The Food Rules

I realized the other day, as I was explaining to Woodstock why we weren't going to buy grapes at the grocery store even though they had a yellow sign (she has figured out I buy mostly things with yellow signs - signifying they are on sale), that I have an un-written list of "rules" when it comes to food.

Well, formerly un-written, since I'm about to list some of them here. Some of them are goofy. Others are based on health and research. Some are because I have to compensate for the ridiculous amount of junky food my kids get at the sitter's. Some have been long-standing. Others came as a result of playing primary food source to one kid or another for 4 straight years.

The Food Rules According to Sara

1. If a food comes in a package, it should have 5 ingredients or less.
2. Produce is consumed primarily in season. The exception to this is apples, potatoes, onions, carrots and some herbs. In the case of fruit, this means grapes in late summer, citrus and fruites I've preserved in the winter, pomegranets and cranberries in the fall, peaches in August, apricots in July, cherries in June, Strawberries in March through May, Mangoes in the spring and so forth.
3. Tomatoes come out of the garden in the summer and out of cans in the winter.
4. Cereal whose first, second or third ingredient is sugar is not to be used as a meal.
5. Dairy must be hormone-free.
6. Artificial sweeteners do not enter the house (this does indeed mean I have shaken a years-long Crystal Light addiction - I haven't had a single glass in 4 years.
7. If it can be homeade, I don't need to buy it.
8. If it is local, it is worth a little bit more.
9. If it is chocolate, it had better be good chocolate, not the cheap stuff - after years of thinking I didn't like chocolate, I have realized that a. I love dark chocolate and b. it had beter be GOOD chocolate - preferably European.
10. A well-stocked pantry is the cure for high grocery bills.
11. Roasting makes almost everything better.
12. If the word "artificial" is on the package, it is reserved for treat status. If the ingredient is wholly unpronouncable and/or undecipherable, it is better left on the grocery shelf.
13. Whole wheat pasta, brown rice and regular oatmeal are not foreign foods if one doesn't know any different (ie my kids, poor little ones who have been brainwashed for years now).
14. Fruit or veggie for breakfast. Fruit AND veggie (or two) for lunch. Two veggies for dinner. My meal-planning mantra - though it sometimes means the second dinner veggie is used to "enrich" the meal (like adding pureed cauliflower to mac-n-cheese.
15. Water is vital and is therefore not optional
16. If I'm going to consume the calories, it is going to be fabulous and make my mind, tongue and tummy happy - if not, it's not worth the caloric or monetary cost.
17. (The most important one) One can never have too many cookbooks - even when one's three-shelf kitchen bookcase is completely full of them

There are a lot of other random rules, I think I create them to create order in my life. I get mocked for them or praised for them or derided for them. I had someone tell me I was harming my kids' digestive systems by feeding them whole wheat. I am told I'm a leftist tree-hugging vegan wanna-be for shopping at certain stores and limiting meat in our diets. And yet - it works for me. All these rules and all these things that govern what I eat. They are unspoken. They are mine. They are not everyone's.

But I will say - while Himself likes to mock them, he definitely enjoys what results. I'm a half-decent cook and he gets a hot breakfast and a homemade dinner a minimum of 5-6 days a week.

Some may mock, but no one has ever left my house hungry.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Is it considered child labor if I turn the garden watering over to my toddler?

Because lately she's been asking to "Go 'side, Mama. Water plants." (Go outside mama, water plants). And hey, that sounds like motivation to work to me. Since motivation is a word in my vocabulary that has been swallowed up by pregnancy, I'd say "go for it" except the watering can is as big as she is.

I made a couple of mistakes in planting a garden this year:
1. I failed to realize we don't own a hose.
2. I failed to realize our outdoor water source is on the FRONT of the house. The garden is in the BACK of the house. It means I have to lug a watering can outside multiple times to water things.
3. I bought drought-resistant plants. Normally a fine thing in the high desert country of The Frontier. Except June has been anything but dry. I've lost a few plants to overwatering thanks to Mother Nature (though it has reduced the number of days I've had to lug the watering can out repeatedly.
4. I underestimated the ease of growing basil. So far I'm 0 for 2 on basil plants.
5. I have magic mint ... one day it looks fabulous. The next, well, it looks rather sickly. Even Woodstock noticed and called my dear plant "icky" on one of its less-than-healthy days.
6. Fourth of July tomatoes, even when planted at the appropraite time apparently don't ripen by the Fourth of July when the sun has only shown for one of the last five weeks. The plant has lots of tomatoes, but they are just as green as the regular tomatoes.

