Category Archives: Food

November 9, 2010 · 6:18 am

Desperate times

I just activated my emergency Snickers bar.

You might be saying to yourself, I thought she was forced to give up chocolate. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I made it through Halloween without a single piece of chocolate, which took great will power; but I was committed to good health and respectful of my dietary restrictions. However, I did stash one Snickers bar, perhaps as a measure of security, where I could get to it in an emergency.

Recently, some minor yet frustrating annoyances have graced our doorstep, which have called for generous amounts of patience and flexibility. The first was October’s fender bender and the various inconveniences that ensued.

I fully appreciate that the flies in my ointment are mere gnats compared to what the world’s poor, sick and homeless face every day. All the more reason to face one’s irritations with proper perspective.

So, as my gnats began to reproduce and mutate, I consulted my handy new manual, How to Say It, to be sure I addressed each inconvenience—and the person behind it—appropriately. Chapter 13 on Complaints offered a wealth of tips and techniques for airing one’s grievances, firmly but politely. I drew upon the insights offered in Chapter 13 to respond to statements like, We’re sorry, Mrs. Welch, but the rug you ordered in August, that was to be delivered in September, might (but we cannot offer any guarantee) be delivered in mid-January, and We’re sorry, Mrs. Welch, but the home project that was to be done in October is delayed indefinitely. We hope to start before Christmas (but we cannot offer any guarantee).

Chapter 13 gave me the right words but it provided no guarantee. Or result. I was on the edge.

With the ointment now full of horse flies, the only weapon I had left was an illegal, fun-sized Snickers bar.

Now, following a Snickers breakfast and paying the piper for it, I will leave  to catch an early flight with an impossibly tight connection. I will be optimistic about not hearing your flight is delayed, your flight has been cancelled or you missed your connection. (Heaven knows, the airlines offer no guarantee.)

Either way, I know the newsstand sells grown-up sized Snickers bars. And extra strength Tums.

Optimism aside, is it an omen that an enormous fly is buzzing overhead as I write this?

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November 5, 2010 · 8:31 am

The meal deal

This past couple of weeks have been a time of major purging at my house. In preparation for a major home improvement project—installation of central air conditioning—my husband and I have been going through 20 years’ worth of attic accumulation and carrying clutter and memories out the door.

This week we donated our son’s baby furniture, equipment and worn stuffed animals to charity. Yesterday, we said good bye to six window unit air conditioners. Serious purging.

Still, there remains a large bin in our basement that has gone untouched for 20 years. We were never quite sure what to do with its contents. Until now.

I have an idea for turning clutter into cash—by selling Happy Meal toys on street corners in San Francisco. Once the Board of Supervisors’ ban on offering free toys with junk food takes effect, I’ll hit up parents leaving McDonald’s with their kids in mid-meltdown, revealing plastic characters, from Aladdin to Zazu, nestled in the lining of my trench coat.

Will the ban make a difference, you wonder? I don’t know. I think kids get hooked on McDonald’s because it tastes better than Mom’s meatloaf and brussels sprouts. The Happy Meal wasn’t introduced until I was in college, after I’d been already been hooked on McDonald’s fries and chocolate shakes for more than 10 years. And hot apple pie before they banned frying it in lard. It never took a plastic Disney character to lure me over to the dark side.

 Psst, need to score a Nemo? I can hook you up.

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November 4, 2010 · 8:32 am

Dream on

Not too long ago, we had fun here talking about our first jobs. The idea came about when the Today show ran a series about its hosts’ first jobs. The post prompted readers to share memories of theirs.

This week, CBS’ The Early Show has been airing a series on dream jobs, in which the hosts and others from the CBS family help viewers score their dream jobs, if only for a day–working at the zoo, cooking alongside Bobby Flay, writing cards for Hallmark and so on.

This got me thinking. I don’t know about you, but my idea of a dream job takes on a different form with each passing year.

