Vegetarians make my life difficult. I'm not a vegetarian. I eat meat and I enjoy it. Generally, vegetarians are easy to accommodate. If you're having a meal with a vegetarian at a restaurant, you choose one that has vegetarian options. Problem solved. If you have a meal at the vegetarian's house, they will serve you a fully balanced meal. Problem solved. If the vegetarian is eating at my house, well . . . . a massive problem just created itself.
The problem is created because I'm new at hostessing and I'm determined to get it right. This of course is a silly attitude to take. However, from talking to older and wiser hostesses, it's a stage that everyone goes through. It means you do stupid stuff like make the pie from scratch instead of buying it on your way home from work. I know one person who kept making Yorkshire puddings until she had perfected the art. From then on, she bought frozen ones. She felt that because she knew how to make them, she wasn't wimping out in buying them. I think most of us follow that logic - although we all acknowledge that it's warped.
The timing of meals is still something that I have to master. Getting the meat and vegetables to arrive at the table at just the right perfection of doneness is tricky. There is one comforting fact about meat though. People will eat it. There is a huge range of doneness in which meat is still eatable and enjoyable. It might not be done exactly optimally but in choking it down, people get their full protein quota for the day. Meat is one of those things that people feel obliged to eat. They'll eat the meat and leave the potatoes and have extra helpings of dessert.
In my mind, tofu is the way in which vegetarians get their protein. In my mind, tofu is really easy to ruin. It has no taste and it has a funny texture. I have had tofu that was surprisingly good. I have also had tofu so awful that everybody left it on their plates. It is this last scenario that worries me. What if the tofu I serve to the unsuspecting vegetarian falls into the latter category of downright awful? Will they think that I have tried to poison them because we have differing views on meat? Will they try and hide the white slimy chunk of protein under their knife and fork or spread it around the plate to make it look like they ate more than they did? Just how hungry will they be, because let's face it, vegetables don't exactly keep you full for long.
Trying to time, vegetables, meat and tofu or another alternative non-animal based protein gives me a stress headache just trying to think about it. If you're baking the meat, can you bake the tofu? Does it have to be done in the same type of sauce but in a different pan so that it is contaminant free? Will this double the amount of pans I have to wash? Can they be cooked at the same temperature? If I pan fry the meat, how do I do the tofu? Do I need two frying pans? How do I season it? Quite frankly, how do I make it edible?
I have a friend who is vegetarian. She knows how to cook tofu. I'm going to get her to teach me. If she can live off the stuff, there has to be a way of making it palatable.
One day I will know how to cook tofu so that it is appetizing. Before that, I have to figure out how to cook the meat. Until that day, everybody is getting served eggs. I'm sorry but the vegans will have to wait. There's only so many pans my sink will hold.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Confectionism - Part I
I decided recently to stop being a perfectionist and become a confectionist. I know a lot of perfectionists but I do not number among my acquaintances, a self-proclaimed confectionist. It was a good job that I decided to give the one up to become the other. I'm not sure that they're compatible.
My first foray into the world of boiling sugar was trying to make Tablet - a type of Scottish fudge. My grandfather makes tablet around Christmas and every year, we get given our very own tablet. I was back in Ottawa when I realised that I had not had any tablet this year and furthermore, I had not even been given any. In sheer disbelief, I phoned my grandmother to register a complaint. Instead of her offering to fedex me my missing tablet, she handed me over to my grandfather, who duly gave me the recipe. I really wish she'd just offered to fedex it. It would have been much easier.
The Tablet recipe was brought over from Scotland by my great-grandmother. The recipe is jealously guarded as a family secret. I'm not really sure why. It's written in code and there's no way a mere mortal is going to be able to reproduce the product that my grandfather manages to churn out year after year. I know I can't, and I have the recipe and the method.
Making Tablet, take 1.