I think I'd best leave the gardening project to next summer, when I can actually see my feet, can kneel and/or bend over and when the weather is back to normal. In the meatime, I have six thriving (if not ripening) tomato plants. We may be eating fried green tomatoes and cilantro this summer, but we'll at least be eating something homegrown.

I'll Take That Chicken Fried, Please.

It all started when my mom accidentally swiped my manual can-opener when she was here in February.

Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.

On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:

"What do you want me to make for dinner?"

Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."

(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."

Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"

I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.

Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.

I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.

After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.

No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.

The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.

I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.

Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.

Guru-izing the Groceries

Last night I went to a seminar held by The Frontier's famous Grocery Guru. Admittedly, I did it more for a reason to leave the insanity that has become my house (how a smallish toddler can wreak complete havoc on every room in under 24 hours is beyond me), but it was definitely interesting and engaging.

He has a system for utilizing two sets of Sunday circular coupons in the local daily papers (sidenote: anyone else wondering how long The Frontier can sustain two daily papers when cities like Denver are going to only one?) that combined with advanced planning, saves an average family of four 70% on their grocery bill.

I already shop only twice a month, plan my meals around sales, plan my meals for two weeks and only buy certain things (cereal, paper towels, toilet paper, shrimp, canned goods, etc.) on sale, so my grocery budget buys amazing things for not much money.

But I'm not a coupon shopper. Never have been. Typically can't remember where I left my car keys, let alone whatever coupons I might happen to get my paws on. I also have a firm aversion to looking through ads unless I'm in the market for something, because while I hate shopping, I always seem compelled to visit "the biggest sale of the century" and find something I really didn't need but absolutely must have. Which is why I only look through the grocery ads the day I plan my grocery list. On the off weeks, they head straight into the recycling bin, lest I be tempted by Jumbo Gulf Shrimp selling at $5/pound.

I challenged the guru's claim that this system works for everyone, regardless of how you eat. Because, let's face it, we don't exactly eat "normally." I'm extraordinarly particular (picky?) about brands, quality and value. I typically won't buy meat that hasn't been packaged in-store, I won't buy dairy with rBGH, and I buy soy sauce in half-gallon containers. The last two spices on my "must replenish" list were tumeric and garam masala. Not exactly the generic soup in a can and premade cookie dough he spoke of in the demo.

However, he said it could be done for organic eaters, make-it-from-scratchers, healthy eaters, junk-food eaters, etc. So, I'm giving it a try. I've been dying to take the newspaper again since we've been here, but in reality I only read it on Sundays. Fortunately, the twin dailies here offer online subscriptions (pdf of the paper edition) M-Sa and a hard copy (with the coupons) on Sundays.

I'm giving it a month. We'll see what happens. If I don't save more than the $12 newspaper subscription on my grocery bill, I'll cancel one of the papers (again - who needs two daily newspapers when the only difference is one doesn't run alcohol ads or ads for R-rated movies?) and go back to my old way.

In the meantime, I'm praying that Unilever runs coupons for Dove Body Wash, because I'm trying to stock up and it is the only body wash Woodstock and I can tolerate - at a whopping $6/bottle.

One of Those Parents

One of my greatest fears is being one of those parents, but since I'm wildly opinionated and highly stubborn, I suppose it's probably inevitable at some point that someone won't agree with me. It's not like I haven't had 30 years of practice at it.

But this one makes me feel horribly guilty, even while doing it for the life and safety of my child ... I am the nursery treats enforcer.

Woodstock, while two weeks' shy of "legal" nursery-attending age, started nursery this past week, mostly because I wanted to warn the nursery leaders and children's sunday school leader of the "Treat Issue."

Unfortunately, people hear "peanut" and tune me out, patronizing me with, "Oh we never serve treats with peanuts, so don't worry," then promptly turn their backs, failing to realize my mouth is still moving like a fish gasping for breath out of water (even though we all know fish breathe through gills and not their mouths).

