To celebrate the holiday, I present to you a doodle from my marker board at work.
I was on a *really* long conference call. It was boring. I got distracted.
May you and yours have a fabulous, gluttonous day!
Photo taken by Karen Fayeth with an iPhone 4 and the Hipstamatic app.
The topic of Theme Thursday this week couldn't be more timely. In the lead up to the best eating holiday of the year, our topic, is: Food.
But here's my sideways twist on the theme.
Over the weekend, while on a fairly long drive, I began to riff on something The Good Man said, devolving, as I'm prone, to low brow humor. The stuff of twelve year old boys.
The Good Man isn't so much a fan of the twelve year old boy humor, so his side of the car went pretty quiet.
Well. Fine. I am who I am. If I can't let my inner twelve year old boy fly free at home, I'll take the next best option...imposing it on you, my fair readers.
So, herewith, my list of food names that are unintentionally rude, just in time for Thanksgiving.
1) Head cheese. You knew I had to start there, right? I'm not going to lie, I laughed right out loud typing the words. I wouldn't laugh out loud eating it though, because congealed gelatinous meat bits doesn’t really appeal to my palate. But whatever.
2) Cacahuete. Hee, hee, giggle *snort*. You said caca! Yeah, cacahuete is the Spanish word for peanut. But still, it's sooooo fun to say!
3) Bubble and squeak. It's just fried up meat, taters and cabbage and when done right is very tasty. That said, eating cabbage *does* cause certain parts of my anatomy to both bubble AND squeak. In addition, I rather like saying the name. Repeatedly. Like a toddler. Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! (making a squeaky noise as you say the word squeak is mandatory)
4) Rump roast. Yeah. Unh huh. And I'm supposed to ask for that at the butcher shop and not laugh? I've always been curious about what names were rejected in that marketing meeting. Ass brisket? Booty beef? 'Tocks steak? I mean, what exactly do you call a cut of beef that is sourced from, well, here. (link is TOTALLY safe for work)
And finally...
5) Spotted Dick. I think the gold standard for rude food names has to go to this British fare. It's a spongy concoction of dried fruit that is usually served in pudding. There is a version manufactured by Heinz available at my local grocery store. I always chortle inappropriately when I see it there on the shelves.
I mean, come on, Spotted Dick? Who thought that was a good idea?
You got any others I forgot? Leave 'em in the comments!
Yesterday I talked about being nice to yourself by packing a good lunch, if packing a lunch for work is the kind of thing you do.
Today I thought I'd take it a step further and talk about a guy where I work who has taken this self-care thing to a whole new level.
I've encountered this gentleman, an older fellow, small, slight, and very nice, several times in the hallways and break room. What's unique about this man is that every week he brings a half gallon of ice cream to work.
Not just any sort of ice cream, but a half gallon of Baskin Robbins. The good stuff.
He brings in a variety of flavors. One week it was mint chip, another it was strawberry. There has been rocky road, plain ol' chocolate, and a cherry concoction that looked yummy.
Every afternoon around 3:00, you'll find him in the break room scooping out a small bowl of ice cream. He has a ceramic bowl and a real spoon and he serves up a nice treat for himself. I can tell he really enjoys it.
There is almost a ritualistic quality to this process of scooping out, consuming and later cleaning the dishes.
I gotta say, I have mad respect for the guy.
Personally, all will power goes out the door for me when in the presence of ice cream, so I couldn't make a half gallon last all week. I'd be eating the entire container on Monday and crying my eyes out feeling fat Tuesday through Friday.
But I respect that he can limit himself to a small bowl and can *really* enjoy that bowl once a day.
There's something so right about living that way.
Last night, before going to bed, I took some extra time to prepare a batch of my delicious chicken salad.
I took care to make it a good batch, filled with perfectly grilled chicken, not too much mayo and my secret ingredients that make it, in my opinion, the best chicken salad ever.
Then, when the batch was made, taste tested and found to be perfect, I loaded it up into a container.
I packed that container along with an already packed container of soup, a bag of my favorite chips, and a bit of cough syrup into a small shopping bag.
This little bag of goodness was meant to go to work with me Monday morning.
I'm not trying to save money, although packing my lunch meets that goal.
What I AM trying to do is take good care of myself.
How many people think they *should* take their lunch to work, then pack a dried up lunch meat sandwich, a mealy apple and a bag of pretzels?