I followed very carefully the steps that my grandfather had laid out. It was easy enough. Stir until your arm falls off. So I did but I got bored or impatient or both. I didn't have a candy thermometer and it seemed to be at the soft ball stage. At least the way I did the cold water test, it was. Good confectionists can eye the boiling sugar and then take some of it and drop it in cold water. When the mixture hits the water, it will form a ball with a tail. The shape of the ball and the length of the tail as well as the consistency of both is supposed to indicate what stage the mixture has reached. As I realised in retrospect, this is really what consistency it will be when it's cool. So if it's soft and kinda oozes when you take your sample out the water, it will be soft and very oozy when you're finished with it.
I was thrilled as I poured the mixture into the prepared pan. It was the right colour, it tasted right, if a little hot, and it seemed as though I had done it right the first time. Oh yeah! Confectionary perfection here I come. Until several hours later, it still hadn't really set. Oh it looked set. It was even set when you cut it. It was when you tried to move it - say from the pan to your mouth. Then it would slowly sag over your fingers and then start racing for the floor. It wasn't a solid and it wasn't a liquid. It was something new. It definitely was not what I had expected. I had hoped for a nice package arriving in the mail. A care package. Doesn't anyone send those anymore? Apparently not, they give you morse code over the phone. Maybe it was a family rite of passage. If you can't pull this off, then you're not really part of the family. I'm trying to choose a new last name. I'm going to need it.
My first foray into the world of boiling sugar was trying to make Tablet - a type of Scottish fudge. My grandfather makes tablet around Christmas and every year, we get given our very own tablet. I was back in Ottawa when I realised that I had not had any tablet this year and furthermore, I had not even been given any. In sheer disbelief, I phoned my grandmother to register a complaint. Instead of her offering to fedex me my missing tablet, she handed me over to my grandfather, who duly gave me the recipe. I really wish she'd just offered to fedex it. It would have been much easier.
The Tablet recipe was brought over from Scotland by my great-grandmother. The recipe is jealously guarded as a family secret. I'm not really sure why. It's written in code and there's no way a mere mortal is going to be able to reproduce the product that my grandfather manages to churn out year after year. I know I can't, and I have the recipe and the method.
Making Tablet, take 1.
I followed very carefully the steps that my grandfather had laid out. It was easy enough. Stir until your arm falls off. So I did but I got bored or impatient or both. I didn't have a candy thermometer and it seemed to be at the soft ball stage. At least the way I did the cold water test, it was. Good confectionists can eye the boiling sugar and then take some of it and drop it in cold water. When the mixture hits the water, it will form a ball with a tail. The shape of the ball and the length of the tail as well as the consistency of both is supposed to indicate what stage the mixture has reached. As I realised in retrospect, this is really what consistency it will be when it's cool. So if it's soft and kinda oozes when you take your sample out the water, it will be soft and very oozy when you're finished with it.
I was thrilled as I poured the mixture into the prepared pan. It was the right colour, it tasted right, if a little hot, and it seemed as though I had done it right the first time. Oh yeah! Confectionary perfection here I come. Until several hours later, it still hadn't really set. Oh it looked set. It was even set when you cut it. It was when you tried to move it - say from the pan to your mouth. Then it would slowly sag over your fingers and then start racing for the floor. It wasn't a solid and it wasn't a liquid. It was something new. It definitely was not what I had expected. I had hoped for a nice package arriving in the mail. A care package. Doesn't anyone send those anymore? Apparently not, they give you morse code over the phone. Maybe it was a family rite of passage. If you can't pull this off, then you're not really part of the family. I'm trying to choose a new last name. I'm going to need it.
No really, I can't eat any more sugar
My uncle has diabetes. My uncle married into the family, which is odd. Most people try and marry out of it. BMU (Before my uncle) no one in our family had diabetes. The problem is that while we understand diabetes in theory, we can't get the practical application correct. Most of the time this doesn't matter, my aunt and uncle live on practically the other side of the world, but they come home at Christmas and they stay with my grandparents.