The problem is, it isn't just peanuts. Or it, is, technically, but it's not just the consumption of actual peanuts. I'm one of those very fortunate parents to have a child with a life-threatening allergy to something she if she so much as looks at the food (not quite, but touching it and rubbing her eye or kissing someone who has eaten peanuts is enough to cause a reaction). That means, if a parent bakes peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet two weeks ago and doesn't wash it in soap and hot water (you don't wash baking stones with soap) and then bakes cookies for nursery on it - it's enough to potentially cause an anaphylactic reaction in Woodstock. It means if they bring in Stouffer's animal crackers, which "may contain peanuts" and there is a sliver of a peanut - it is potentially enough to cause an anaphylactic reaction. And so forth.

It means at least two major brands of animal crackers are out. As are home-baked treats. Ritz bits of any kind. Bakery treats from store bakeries. Some cereals (did you know some kinds of Chex have peanut flour in them?). Anything with "processed on the same equipment as ..." or "may contain ...". And so forth.

And ... it's all speculation. It might be enough to trigger a reaction. It possibly could be a huge problem. But Woodstock has had two anaphylactic reactions to peanuts without ever having ingested an actual peanut in her life, so it's not exactly over-reacting, even if it feels like it.

I hate being the parent who has to be pushy and demanding to get someone to listen.

I hate being the parent who has to tape a note to the treat bucket with a ridiculous list of "thou shalt not bring..." because "Deathly Allergic to Peanuts" doesn't cast a wide enough net.

I hate being the parent that has to ask for a completely peanut- and nut-free nursery because keeping toddlers and pre-schoolers from "sharing" (er, stealing) each other's food is nearly impossible. And because if the peanut content is high enough, the other kids could cause a reaction in Woodstock just by swapping saliva (who thought they'd have to worry about that prior to tweendom?!). So none of the other kids can have it either. And that makes me feel like a real pain-in-the-rear-end.

I hate being the parent who worries every week if Woodstock is going to be okay. I have to do it five days a week (with slightly less obsession, but there was one scary moment on Valentine's Day where Woodstock got into the other kids' M&Ms).

I hate being the parent who sounds like she's crying wolf, with tales of epi pens and hospitals and swollen throats - evne though it's all true - because it sounds so ... over-dramatic.

I hate being that parent.

I've lived through one week of nursery. Roughly 95 more weeks to go (plus or minus a few). I'm just glad she's not deathly allergic to something like dairy or eggs or soy.

A New Day

Yesterday was not good.

Today is ... well, better, and that says a lot after a day like yesterday.

After a morning full of doctor's visits, blood work, insurance calls and a run to the hospital pharmacy, the morning was gone, my leg was swollen and sore and driving was more of a chore that it should be. Not to mention both mine and Woodstock's tummies were dangerously near rioting.

I found a little Japanese cafe a few blocks from the hospital and decided to give into my weeks'-long craving for noodles and sushi. Woodstock, truly a child of her parents, adores Japanese food. She thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. I figured for $15 I could get each of us the entree we wanted (I wanted shrimp - it's not something she can eat yet) and there would be plenty for dinner, eliminating the need to stand for lengthy periods tonight.

It was the most delightful lunch I've had in ages. Woodstock and I sat side-by-side, her with her little bowl of rice, chicken terriyaki and vegetable tempura; me with my shrimp udon noodles and sushi. Every once in awhile she would ask for a "noo" (noodle), other than that Woodstock chattered happily ("num num nummy"), used her fork at least as often as not, refrained from scattering food on the floor or her clothes and delighted me with delighted exclamations regarding the food and the other patrons in the cafe.

The food hit the perfect spot of comfort and nutrition (sweet potato tempura are, after all, still a vegetable), the gray day outside seemed somehow brighter. My leg, propped on a chair next to me, ceased to hurt quite so much and we were restored for our journey home.

Upon departing, I received word that the insurance issues had been worked out and I would be receiving the necessary medication for the mere sum of $150. I think the mail order pharmacy thought I was insane when I shrieked my delight. After all, while $150 in one context is huge, when compared to $900 it feels almost free.

Woodstock is napping. We'll swap meals and I'll dine on teriyaki and she'll dine on noodles tonight. No work for me until Monday. A nap calls. My leg is again elevated, lessening the pain. I didn't kill myself or chicken out during the 4 a.m. injection.
Himself boards a plane for The Frontier late tonight. A dear friend in Virginia called to say "hello."

New days are glorious things. They don't wipe away all the pain and anxiety and frustration and worry, but they certainly heal one's soul through the little things - a delightful toddler, wonderful food and dear friends.