Or, even worse, they toss a Healthy Choice frozen entrée into their work bag and think that will satisfy them for the afternoon.
No.
I approach packing my lunch with all the care a doting mother would shower upon her cherished child.
It's like a love letter from Sunday Night Me to Monday Morning Me. A gift. A bit of home to remind me that even though I must work in a standard gray cubicle farm, I'm still an individual. I’m different.
I matter enough to have Sunday Night Me go to the effort to make something nice and not just something slapped together.
I actually look forward to my lunch today. I'm not looking for ways to get out of eating what's in the office fridge. Nope, I can hardly wait until noon.
And I'll eat my meal prepared with love and I will feel loved and I will know that I did a very good thing for myself.
Heck, caught up in the swell, I almost want to write myself a note to surprise me at the bottom of the lunch bag.
"Have a good day, dear. Someone at home loves you."
As a manager of employees in the State of California, I am required, by law, to attend and complete some very lengthy and detailed courses designed to keep the workplace "appropriate."
The courses are always very alarming because they teach to the worst possible examples, things that make you think "do people really do that?"
But it's good. Having a safe, conflict free work environment is essential. Everyone has a right to feel comfy at the place where they spend the majority of time during their weekdays.
As a new hire, I recently completed the mandatory training for my new company.
It's made me all very aware, very sensitive to potential "situations."
That said, I almost walked right through all my training to drop a big hug on a coworker.
That coworker is the nice man working the grill at the company cafeteria.
Today's special is fish and chips, one of my fave meals.
I figured they'd pull a pre-battered fish plank out of the freezer, dunk it in the fryer, and serve it up.
Fair enough, I'd still eat it.
But no.
After placing my order, the gentleman at the grill pulled two fresh fish filets out of the refrigerator. They were real fish filets, not some amalgam of fish parts.
Then he hand dipped them in batter and laid them gently in the fryer.
He then he served them golden brown over fresh-from-the-fryer, made just for me French fries he's hand seasoned by tossing them in a big bowl.
When he handed me the plate, he smiled and said, "enjoy."
Really, I almost wrapped him in a big bear hug.
He deserved it, California laws be damned!
So I hit up the idea generator today.
And it suggested I write a limerick.
A limerick?
Really?
*sigh*
Couldn't I just take a stab at Haiku?
In fact, here's a Haiku I wrote during a painful interleague game between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland A's earlier this season:
Jack Cust at the plate
Hits ball three for three today
SF fans Cust too
See? I can do Haiku! Can't I just try another like that?
No, the prompt said limerick.
I remember in grade school we had to write limericks for an English assignment. I didn't like it then either.
Not even writing the naughty limericks.
Whatever.
Ok.
Fine.
Here's my attempt:
There once was a girl from the 'Burque
People found her to be quite quirky
To California she fled
No green chile she did dread
Homemade chile rellenos keep her quite perky
Or how about:
There once was a singer named Buck
His songs make a nice rattle in my truck
From Bakersfield he hailed
"Tiger By The Tail" he wailed
That acoustic guitar he sure could pluck
(Betcha thought I was gonna get naughty on that one, huh? It was very difficult to restrain myself.)
All right, I'm on a roll now
From a bag of pinto beans I did remove
A handful of rocks and a piece of dry bean root
Soak 'em I did
Rinsed, boiled and added a lid
Because if not cooked right, dem beans will make you toot
Ok, ok....I'm done.
Somebody stop me before I try to rhyme Nantucket.
What's a travesty?
This, this is a travesty!
I know a lot of people really like Coffee-Mate. A lot of people use Coffee-Mate. It's very popular.
A dear friend's husband is a self confessed Coffee-Mate hazelnut flavor addict. He stockpiles it in his fridge.
Weirdo.
Look, I'm here to tell you, this isn't a food product. I don't know what it is, but it is definitely NOT a food product.
The label says "contains milk ingredients".
Uh. "Milk ingredients?"
What in the seventeen kinds of sam hell are "milk ingredients?" That doesn't say "contains milk" or "contains cream" or "contains anything you'd recognize." No!
Milk ingredients. And oil. And a bunch of other things you can't pronounce.
There is a big box of these pods of crap-food in our break room.
It's the only option for lightening a terrible cup of coffee in the late afternoon when you are desperate for a cuppa and the coffee bar downstairs is closed.
