to last us a while.

In the midst of the bread-making, I also made a double batch of butternut squash soup. I had eaten butternut squash before, but never in soup. I worried that it would taste horrible, have a bad texture, rise up in anger and destroy us (I've always thought butternut squash looks like a little alien baby pod. Just saying'), etc. Obviously we have not been destroyed. The soup on the other hand . . . decimated. I think it was the most delicious thing I ever have put in my mouth. Well maybe not, but I love being delighted by new foods.

I peeled and boiled sweet potatoes, chopped nuts, and mixed up a batch of sweet potato casserole. Mark smoked the turkey (starting at 7:30 AM), Julia made red-skinned mashed potatoes, and I rounded it all off by making a chocolate chess pie, two buttermilk pies, and two lemon meringue pies.

I made sweet iced tea, southern style, to drink and asked family not to bring alcohol. After dinner, my brother and Sally arrived, and we sat down to play Curses. We almost didn't play because as I set it out, my mother said, "Oh honey, Brian still has to go to the storage shed and then back to San Antonio tonight; I don't know if we're gonna have time to play anything." As I started to put it away, Brian came into the room and said, "Curses? Sounds like my kinda game! Let's play! Will my time in the Navy give me an advantage?"

If you've never played Curses, go out and get the game right now. It's a very simple game with two decks of cards. One deck contains challenges such as, "You are an anchorman; predict the weather;" or "Sell insurance to the person sitting next to you." The other deck contains curses such as, "You are a leprechaun; whenever someone touches you, protect your cards and yell, 'You're always after my Lucky Charms!'" or "You are Count Dracula. Speak like a vampire: 'I want to suck your blood,' etc."

For each turn, the player first pulls a challenge card and performs the challenge. Then the player pulls a curse card and gives it to another player. That player must perform under the curse throughout the rest of the game including through his or her challenges, getting up to get a glass of water, breaks, etc. If a player breaks a curse and gets caught three times, the player is out of the game. Last person out of the game wins.

We played for about an hour; I had the vampire curse, the "speak like a french person" curse, and the "speak in a high-pitched falsetto" curse. It was hilarious. I also had to imitate everything my brother did (cause of great hilarity when he tried to kiss Sally), and Julia had to keep her wrists stuck to her chest all the time. Sally couldn't bend her elbows, but she had to pinch her nose whenever she spoke. So every time she wanted to talk, she'd jump up and run to my brother, who would hold her nose. And I had to imitate everything he did (poor Sally).

Eventually exhaustion and impending travel won out, and everyone departed. We had a lovely time though, and even after staying up late to clean up the house, we were in bed by midnight.

Fatty Fat Fat

I am hungry. It’s 8:30 AM; I ate breakfast two hours ago. And I’m ravenous, which is hilarious considering how fat I am. How does a person who stays hungry all the time end up fat? It’s the worst possible catch-22. I’m miserably hungry while dying of over-nutrition.

Well, not literally dying this very minute. Factually speaking, I’m healthy as a horse, low cholesterol, etc. But “dying of over-nutrition” sounds a lot catchier than, “at increased risk of various nasty diseases due to over-nutrition.”

I’ve been pondering this conundrum a lot lately. I’ve discovered several bloggers (starting with Kate Harding* and Jezebel; Kate Harding seems the most . . . rational) who are decidedly fat-happy, who insist that our culture is more fat-phobic than it is actually concerned with healthy living. To support themselves, they cite scientific studies that supposedly disprove the links between heart disease and obesity, diabetes and obesity, high blood pressure and obesity, osteoporosis and obesity, etc. I only say supposedly because to be honest, I didn’t read the cited studies.

Why not?

For starters, I’m lazy. There, now you all know my dirty secret. Dirtier even than the fact that I read all three Twilight novels. Dirtier even than the way Soren eats only my and the girls’ underpants, not Mark’s. I’m lazy, and I don’t want to wade through the studies myself. But you know what? I’ve never read the studies that supposedly prove the links either. Why should I take the media’s word for one side of the debate but not the other?

Add to that my current reading project, Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, and I started to think that the “Fat Acceptance” (FA) arguments make a whole lot of sense. For starters, no one I’ve read in the FA community argues the correlation between obesity and the various diseases. They’re arguing the common belief in causation. That’s basic statistics: Correlation /= Causation.

For general hilarity, see XKCD.

To me, this makes perfect sense. The idea that highly processed, genetically modified, mass-produced foods could cause a host of diseases and problems in the human body, including obesity, makes perfect, genius sense to me. The idea that a person can exist outside the Government-defined normal body type and be healthy also makes sense to me.

For years, I have told myself that dieting is about my health, not my weight. Yet when I have been at my healthiest, I have continued to berate myself for not making the scales move. I rode the MS150 twice, and during that time I believed I was unhealthy because I weighed 30 pounds more than the top of my acceptable weight range. That is simply delusional. One can not ride 167 miles on a bicycle in two days if one is unhealthy.

It made me think: What if I say, “To hell with dieting?” Some of the healthiest people I know eat real butter. Drink whole milk. Feast on nuts of all kinds, fatty avocados, and choice cuts of beef. They eat bacon and eggs for breakfast and put real butter and homemade jam on their homemade bread. Likewise, I know incredibly unhealthy people who live on Taco Bell, Wendy’s, and peanut butter *cough* my husband *cough* who are incredibly skinny.

An aside: Actuarial tables don’t lie. They’re used by insurance companies to price life insurance. DH is 70 pounds underweight, while I am about 50 pounds overweight. DH’s insurance is significantly more expensive than mine specifically because he is underweight.

It’s a frightening decision for me to make. I don’t want to get any fatter, but the truth is, I’ve been dieting for years, and I’m still getting, well, fatter. I think what I’m really afraid of is the problem at the heart of any success: personal responsibility. I’ll have to be responsible for my food choices.

I’ll have to make real changes that look an awful lot like a diet but actually fly in the face of dieting “wisdom.” I’ll have to eat things like avocados and walnuts instead of Powerbars and diet sodas (with which I have never defiled my body, but that's a post for a different day). I’ll have to stop drinking the soy milk I’ve loved for years and convert to raw, whole milk (I can't drink the pasteurized, homogenized stuff). I’ll have to cook daily and pack my lunch; no more Lean Cuisine. I’ll have to make my own sweets to get the corn syrup out of my life, and that means no more Kit-Kats, 3 Musketeers, or toffee from the candy bowl in the secretary’s office. Because if I’m feeding myself poison, what does it matter if I do it in moderation?

The biggest decision I have to make is, “Am I willing to be fat if I am healthy?” Because there’s not much chance that eating only whole, unprocessed foods will make me thin. No more chance than there is that dieting will make me thin. Because seriously? Diets don't work. And I don't want to go there. I want to be healthy, and I don't want the size of my ass (large or small) to get in the way of my pursuit of health.

I have no answer here; only thoughts on where to go. I like the idea of eating whole foods exclusively. I don't know that I like the idea of accepting being fat, but I'm so tired of fighting it.

*Uh, fair warning: Kate Harding comes with a healthy dose of obscenity. Her points are cogent and well made. And laced with profanity. Right, carry on.