One day down, several hundred more to go.

Why I Bake

A couple of years ago, a church colleague asked me, in astonishment, why I would even consider baking cookies from scratch. "All that time!" "All that mess!" She lamented.

To each his own, but I submit "All those ingredients!" as to why I still choose to make all baked goods from scratch.

Case in point:

Pillsbury® Ready to Bake!™ Big Deluxe Classics® refrigerated white chunk macadamia nut cookies
A four-inch list of ingredients than I know what to do with, words like "hydrogenated," several ingredients ending in -ose, high fructose corn syrup, "artificial" and "white confectionary chunks", to name a few - and an entire day's worth of trans fats in one cookie.

White Chocolate Cranberry Cookies (Modified from Grandma B's Chocolate Crunch Cookie Recipe)
Butter
Sugar
Eggs
Unbleached Flour
Salt
Soda
Vanilla
White choclate chips (cocoa butter, sugar)
Fresh cranberries

I'll take the mess and the time to know what, exactly, I'm consuming.

Key Lime Sugar Cookies

This recipe was published inThe Washington Post in December 2005 - the year I made HUNDREDS of cookies for my 14 colleagues. Boxes of homemade, custom-wrapped cookies - from angel prints to butterscotch bars to pecan bites - the cookies of childhood Christmases. This recipe caught my eye, and I made it as the "new" addition. I've made it every Christmas since. It's worth the little extra work, trust me.

These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.


Makes 50 to 60 cookies

Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing

1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:

For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.

Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.

Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.

Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.

Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.

Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.

For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.

Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.


Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).

Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown

Five years ago, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, for the very first time.

It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.

It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.

Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.

The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.

Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.

I vowed, "Never Again!"

Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).

Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.

As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.

Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.

God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.



*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.

Cookies

Woodstock woke up this morning, yelled "Uppie" from her crib and, upon being asked if she would like some milk (my standard morning question), she replied:

"COOKIES?!" This was followed by her version of the ASL sign for "More" and significant bouncing anticipation.(Translation: "I want." Lately she wanders around the house signing "more" - her way of asking for something, anything, in sight).

That is not part of the usual morning script.

Just in case you're thinking of asking - the only "cookies" she's ever had in any sort of quantity are graham crackers that she gets at Miss Jan's. She does get Kashi 7-grain crackers as a snack fairly often and she frequently mixes up the words "crackers" and "cookies" when the items in question aren't present.

But still ... cookies? For breakfast?

As she was having her morning milk, she would stop sucking, look up at me with huge blue eyes full of hope, sign "more" and ask, "Cookies?"

She did not have cookies (or crackers) for breakfast, though she asked again when she saw the cracker box on the counter and again when she got into the car. Rather, she had a sensible bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with apple slices.

It was, however, the first thing she asked Miss Jan for today. The minute Miss Jan opened the door, Woodstock opened her arms, leaned over to Miss Jan, signed "more" and said, "Cookies?"

Poor kid. Such a rough life. Already she has the meanest mom on the block.

Mixed-up Meal

We had one of those meals over the weekend that friends and family alike will likely tease us about for years to come.

In an attempt to focus on cleaning and organization (tasks I loathe), I put off grocery shopping until after Himself got home from work on Saturday. I thawed out a pound of hamburger to make something for dinner. Except, well, neither Woodstock nor I nor Himself actually particularly like ground beef. I like it in moussaka or Spanish rice, but that is about it. And since I had neither a good hard aged cheese for moussaka or tomato juice for Spanish rice, neither was an option.

I spent nearly half an hour searching for a recipe in my volumes of recipe books for something using ground beef that would satisfy us all. Nothing lept out at me other than meatballs, but one cannot make meatballs with only a pound of meat.

In desperation, I went hunting for random things that sounded good. Tempura batter mix, green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a package of jalepeno brats (the only kind of sausage I can stand - mostly becuase they're so lean you have to spray the pan before you cook them - no grease!- and the jalepenos kill the sausage flavor). Some apples from the last farmer's market of the year...

When Himself came home, the kitchen smelled of fall - peppers, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, brown-sugared apples ... he asked what I was making. I coyly replied that I wasn't going to tell him, because if I listed it on a menu he would laugh at me.