Look, I'm inherently suspicious of any sort of dairy product, even a pseudo-dairy product, that doesn't spoil when you leave it out on the counter for weeks at a time.
Except for real butter...and even real butter has its time limits.
What is the half-life on a pod of Coffee-Mate? A billion years?
I personally enjoy a good splash of half and half in a cup of joe.
Or as I call it, half of the half, which makes The Good Man laugh.
So with no half of the half on hand, I used some of this Coffee-Mate "creamer." Cuz I ain't calling it creamer without them thar sarcastic quotes.
It's gross. It's oily. It's chemical-y.
Just. Ew.
So then I poured out the coffee and tried this, also available in the break room:
While sipping at this sort of tangy beverage from a package that does not include an ingredients list, I did a Google search. I didn't net any ingredients, but I found this image which shows the main box that the packets come in. The box says "contains no apple..." and the rest is blocked by the packet in front of the box.
I assume it says "contains no apple juice."
Which means...
This is ALSO not food. This is more chemical crap.
Gah!
I'm not any sort of Birkenstock wearing, tree hugging, raw food eating girl. I like as much red dye number whatever as the next guy.
But even I have my limits.
________________________________
***Note to my readers: I actually wrote this yesterday afternoon. Upon a solid reread today, I was struck by just how much I've been whining lately about the no-cost beverage choices at my new place of employ. I'm still new, and while I do have some work to do, I am also sitting around a lot.
Leaving me to my own devices is never a good idea.
As I become busier with my job, I suspect the beverage posts will die down.
Hopefully.
I know that Mom's Day was yesterday, and was well celebrated, but today, in searching for a blog topic on my favorite idea generator, this little bit popped up onto my screen:
"What happened in your mother's life when she was exactly the same age you are now?"
So I thought about it. And then thought to myself...whooooa.
My mom's life at age *mumblefortyonemumble* was quite a bit different than mine.
And by quite a bit, I mean a LOT.
Let's see. Well, for one thing...mom and dad were juggling three kids aged thirteen, ten and six at the time.
For the record, when I imagine what that must have been like, let me just say...GAH!
On the fun side, back then we used to go bombing around the wilds of New Mexico in an 1972 blue and white Chevy Blazer ("Karen, get out and lock in the hubs!"). My dad was big on road trips.
The back seat was bench style. I'd cram in the middle between my brother and sister.
Mom would pack up a lunch of cold fried chicken with all the sides and we'd head up to Cuba, New Mexico, in the Jemez mountains, to spend the day.
It was on one of these trips that the now infamous piñon nut up the nose incident took place...I'll spare you the details.
We'd spread a blanket under a tall, shady tree and eat. After lunch we'd all head off in different directions to explore.
Dad would bring a portion of his vast gun collection and each kid would take turns learning how to load and shoot every one. Our target was an old, soft tree that had been felled by lightening.
It was important to him that we weren't scared of any of the guns kept in the house, and we weren't curious about them either. We knew what they were and what they were for, and were very respectful of them.
Yes, I was shooting guns at the age of six. It was big, huge fun!
Mom wasn't much for shooting. She'd participate sometimes, but mostly she'd be off to the side keeping a wary eye on us.
It had to about that time in my mom's life, too, when we were taking a hike up in at our Cuba property. My mom, who was always looking down at the ground in search of a geode, instead found herself a genuine arrow head.
No, not one of those you find in a tchotchke shop in Arizona.
A real, honest to goodness, genuinely used by an actual Native American, arrowhead. The land we were on was once the hunting grounds of the Jicarilla Apache, among others.
Let's see...what else was going on in mom's life at that time....
She cooked dinner every night. Homemade tortillas and venison burrito meat were faves. (At the time, I would balk and get weird about eating Bambi meat. But in honesty, it tasted pretty good. Ssssh, don't tell mom, okay?)
She volunteered as a librarian at my elementary school so she could be out of the house, but still around for her kids. She was running my sister and me to our ballet and tap lessons. She would proofread my homework, too.
A career secretary (now known as an executive assistant), she was hell on a typo or misspelled word.
Back then, life at our home wasn't always perfect. It wasn't always bad either.
So at the age I am now, Mom was managing a constantly in motion family focusing on kids and husband and work and home and putting a lot of effort into her days.
Me, I focus on work, my still fairly new husband, and spoiling my overindulged pets.