When I was four, I wanted to be a ballerina nun. That lasted until I was six, when I wanted to be a go-go dancer. Actually I was a go-go dancer, in a make-believe go-go club my friends and I set up in the garage, with the help of my mother, who made us all fringed hot pink go-go dresses. We had one 45 rpm record, The Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love;” two if you count the flip side, which was “You Can’t Do That.”

It has turned out that I’ve had a real dream job or two in my life. Or at least good jobs with dream perks. For several years, I got to travel the world, sometimes via corporate jet, doing fascinating work. Still, working in public policy as I did, it was not unusual to work on a single issue for years on end with seemingly little hope of completion.

It was then I used to dream of being a supermarket cashier. In addition to a fondness for groceries, what appealed to me most was the ability to finish a day’s work completely and definitively, with nothing hanging over my head. When your shift ends, you turn in your cash drawer, clock out, go home and leave it behind. You come in the next day with a clean smock and a fresh outlook.

I no longer have that dream because I am fortunate to be engaged more recently in project work, which carries with it that same sense of satisfaction–of completing a project, wrapping it up neatly and beginning a new one.

My husband has what many consider a dream job, and yet he dreams of other options. He is an oceanographer and wants to be a cowboy.

I can’t say at this moment what I’d consider to be my dream job. Maybe a shoe model.

Your turn. What did you want to be when you grew up or, now that you’re grown, what would be your dream job, even if you could do it for only a day?

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October 29, 2010 · 8:12 am

Bah! Humbug!

Alas, Halloween weekend is upon us. At the risk of solidifying your impression of me as a grouch, I must confess this is not my favorite holiday. I did endure in good humor a week of Halloween episodes of my favorite TV shows, but am relieved to have that over with.

Those who know me well know there aren’t many holidays I do like, mostly because of their power to impose unrealistic demands on us. But, as the next two months unfold, you will learn this about me soon enough.

So, what’s my beef with Halloween? I’ll hit the couch and tell you that much of it goes back to childhood. For some reason, I frequently got sick on Halloween night. Not from too much candy; I didn’t even make it out the door for trick-or-treating. Whether I spiked a high fever or spouted a projectile nosebleed right there in my Mary Poppins costume, something tended to strike me.

When I was seven, we moved to Cleveland on Halloween day, so I would have missed trick-or-treating altogether. I was heart-broken. My parents suggested I go out the night before to score some candy. So out I went, on October 30th, without my friends, in my Japanese kimono, ringing doorbells around the neighborhood. What did I find? That most people didn’t buy candy until Halloween day, so I caught many neighbors off guard. But don’t worry, I got over that and I trust they did too.

In those days, kids were cut off from trick-or-treating around age 12, which I think is an appropriate age. Nowadays, trick-or-treaters come in all ages, many without costumes, and this bugs me.

Believe it or not, up to 500 trick-or-treaters come to our door every Halloween. They begin before dinner and ring the doorbell well past 10 p.m. There’s a large Halloween attraction on the street behind our house, which draws people from all over. So, after enjoying the haunted houses, pirate ships and mazes, kids, teens and adults go around the block to trick-or-treat. What the news stories always capture is the cheery neighborliness of this gathering. So how can we not open our door enthusiastically?

Perhaps the most difficult part of Halloween is new to me this year. This is the year I had to give up chocolate.

So, if you happen to be at “Scary Perry” on Sunday night, stop by. I’ll be the one shot-gunning Pixy Stix.

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October 25, 2010 · 8:00 am

Slamming into Monday

Greetings from beside the imaginary water cooler. Or, if you’re under 50, the coffee pod brewer (I wish! As you know, I gave up coffee, 46 days ago, to be exact).

I work from home, and one of many things I miss about working in an office is gathering in the break room and hearing about everyone’s weekend.

In offices everywhere, Monday begins with, “What did you do this weekend?”

I sit here amazed at what I fit into mine and there’s no one here to share it with.

Between Friday and Sunday, I took a train home from a business meeting, ran errands, attended a photography exhibit downtown, served on our church’s altar guild (preparing altar candles, linens, silver and brass, both Saturday and Sunday), took two cats to the vet, went to a dinner party, went to church, did some work for hospice, worked the Sunday crossword puzzle, did several loads of laundry and prepped for a colonoscopy. (Hey, if Katie Couric can show it, I can say it.)