We dined on tempura-battered fried green tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes and jalepeno brats, cut into medallions, and apple cardamom upside down cake for dessert. There is something about tempura batter that makes fried foods infinitely more palatable to me. There is something about roasting that makes the flavors of already rich sweet potatoes burst in a celebration of crisp leaves and cold nights. There is something about the first fruits of fall that make a meal seem more "cozy" and warm. Never mind that they were all sort of jumbled up on a menu.

Himself didn't laugh at me. In fact, we both remarked on how it was the perfect light fall meal.

Of course, he was the only one who didn't laugh. I could hear my mom rolling her eyes as she said, "only in your house."

No one roasts veggies, fries green tomatoes or eats jalepeno sausage in our families. Sometimes I wonder where we came from.

NEWS FLASH: Woodstock

"COME HERE," Himself yelled up the stairs tonight. "HURRY!"

I don't like to be yelled at, I was in the middle of tending to a risotto and baked chicken and a balsamic glaze (could I pick any more things that had to be cooking at the same time "just so"?!).

But, since the birth of Woodstock, the word "HURRY!" combined with a yell, means the world is about to end - either in mass destruction of her creation or with her as its victim.

I tore down the stairs - risotto spoon in one hand, balsamic glaze whisk in the other.

"Woodstock is walking!" Himself exclaimed.

I sat down on the stores and cheered Woodstock on, risotto and glaze momentarily forgotten.

She walked 5 steps - and apparently loved the lavish praise (why are we praising her, I'm thinking now - this just means trouble!), because she kept doing it all evening.

And, wouldn't you know it, the momentary lapse in kitchen attention still resulted in my first successful risotto and a lovely balsamic glaze for the chicken.

The Corruption of Woodstock

Last night Himself took me to an Indian place he's been raving about for weeks on the other side of The Frontier. He found it his first day of work at The Store (making me ponder the sanity of applying to work at $9/hour when it takes $9 in gas just to get there and back!).

It was divine.

It was free samosa night - and they were huge and puffy and full of wonderful things like potatoes, peas and garam masala - one of my favorite spices ever.

I had brought leftover ratatouille for Woodstock to eat, in case she didn't like Indian food. She scarfed down the ratatouille, some tasty little crackers and then reached for the rest of my samosa and popped it in her mouth.

She then signed "more."

As it turns out, Woodstock likes Indian food almost as much as I do. It isn't just indiscriminate "I'll eat anything," because while Woodstock loves food, there are some things she will not eat. For instance, shse will not eat green beans - not in a pot, not in homemade chicken noodle soup, not in a box, not with mixed veggies, not with a fox, not pureed ... she will not eat green beans.

She loved the shahi paneer (of course - the kid inherited my love of all things cheese). She loved the nan. We already knew she preferred basmati rice to regular rice. She loved the vegetable curry (minus the green beans). Mostly, she loved the rice pudding. (She did not, however, like the carrot pudding - pulling so many faces that the table next to us broke out in laughter).

Of course, she delighted them by blowing them kisses and saying "ba ba" (bye-bye) as we left. I dread life in 13 years when loving to be the center of attention is full of drama instead of baby cuteness.

On the way out, I told Himself, "We just fed our kid eggplant and peppers and squash and an assortment of Indian food for dinner and that she liked it? We cannot afford this."

Himself drew the connection that she's had more different kinds of food at 11 months than Grover has had in almost 12 years.

We're in trouble.

Why did I have to go and decide against feeding Woodstock jarred baby food?

Things You Never Thought You Would Hear Me Say ...

I bought a water-bath canner this morning.

As in something to can fruit in Mason or Ball jars and put on shelves.

As in something ... domestic. Not only that, but something domestic that conjures up images of the small town, monochromatic mentality I've run from my entire life.

Except, it has to do with food, so one shouldn't really be too surprised.

Blame it on my dad. When I went to visit while on maternity leave last fall, I brought down a carload of apples. Dad, my sister and I spent our days making applesauce, apple juice and apple jelly.

None of us had canned before. We had "peeled, cut and stuffed," but Mom always did the "work." Since his retirement, however, Dad has become quite the domestic diva that none of us ever quite achieved ... canning, pickling, dry packing, making bread ... and signing Mom and himself up for a preserving class.

I think I was in a post-partum delirum, because I found myself thinking, "this is fun!"

Now to figure out how to recruit Dad to come visit when the canner arrives. After all, I'm not so domesticated as to slave away in a hot kitchen mid-summer with an apron on all by myself.