You know...in comparison...I have it pretty easy. And I owe my fairly easy, happy life to my mom. She worked hard so that her kid's lives could be better than hers had been at the same age.
And in that, dear mom, you are a resounding success!
Thank you!
P.S. to mom: I'm sorry we couldn't be together on Mom's Day this year like last year. I hope my stinky brother** took good care of you this year. I'll bet he didn't give you a hand crafted present like I did last year.
I'm still your favorite...right? Right?
** (because all boys are stinky)
Didja ever really take a look at an avocado hanging off of a tree (or in a pile at the grocery), with that pebbly green skin, and ponder why that fruit looks exactly like it's made outta frogs? Did you hold one in your hand and wonder who, exactly was the first person ever who took a look at that green pear-shaped fruit and said to themselves, "hey, that looks tasty!"
And what was that first experiment like? Did they bite into it like an apple, only to ptoo-ptoo out that ucky skin? "I rather dislike the outside, but the innards, oh sweet delicious surrender!"
What about the first person to sample a lemon? What musta been going through their minds? Hmm, looks pretty and yellow. Smells divine. Nibble, nibble, ZOWEEEEE! *ting at the back of the jaw*
And then, after that horrifying experience, what was the thought chain that led to, "you know...if I add some water and something sweet to that, it could be very refreshing!"
How about...Which of our early ancestors plucked the berries from a juniper bush, fermented them, distilled the whole mess and figured out how to make gin? I mean, who was the utter genius with that idea? Because I don't look at random berries on bushes and think, "hmm, martini!"
And what about coconuts? I mean, that's a two-step process to get one of them sumnabitches open. First someone has to shimmy up a palm tree, a rather uncomfortable proposition, I'd think, then hack down one of those bad boys. AND THEN the two-steps to first peel off the thick outer later and then knock that thing on a rock to get it open.
Who had that kind of patience?
I'm glad they did because oh how tasty is coconut?
What about aloe? Or cactus fruit? Artichokes? Or those god awful stinky yet tasty durian fruits you find in Malaysia?
Who are these people who gave them the first try?
And what about the downsides of being first? For example...
Who, exactly, was our test subject to sample a handful of those pretty red little holly berries? Hey, the birds eat them, must be good right? According to Wikipedia (so you know it must be true), it only takes about twenty berries to be fatal for an adult. Whooops.
Who went there so that we'd all know not to?
I'm pretty grateful to that person, and all the other firsties.
Thanks for wandering through my strange random thought for the day. It has a genesis in something I saw in a movie and was a long strange trip in my brain from there....
Anyhoo. Happy Friday!
Recently, while flipping around my no-cable-havin' television choices, I landed on the "Tavis Smiley Show."
I've watched his show a couple times before, but what stopped me this time was his guest, Rosanne Cash, a talented singer songwriter. I'm a big fan.
It was a fun interview. Rosanne was feeling a bit more expansive than usual, which was nice. The central theme for the interview was Rosanne's new album called "The List."
The story goes something like this: When Rosanne was just out of high school, she went on the road with her dad, Johnny Cash. While on the road, all the various musicians she toured with taught her how to play guitar.
At one point, her father noted her deep lack of musical knowledge, and sat down with a pad of yellow paper and wrote up a list of songs that she should learn and know.
It was a gift of a father's deep love and respect for musical history that he wrote out line by line on that page.
Over the years, Rosanne kept that sheet of paper, and learned most of the songs.
Well, finally, after having surgery on a benign tumor in her brain and coming through the recovery, she and her husband decided to make an album of songs that were included on the original list.
Over the years, Rosanne has been reluctant to show people the actual list, and keeps it tucked away somewhere safe. Her album gives you a taste of the songs that Johnny felt were key to his own daughter's musical education.
This whole concept intrigued me, so I ran out and got the CD. I'm not on board with every arrangement on the album (call me a purist...or something), but deeply I respect the new interpretation of these classic songs.
So I got another copy and sent it to my best friend, mother of my two goddaughters. She and her husband are doing an excellent job in passing along a musical education to their children.
But for my best friend and me, music is everything. It's the stitches that hold tight the tapestry of our lives, our memories and our friendship.
So included in the package with the CD, I sent a letter with my idea: Our own list.
I feel that we need to make a list of our own musical legacy for her kids just as Johnny did for Rosanne.