My grandmother keeps cookies and bars in her freezer. At any given time, she has about a dozen different kinds just ready to be defrosted. My grandfather makes a Scottish fudge which is practically pure sugar. We like sweet things. Apparently diabetics can only eat a certain amount of sugar. I like when my uncle comes to visit, I can eat his portion of sweets. Or I could if my grandmother hadn't figured that one out pretty quickly. Trying to outmaneuver my grandmother is like trying to put someone in check-mate with a pawn. You're doomed before you even try.
The best part about helping in the kitchen is getting sent downstairs to put the cookie plate together. The entire reason this job exists is so that the lucky helper gets to help him or herself to his or her favourite cookie. I try to ensure that the helper is a she which is me. But oh no, my grandmother had to send my uncle. I protested loudly and fiercely, "That's a stupid idea. He can't even help himself to extras. I mean why would you send him . . . ." Oh I get it. He won't snitch. He can't snitch. My grandmother had finally found the perfect helper. She had been waiting a long time for this. To stop her own children from helping themselves to the frozen cookies, she had locked the freezer which only forced them to become lockpicks at a young age.
My uncle though didn't realise how the cookie tray worked. He proudly brought it back upstairs whereupon we all looked at him blankly. My aunt broke the silence, "You're missing the bird's nests." The rest of us chimed in, "Where are the yum-yum's?" "What about those round things?" "Where are the rice crispy squares?" At this my uncle pointed to them on the plate. "No not those ones, the chocolate ones." We summed it up in one great big chorus, "You haven't got them all."
He looked dumb-founded at the plate. "But there's eight different ones and I made sure that there was enough for everyone." Someone, maybe it was me, blurted out, "But I normally have two of those and that's before it's even left the kitchen . . . . I mean . . . ."
After lunch, the cookies were passed round. We ensured that my uncle got his share. The only problem was that after about two cookies he wouldn't have any more. We tried harder. "Try those ones, they're really good." I even tried to get him to try the nanimio bars. But he wouldn't try them. "Remember, I'm diabetic." We would nod gravely and then offer him a chocolate chip cookie. We just didn't get it.
It's a good job my uncle can say no repeatedly. His entire visit we tried to put him in a sugar-induced coma. We were trying to be a good hosts. I think he appreciated it. I think he'll come back next year. I hear from my aunt, he's upping the medical insurance. I also hear he's had a t-shirt made. It just says NO and then in smaller letters, thank-you. My grandmother says she's going to give him the keys to the freezer. My brother and I are are practising picking pockets. We can already pick the lock.
My grandmother keeps cookies and bars in her freezer. At any given time, she has about a dozen different kinds just ready to be defrosted. My grandfather makes a Scottish fudge which is practically pure sugar. We like sweet things. Apparently diabetics can only eat a certain amount of sugar. I like when my uncle comes to visit, I can eat his portion of sweets. Or I could if my grandmother hadn't figured that one out pretty quickly. Trying to outmaneuver my grandmother is like trying to put someone in check-mate with a pawn. You're doomed before you even try.
The best part about helping in the kitchen is getting sent downstairs to put the cookie plate together. The entire reason this job exists is so that the lucky helper gets to help him or herself to his or her favourite cookie. I try to ensure that the helper is a she which is me. But oh no, my grandmother had to send my uncle. I protested loudly and fiercely, "That's a stupid idea. He can't even help himself to extras. I mean why would you send him . . . ." Oh I get it. He won't snitch. He can't snitch. My grandmother had finally found the perfect helper. She had been waiting a long time for this. To stop her own children from helping themselves to the frozen cookies, she had locked the freezer which only forced them to become lockpicks at a young age.
My uncle though didn't realise how the cookie tray worked. He proudly brought it back upstairs whereupon we all looked at him blankly. My aunt broke the silence, "You're missing the bird's nests." The rest of us chimed in, "Where are the yum-yum's?" "What about those round things?" "Where are the rice crispy squares?" At this my uncle pointed to them on the plate. "No not those ones, the chocolate ones." We summed it up in one great big chorus, "You haven't got them all."