Not yet, anyway.

Attack of the Mormon Woman Isanities

No secret, we started moving last Saturday. And by started, I really mean STARTED, as in I've spent at least 2 hours every day since (usually 3-4) dragging more stuff from the Hobbit Hole over to the new house and cleaning. The kitchen floor alone took me 45 minutes to mop this morning - not because it was dirty-gross or huge, but because nothing I do makes the bluish linoleum look clean. Ever.

While my kitchen is more or less unpacked (More=all the spices, baking goods, pots-n-pans, utinsels are put away in their proper place; Less=the salad plates, all the bowls, some knives and plastic containers and all the pantry items remain to be found), it is still a contortionist's dream come true, as there are boxes and bags and random things (chains for the car's tires in the kitchen? Really)EVERYWHERE. It's what happens when you move with mostly male help.

At the same time, a woman I have a great deal of respect for is on bedrest with a touch-and-go pregnancy. Being a Mormon Woman, I am a firm believer in the necessity of meals brought in. Even if one has a husband who can cook. Especially when one has a child. So, I volunteered, with the caveat that I had to actually FIND the kitchen first, which would take me until today at least.

There is just one problem: I hadn't gone grocery shopping in a month (other than sending Himself to buy the occassional gallon of milk). So last night, I dragged Himself to the store. He moaned and spent his time adding boxes of rice pudding, maple syrup and other things not on the list as "surprises" (which was definitely a "surprise" when the total bill was $15 more than I had calculated in my head.

This morning, I cut up the veggies and steamed them, so they'd be ready to toss into the sauce for the main dish when I got home. I stuck the can (yes, unopened - no time to look for the can opener) of mandarin oranges in the fridge to chill for the salad. I gave Himself the chicken breasts to grill so they would be ready for me to heat with the sauce this evening.

Then I went to start the cupcakes. All was well until I realized that I buy eggs at Costco. I haven't been to Costco in a month either. I have no eggs. Rather than use my mom's nifty substitute of Knox gelatin and water for eggs and end up ruining the good chocolate going into the cupcakes, I abandoned that project and vowed to make a mad dash by the store on the way home from work.

So now dinner is in varying states of preparation, my kitchen is in varying states of situational distress and I am in varying states of insanity.

Why do I do this to myself?

For those curious, tonight's menu includes:
Penne in a tomato cream sauce (with grilled chicken)- thanks to Diana & Pedro for the recipe and the first introduction to this dish!
Mandarin Spinach Salad with Poppyseed Dressing
Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes

On Why Oatmeal and Babies Are Not a Good Combo

Baby Girl is now in the "I must feed myself" stage (which will last for the next 18 years, according to my mother).

It started out with rice krispies. Noticing that Baby Girl can find (and pick up) every microscopic piece of lint on the carpet, I thought "ah ha! I will engage her fine motor skills in picking up finger food to help pacify her while I cook dinner." Out came the rice krispies - small, easily eaten with no teeth (she now has two that are half-way in, but still hasn't figured out what use they serve other than to run her finger over repeatedly) and portable.

Baby Girl LOVES rice krispies and picks them up one by one to eat them.

It also keeps her occupied, when her dinner is not quite ready at the same time she is.

So I started to experiment with foods that would keep her occupied - and expand outside of the cold cereal genre. Tofu rolled in cereal dust, steamed pieces of mango, peach or pear, pancakes made with baby oatmeal, cinnamon and nutmeg ... and, oatmeal. OATMEAL?!

It was all fine until she decided that oatmeal was definitely not food fit for a spoon and was definitely in the "finger food" category.

Tonight, in the course of 45 minutes, I had to feed Baby Girl, make and bake a dozen chocolate/cream cheese/chocolate chip cupcakes, load and start the dishwasher and dash to a quilting event at church (yes, I know, what was I thinking? But I love quilts).

So I gave up on feeding her with a spoon, mixed a few pureed peaches in, globbed finger-sized blobs on her tray and let her feed herself.

Three hours later, while putting her to bed, I was still discovering bits of dried (read: cement-like) oatmeal - in her hair, her diaper, between her fingers, on her socks, down her pants ... along with bits of dried peach in her eyelashes and a smear of chocolate on the side of her face where I apparently inadvertently transferred cupcake batter at one point.

Then I saw her high chair.