Well, my friend took to this idea with gusto, and our list making began.
I began jotting songs as they came to me in my notebook and it quickly grew to four pages front and back. I realized...this is going to be a really long list, so I began to think of how we could sort it out to make it easier to take in.
Over this past weekend, she arrived for a fun visit, and came toting a CD she'd burned of her own first volume of The List (and two bags of roasted green chile in her suitcase).
Her idea for sorting the songs is by category. Her first volume is "Songs You Wanna Dance To."
There will be a "Songs You Wanna Drink Beer and Cry To."
There will probably be a "Songs You Wanna Get Frisky To."
And then, perhaps just a, "If You're Gonna Be My Kid, You'd Better Know These Songs" CD as well.
We're still working on the categories, but work is underway.
Over the weekend, The Good Man and I were both pleased and honored to have yet another friend from back in my college days visiting, too.
Friday night the four of us got together at my place. My best friend made rellenos and Spanish rice. I whipped up a batch of green chile chicken enchiladas and a pot of savory pinto beans.
There were margaritas, guacamole and a LOT of conversation about the list. Our friend, an Edgewood boy now living in Oklahoma, is like a long lost brother to me. He brought many excellent suggestions for the list to the table.
We cussed. We discussed. And together we're creating something meaningful for my two godkids. In this music they will know their mom, and their godmom, our families, our history and our love.
Ooops, hold on a sec...just thought of another song I need to jot down...
I knew this guy, back in the hazy college days, who really, really loved to eat.
It was a whole fantastic sensory experience for him to have a good meal.
He'd dropped out of college and was doing some freelance cowboying at the time, so he could eat big heavy meals and work it off the next day.
So, obviously, we were fast friends. I also love a good meal (but am less adept at working it off).
This friend introduced me to the concept of "The Perfect Bite."
Say, for example, you are sitting at Thanksgiving dinner. On your plate is a slab of hot turkey, mashed taters, gravy, stuffing, corn (if you're into that sort of thing) and cranberries (also a pass for me, but this is for example's sake).
The Perfect Bite means you take your fork and you get a piece of turkey, some stuffing, a swoop of mashed taters (with gravy on it), some corn and then seal the end with a bit of cranberry.
The Perfect Bite encompasses all that is good on your plate. All the wonderful tastes together to make a forkful of delicious.
The Perfect Bite generally happens during what you consider to be a really, really good meal. It is sort of a way to savor the delicious.
The friend and I, we used to compete on The Perfect Bite. "Look, looky here...I got the perfect bite, look....yuuuuumm....." as the fork would slide home and the yummy face would come on.
The best time for The Perfect Bite is really as you are getting to the end of your plate of food. Most stuff on there has already managed to mingle over the course of your eating along, so it's super easy to make a Perfect Bite.
For whatever reason, this concept has stuck with me and I've managed to introduce it to The Good Man.
I recently made some kick ass green chile chicken enchiladas. As I ate, from the other side of the table I heard, "hey, look at this! The Perfect Bite!" He had a good piece of enchilada with plenty sauce, beans, salad and capped the fork with BOTH sour cream and guacamole.
It really was a perfect bite and his yummy face proved it was true. I was envious because I no longer had on my plate the resources to make a Perfect Bite. I'd already devoured the guac and sour cream so I had no horse in that race.
Ah well.
I thought about this concept again last night. We splurged on a rib eye steak dinner. We so rarely eat beef anymore, hence the "splurge" part of the deal. Lovely steak, baked tater and steamed asparagus made up the plate.
I kept trying for a Perfect Bite but couldn't quite get there. Either the potato wouldn't cooperate and would fall off the fork. Once I lost the meat bite in my puddle of steak sauce. And those dang slidy asparagus spears were too recalcitrant to be the sealing factor on the fork.
So no true Perfect Bite. But I sure had a whole lotta fun trying!
Oh fine. I did it. I watched the Super Bowl.
I'm not really a football fan. Baseball is where my heart is at.
But hey, there we were at football's big show, the best of the season, right? So why not watch.
I'd only intended to watch the commercials, and to be honest, it started out that way. I was working in the back room, ignoring the game. I'd listen for the break and trot out there to see what was doing with the commercials.
Damn it all if those Saints didn't pull me into the game. I started watching a few minutes here and there. But then Peyton and the Colts would dominate again, and I would wander to the back room.