He looked dumb-founded at the plate. "But there's eight different ones and I made sure that there was enough for everyone." Someone, maybe it was me, blurted out, "But I normally have two of those and that's before it's even left the kitchen . . . . I mean . . . ."
After lunch, the cookies were passed round. We ensured that my uncle got his share. The only problem was that after about two cookies he wouldn't have any more. We tried harder. "Try those ones, they're really good." I even tried to get him to try the nanimio bars. But he wouldn't try them. "Remember, I'm diabetic." We would nod gravely and then offer him a chocolate chip cookie. We just didn't get it.
It's a good job my uncle can say no repeatedly. His entire visit we tried to put him in a sugar-induced coma. We were trying to be a good hosts. I think he appreciated it. I think he'll come back next year. I hear from my aunt, he's upping the medical insurance. I also hear he's had a t-shirt made. It just says NO and then in smaller letters, thank-you. My grandmother says she's going to give him the keys to the freezer. My brother and I are are practising picking pockets. We can already pick the lock.
Why cravings are bad for you
As promised - a guest writer.
Last Friday I was on half term. For some bizarre reason I couldn't sleep in so I actually got up before midday! I was really craving chocolate chip cookies, so I checked the cupboard and all there was were dry old shop bought ones. Hmmm... those were not going to fulfil the craving criteria.
So...I got out my favorite recipe (sooo good and gooey) and all the ingredients and started...all was going very well. So far so good. I put it all in the Kenwood (a make of mixer). Being the busy person that I am (HA!), I decided to multi-task. I put the Kenwood on and walked into the study to check my email. I hadn't even opened my mail when I heard the most tremendous crash from the kitchen. I ran out... elegantly careening across the lino floor in my socks ...and looked around the kitchen for the origin of the crash...
Lo and behold the Kenwood is on the floor with the wire stretched...but still mixing away. Stifling the urge to laugh at the thing still mixing away, I go nearer and did not need to stifle the laugh any more. The laugh had totally gone. Mum's mixer had a massive crack in it and part of it had come up away. The extra plastic thing mum had bought to stop the flour going everywhere was shattered in pieces all over the kitchen and was being mixed into my cookie dough. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
I turned it off as soon as I could and then lifted it back onto the counter, stepping on sharp plastic on the way. Ouch. I cleaned the cookie dough off the bottom of my feet and went back over to the Kenwood. I just stood and looked at it. Then I went to the phone and rang Mum, who wasn't there, because I couldn't think what else to do. She informed me that it was the Kenwood her Granny had given her and it is very special to her. Oops, oops, and oops again.
I hung up and looked at the other end of the kitchen. There was cookie dough all over the floor, all over the counter, all over the microwave and a bit on the door. I cleaned the floor first so that I wouldn't have to clean my feet all over again. Cleaning squished cookie dough is very fun. So then I got the bowl out of the mixer and started to separate the plastic from the dough. After a while I had the dough plastic free and the plastic in a sad little pile next to me. Thinking there was nothing I could do, I might as well carry on making the cookies. I put them on trays and into the oven, less than 5 mins later I thought I'd check on them, - burnt. Oh great. The recipe said 10-15 mins!!! Argh! I turned off the cooker and looked at the cookies with shame.
So next time I make cookies I'm inviting my friend over...maybe she can catch the Kenwood before it throws itself off the counter again...
Last Friday I was on half term. For some bizarre reason I couldn't sleep in so I actually got up before midday! I was really craving chocolate chip cookies, so I checked the cupboard and all there was were dry old shop bought ones. Hmmm... those were not going to fulfil the craving criteria.