Bottom line: I slid into Monday in a daze. And now I am off again to, well, you know.

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October 23, 2010 · 8:34 am

Poor girl’s pâté

I am stuck in town this weekend, which means, once again, I will be missing the annual Shelby, North Carolina, Fall Festival and Livermush Expo. Another year I won’t be crowned Livermush Queen.

Livermush is indigenous to the South and specifically to Western North Carolina. Lest you assume it is the same as scrapple, allow me to point out the distinctions. Both are composed of pig liver, head parts and cornmeal, commonly seasoned with pepper and sage and fried with grease in a skillet until crisp. By definition, livermush must contain liver; scrapple may but doesn’t have to. Scrapple originated in Pennsylvania.

The first time I tasted scrapple was on a camping trip with my aunt and uncle. Oh, how I loved that first crunch, then the  mush.  Mmmm-mm.

My husband was born and reared in Shelby. I was interested to learn of the first Fall Festival and Livermush Expo in 1987. I think they crowned a Livermush Queen in those days, but that rite now appears absent from the Expo. I remember telling my in-laws how cool I thought it was that Shelby had a livermush festival, noting that I was a big fan of the stuff. My mother-in-law was horrified. Apparently not everyone in Shelby enjoys livermush. I believe she said only “those of poor breeding” have a taste for such things. I further embarrassed myself—and her—when I ordered it at breakfast once. I feel bad about that.

My husband’s parents have since passed away. We rarely visit Shelby but for the occasional funeral or Shelby High reunion. But before I die, I hope to attend this momentous event. I’d visit all the exhibits, taste one of Mack’s famous livermush sandwiches, sample the delicacy on a stick, maybe sip some sweet tea.

Yep, that’s another one for the bucket list. I suspect I’ll be going alone.

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October 4, 2010 · 7:57 am

Power to the people

Please excuse Monica’s absence on Saturday, as she was unable to produce a blog update.

If you’ll also excuse the excuse, I’ll tell you where I really was on Saturday. I was stuck in the 1970s and couldn’t get out. 

Saturday morning I woke to a world without Internet. Something struck an electrical transformer in our area and we were without power for most of the day. One of my friends from college was staying with me and two more college chums were expected at my house for dinner, one of whom I hadn’t seen in more than 25 years.

I tried to shake off the guilt of not delivering a blog by adopting my 1970s work ethic: “I’ll worry about it later.” My friend and I then walked into town, strolled through the farmers market and stopped to listen to some live folk music.

When we got back to the house and discovered that power was still not restored, and guests were expected within hours, I looked again to the ’70s for inspiration. Friends coming for dinner + no electricity = fondue.

Fortunately, power came on, my friends came shortly thereafter. Until the clock struck twelve, we relived our time in college during the ’70s. We looked at old photos, listened to Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne, Marshall Tucker, Southside Johnny, Steely Dan, The Outlaws and Little Feat, and, over fondue, we shared the memories that each song conjured. We turned on Saturday Night Live and reminisced about the casts and skits of old, which we had watched together more than 30 years ago on a 13-inch black-and-white TV, in Room 109 of the since-demolished Zimmerman Hall.

I confess, for just those few hours, I pretended the blog hadn’t yet been invented.

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October 1, 2010 · 8:07 am

On the air

I’d like to tell you about something I think is pretty cool. But first I need to go back about 30 or 35 years.

My brothers and I played a lot of make-believe when we were young. Sometimes it was the three of us. Once we set up a pretend men’s clothing store in my father’s home office. We called it “Chic Menswear.” However, as I am a good bit older than they are, it was usually just the two of them playing. They might have been cowboys one day and priests the next (our hearth looked much like an altar). At least once, they were DJs working at a pretend radio station.