I don't think I'll be feeding her oatmeal until she's figured out how to use a spoon. The sight of that high chair makes me want to run away screaming.

The Great Chocolate Caper - Proof

Going back to yesterday's post ...

Here it is - photographic evidence of Baby Girl's determination:

Side Note

Sushi aside, I've realized that Shrimp Paneer is quite possibly one of my favorite foods.

Simple, easy to make, full of vibrant, heated flavor ... the perfect comfort food for all the right reasons (unless you're my thighs).

It's 11 p.m., and I'm just now able to eat the dinner I made 5 hours ago.

And it is perfect. Nutty, aromatic basmati rice. Large gulf shrimp (from a crazy sale back when we were both employed), smooth, melty pieces of paneer bathed in a wonderfully creamy tomato base, a vibrant explosion of a number of spices. Mild enough to not interrupt the flavor, spicy enough to make your lips tingle for a moment after the last bite.

Never mind I'll have heartburn from the spices, the cheese and the tomatoes.

For five blissful minutes, all was right with the world.

True Love

True love is driving halfway across The Frontier in search of a Vietnamese Soup house to procure some Pho Ga for your wife who was crying when you left the house in the morning because she was so sick and tired.

True love is not asking her if she wanted any, but buying it anyway, then calling her and saying, "I have a surprise for you."

True love is getting enough that I can eat it today too, as Baby Girl and I hang out in our pajamas and be sick together at home.

The Great Pie Gathering

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for which Himself has mocked me for the almost nine years we've known each other. He thinks it's silly to have a favorite holiday that is just about eating (and giving thanks, but he doesn't ever mention that part). It shouldn't be a surprise that a holiday about food is my favorite - especially since the preparation for the holiday and the leftovers are far better than the actual meal itself.

This year, for the first time in seven years, I am having Thanksgiving with my family. This will be Himself's first year celebrating The Great Feast with my family.

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point, Thanksgiving became a contest to see how many pies could be consumed during the four-day holiday. Unable to hold themselves back, my dad and uncle always start in on the pies the night before Thanksgiving, to the great consternation of the women (whose role it seems is to preserve one's appetite for The Great Feast over which they have been laboring - even if only in their minds - for months).

There is ALWAYS more than enough pie to go around, yet, in a great race to ensure that one gets pie before the men eat it all, slices begin magically disappearing the moment the first guests begin stirring Thanksgiving morning. Usually a couple of pies are gone before The Great Feast even begins. Perhaps this is the reason that it is a family "necessity" to have at least as many pies as people - whether or not said "people" are old enough to consume pie (for instance, this year, Baby Girl gets counted in the "people" category - meaning the pie count will be upped by one).

I didn't realize the madness surrounding all of this (it's quite normal when one grows up expecting there to be a massive amount of pies at Thanksgiving) until Himself stopped me last week while I was reciting the food assignments.

"Are we eating anything but pie?"
"Of course!"
"All you've mentioned is pie - and the fact we're supposed to bring two of your key lime pies and another pie of our choosing. Who is bringing the food?"

It was at that point I realized that food had not yet entered the food assignment conversations. Last night I phoned my parents to see what else I needed to bring besides three pies (it works out that you typically get assigned to bring one pie per member of your household attending The Great Feast). This year, the first year he is hosting at his new home with his new wife, my uncle is in charge (a bad sign, and probably the reason only pies had been discussed thus far). Dad said, "I don't know - your mom and uncle were discussing it earlier today, let me put her on."

Good news. The women are usually the only reason The Great Feast Happens - not for lack of help on the men's part, but more out of lack of caring if there is anything but pie for the holiday.

So I asked, "Mom - what are we supposed to bring besides pies?"

*Crickets*

"Mom, please tell me that you talked about more than who was bringing what pies!"

*Crickets* Then, "Well, we did finalize who was bringing what pies."

I related the conversation to Himself when I got off the phone. We laughed. He said, "You should bring your fabulous homemade macaroni and cheese."

I told him I would be the laughing stock of my family if I showed up with that - macaroni and cheese is not considered "real food," no matter if it is homemade or out of a blue box.

He countered with, "At least we'll know there is food."

This year's Great Feast might just end up being The Great Pie Gathering. And you know what? It's okay by us. Himself won't have to eat turkey and the women won't have to drive each other mad cooking dinner in someone else's kitchen.

Regardless, Thanksgiving will still remain my favorite holiday.