Then there was halftime. That Who abomination. Ugh. I watched all of that. I mean, the Twitterverse was lit up with comments about the quite elderly rockers, so I paid attention. Time I won't ever get back in my life...
Disgusted, I gave up once more and went back to my little office and back to writing.
Much better back there.
But then there was that onside kick after halftime. That did it.
I was in.
That, and The Good Man suggested we get some Amici's delivered. Pizza does always make me docile and want to sit low on the couch. So I gave in.
Belly full of pizza and disinclined to move around much, I watched both game and commercials for the entire second half.
Then there was the interception heard 'round the world. I'll be damned. This was actually a really good Super Bowl. Well ok!
In the final analysis, I suppose it was worth my time to give XLIV my attention.
However, the game was way, way better than the commercials this year.
Check out hulu.com if you missed 'em. (Trust me, you didn't miss anything.)
My brief commercial round up...
1. Too slappy (What is this NCIS show and *why* do they hit each other so much?)
2. Weird and unflattering use of little people (And isn't Kiss even more aged than The Who?)
3. Too many tighty whities. Really, boys, if you aren't going to wear pants, have the good grace to wear boxer briefs. I'm asking nicely.
Or is the emasculation of men the new "in" thing?
Rude, I say.
And so there you have it. My Sunday in a nutshell.
Onward to Monday, a day that began with stumbling out of bed and stepping into a puddle of a cat barf. Yay.
But thankfully, no tighty whities in sight.
(um, no)
Oh mighty interwebs, how you amuse me with your advertising and your behind-the-scenes formulas for placing the right ad on the right content.
And so, as I was searching for a delicious, yet not healthy at all, soup recipe, I found this.
Yeah, so given the choice of whatever torture, pill or unguent I have to endure for the "tiny belly" or to nosh on homemade cheddar beer soup, I'm gonna go with the soup.
And the beer. One for the soup, one for the cook.
Ok, so I thought this was an odd title for an online article:
"How not to feel humiliated when dining alone"
Um. Why would I? I rather enjoy eating out alone.
Given the photo of the sad lonely brunette (she HAD to be a brunette, right?) that accompanies the article, I think reading between the lines, the title of the article is more like:
"You sad lonely dried up old maid. How terrible that you have to eat alone."
Because *clearly* the target audience for this story isn't guys. I don't know that most guys would feel humiliated dining alone. They'd pull up a chair to the bar, order a beer and dive in. Isn't all this fuss and kerfuffle a girl thing?
The story goes on to offer several suggestions for how that lonely gal can make it through such a harrowing experience as having to dine alone like reading a book or staring into her mobile device.
Please. Eating out alone is great. You don't have to share your dessert, you can drink too many glasses of wine if you want, and you can burp at the table. What's not to love about this experience?
And oh the people watching. So much to take in!
Plus, plenty of couples look miserable dining together. But they are not "humiliated" because they are not alone, so it's ok? Bah!
I guess I sort of thought we were past the days when someone eating alone in a restaurant was a weird thing. So many people travel for business or just choose to spend time alone. In my book this is no longer odd.
And the conventional wisdom used to be that as a solo diner the wait staff wouldn't serve you as well (one person means smaller tab means smaller tip) but I have found the opposite to be true. I think wait staff rather enjoy the ease of just one person at the table. No question where the entrée goes!
I've not ever felt slighted or mistreated when dining alone. It works just fine.
Sure, I'd rather have The Good Man there because, mainly, he makes any thing I do a lot more fun (he could make going to the dentist for a root canal a worthwhile adventure!). But if I'm away from him and I'm hungry, well, a girl's gotta eat!
Honestly most of my girlfriends are the same way. Eating alone in a restaurant is no biggie.
Most girls half my age are twice as bold as me, so I don't think they have issues either.
Who is this story really aimed at? As I read the comments, most of the ladies chiming in seem to agree with my point of view on this.
And seems most agree that the title of the article is just plain terrible.
I guess my message to the author is to simply quote the comment left by a reader named Melissa:
"Thanks for bashing my confidence in eating alone. I guess now when I take myself out to lunch to be awesome I have to feel HUMILIATED instead."
So there!
Oh, this could be a serious and solemn post.
It's not gonna be, however.
So you see...my rock star mom-in-law is a Brooklyn girl, and at the holidays, she has traditions in keeping with where she was raised.