My brothers are now in their forties, with kids of their own and serious day jobs. One is an internal auditor for a credit union; the other, CEO of a public relations agency. One lives in Northern Utah, the other in Southern Arizona.

And they both have radio programs.

Brother Number One, who was the only member of our family interested in sports, is a regular commentator on a program called “Full Court Press,” on KVNU (AM 610) in Logan, Utah. Brother Number Two, who preferred pots and pans to bats and balls, hosts “On the Menu Live,” on KJLL (AM 1330) in Tucson. Of course, both can be heard online.

I am the big sister, so it is my prerogative to embarrass them by sharing their childhood proclivities. But it is also my pleasure to say how proud I am of them. And as the general manager of Chic Menswear, I’d say my young sales associates have come a long way.

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September 4, 2010 · 10:34 am

Difficult breakup

Today is my first day without coffee since 1975.

After a beautiful 35-year friendship, I am going to try and break it off.

Without dwelling too much on my health issues of late, let’s just leave it that I’ve come to terms with the reality that the painfully strict diet my doctor has prescribed may actually help me. The flip side of this reality is that I can no longer have any of the beverages I like—including coffee, orange juice, milk, sparkling water, beer or wine. I also can’t have 90 percent of the foods I enjoy, which amount to about 95 percent of the foods in existence on the planet. Basically, if it’s acidic, or acid-producing, I can’t have it.

I am on Day 11 of almost total compliance. The final step is the coffee. Luckily, I don’t need to give up caffeine altogether, and I can have limited kinds of tea.

Even so, people battling addictions often say the substance itself is only part of the challenge. It’s the ritual that’s difficult to give up.

I’ve always said I could give up wine before I could give up coffee.

But it’s not about the caffeine. Coffee is my morning companion. I awake to its aroma. A mug of the warm elixir helps me greet the day with hope and enthusiasm. It goes so well with the newspaper.

I ask for your patience. If you see a mistake in the blog, or sense a more subdued tone than normal, please be kind. Remember I’ve just lost my best friend.

Remember there’s no blog tomorrow. I’ll be curled up with the Sunday paper and a steaming mug of hot water. I can’t even have lemon.

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August 19, 2010 · 8:30 am

Burrito therapy

Yesterday was fun, reading everyone’s comments about the flavors of yore. Thanks for playing along.

I also appreciated the well wishes—online and off—for my sinus infection. I have to say, it’s been quite a miserable week. You’ve convinced me; I’ll try a Neti Pot.

I hadn’t mentioned that my son has been visiting for a few days this week. He too had a sinus and ear infection so, when he arrived, he was feeling as punk as I. We’ve been quite the pair, lying around listlessly, coughing and sniffling. I didn’t cook a single meal for him and we didn’t do a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g.

Yesterday, after two days of bland food and forced liquids, he knew what we both needed—Chipotle burritos.

There is no Chipotle within 90 miles of where he lives. We have 19 within a 10-mile radius; 20 when the new one opens in our little town this fall. Chipotle is about his favorite food. So when he’s visiting, he’s there, at least once.

I, on the other hand, never go unless I am with him. I like their food very much, but I find the ordering process a little intimidating. The menu is composed of inside terms and the line moves quickly. The people behind the counter are nice and efficient, but I still feel like a Soup Nazi customer as I bumble my way through all the choices when everyone else seems to have the process down to a science. For this reason, I order the one combo I’ve memorized – the Barbacoa Burrito Bowl, black beans, no rice, corn, lettuce and sour cream. I pass on the salsa because the descriptions are confusing and I am too timid to ask for help. It’s a little like ordering at Starbucks, where I need a glossary.

So usually, my son orders for me. Yesterday he brought back what he thought we needed for what ailed us. Plus a side of the world’s best guacamole and freshly made chips for good measure. He was dead on. Best of all, he saved me a great deal of anxiety.

The Chipotle website is tons of fun, I could hang out there all day. Bravo to their marketing team. It’s a great company with terrific food; there’s even an online order option. I just prefer not to venture into the restaurant alone.

Now on to buy a Neti Pot. Again with the choices.

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