In her words: "Not untypically for someone from Brooklyn in my day for most of my adult life, I’ve made Italian food for the holidays. Often the menu included a seafood dish like spaghetti and clams for Christmas or New Years Eve and usually a lasagna on Christmas Day."
Italian food? Oh I'm ALL about that.
This holiday season it was her very generous idea to celebrate the holidays with the foods from my childhood in New Mexico.
That means tamales that we handmade together, a pan of Hatch green chile enchiladas and a big pot o' beans.
To help set the atmosphere, my mom-in-law brought over some accoutrements including Mexican hot chocolate, a tortilla warmer, and an Our Lady of Guadalupe votive candle.
We lit Our Lady up and enjoyed dinner by her warm candlelight.
So the holidays passed by, as they will. The Good Man and I began to dismantle the holiday displays in our home and put things away.
Our Lady of the Fabulous Christmas Feast had been on the coffee table for a couple weeks, but after New Years she had disappeared. The Good Man had stowed her away somewhere. Fair enough, right?
But then...I was rather startled to, uh, find her.
Here:
I call her "Our Lady of Fartima."
The Good Man never laughs when I do.
But I crack myself up every time. I think being able to make your ownself laugh is the key to a long life.
Side note to Ephraim: I realize yesterday I promised to try and keep it classy on the blog today. I failed miserably. I'll try again on Monday, ok?
One of my favorite foods for Christmas has always been, bar none, tamales.
Oh sweet masa and meat and a bit of heat!
Delicious.
I never realized just how lucky I was over the years to have wonderful neighbors, friends and coworkers who gifted me with handmade tamales every year.
Yum!
All the way out here in California, I don't have wonderful tamale making friends and I miss them.
So this year, my mom-in-law, a wonderful cook and a lady filled with holiday cheer, suggested we make up a batch of our own tamales.
Oh yeah, baby!
We have both pork and green chile with cheese.
Gonna be a New Mexico Christmas in my house! My kitchen smells fabulous!
And making them with my new family might just have to be a new tradition!
Feast your little eyes!
Wrapped up and ready to be steamed!
Apply the heat.
Steamy goodness!
Yeah, many of these little guys didn't make it very long out of the steaming pot. Poor delicious tamales! Hope they make it to Christmas!
The other day, while out and about, The Good Man bought himself a bag of cough drops to try to quell the dry cough the endless exposure to indoor heating provides.
Plus, we gave the house a good cleaning over the weekend and kicked up a bunch of dust that has us both sneezing and coughing.
After purchase and back in the car, he opened up the package and popped one in the ol' cake hole.
After a cough or two myself, I said, "may I have one?" to which he readily agreed.
I grabbed the package and flipped it over to review the ingredients.
Yep. I've become one of those people.
Anyhow, I try to avoid corn syrup. It's just my own thang. Doesn't have to be yours.
So I read off the ingredients list aloud and got to "natural flavors."
Now, what in the sam hell are "natural flavors?"
This is the part where I make it hard for The Good Man to share a life with me.
I turn and say to him, "I hate when they list 'natural flavors,' I mean, what is that? It could be anything! Are these cough drops poop flavored? Poop is a natural flavor!"
The Good Man turned slowly and gave me a look and a slow head nod.
This is a look that in going on five years together I've come to understand means, essentially, "While you are technically correct, it's going to be better for me in the long run if I don't dignify what just came out of that sideways mind of yours with a response. So I'll just nod."
We nodded at each other for a long moment, and since my "poop is a natural flavor" just hung there in the air, so to speak, there really was no good segue.
I chose then to open the pack of cherry and whatever-the-hell-other-natural flavored cough drops and fired one into the ol' cake hole.
It tasted nasty. I spit it back out after a minute.
"Natural flavors" are gross. And possibly poop.
I'm just sayin'.
(these are the offenders in question)
Yup. I waited and waited and finally the persimmon I'd picked and brought inside became ripe. "Like a soft tomato" I'd read was the desired state.
I sliced it open, and gave 'er a shot.
It tastes something like a creamy melon. Normally, "melon" wouldn't be a flavor I like.
But in this case, I found it to be delicious! Still a bit of tannin, but not uncomfortably so.
Nice!
And *then* I read that eating too much persimmon can cause something really fun called a bezoar! Hooray!