So...I got out my favorite recipe (sooo good and gooey) and all the ingredients and started...all was going very well. So far so good. I put it all in the Kenwood (a make of mixer). Being the busy person that I am (HA!), I decided to multi-task. I put the Kenwood on and walked into the study to check my email. I hadn't even opened my mail when I heard the most tremendous crash from the kitchen. I ran out... elegantly careening across the lino floor in my socks ...and looked around the kitchen for the origin of the crash...
Lo and behold the Kenwood is on the floor with the wire stretched...but still mixing away. Stifling the urge to laugh at the thing still mixing away, I go nearer and did not need to stifle the laugh any more. The laugh had totally gone. Mum's mixer had a massive crack in it and part of it had come up away. The extra plastic thing mum had bought to stop the flour going everywhere was shattered in pieces all over the kitchen and was being mixed into my cookie dough. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
I turned it off as soon as I could and then lifted it back onto the counter, stepping on sharp plastic on the way. Ouch. I cleaned the cookie dough off the bottom of my feet and went back over to the Kenwood. I just stood and looked at it. Then I went to the phone and rang Mum, who wasn't there, because I couldn't think what else to do. She informed me that it was the Kenwood her Granny had given her and it is very special to her. Oops, oops, and oops again.
I hung up and looked at the other end of the kitchen. There was cookie dough all over the floor, all over the counter, all over the microwave and a bit on the door. I cleaned the floor first so that I wouldn't have to clean my feet all over again. Cleaning squished cookie dough is very fun. So then I got the bowl out of the mixer and started to separate the plastic from the dough. After a while I had the dough plastic free and the plastic in a sad little pile next to me. Thinking there was nothing I could do, I might as well carry on making the cookies. I put them on trays and into the oven, less than 5 mins later I thought I'd check on them, - burnt. Oh great. The recipe said 10-15 mins!!! Argh! I turned off the cooker and looked at the cookies with shame.
So next time I make cookies I'm inviting my friend over...maybe she can catch the Kenwood before it throws itself off the counter again...
Robbie Burns: Part III
I had invited my guests carefully. I had tried to choose those who got along and more importantly, those who liked haggis. The table was balanced, until one of my girl friends could not come. The table was now heavily weighted towards the male contingent.
I had a conversation recently with a girl friend about the male appetite and how easily we underestimate it. Women, it seems, don't really eat all that much. We tend to graze through-out the day. This is why we can always say "oh, I'm not really all that hungry," and then eat a salad for dinner. We've been eating all day. Therefore, our first instinct when cooking for others is to take the amount that we would eat, multiple it by the number of people coming and then add a bit. But it's never enough. If an invitee is a male who is cooking for himself, then the problem becomes amplified.
I had what I thought was lots of food. I was convinced I was going to be eating leftovers for weeks to come. I had more root vegetables than I could physically cook. The haggis was a large one. There were triffle and cookies. But my guests were predominately males who all enjoy their food. I think on average they all had three helpings. There wasn't much of anything left. I was flabbergasted. My grandmother had always told me that a good hostess has lots of everything out as leftovers can always be put away, but it's pretty hard to produce more food.
At first I was pleased. Yes, they like it and then I started to panic. Guests aren't supposed to go home hungry and they were still giving each other more helpings. Maybe they hadn't remembered desert because when the rest of the courses arrived, they started to look a little green around the gills.
Recovering on the couches, discussion swirled around various topics of conversation as we swirled various types of whiskey in our glasses. And then all of sudden, the males jumped up, clapped their hands and proclaimed, "We can't leave you with this mess, " and rushed into the kitchen. There were more of them trying to help then there were jobs for them to do and the ones who had found something to do weren't going to share with those who hadn't. I was stunned. Guests weren't supposed to attack your kitchen and clean it up. I protested and was evicted. I was allowed back when they realised they didn't know where everything went. I think the kitchen was cleaner when they left then when they had arrived.
They'll all be invited back. Next time, I'll increase the muliplier and add factors. I'm pretty sure, next time they'll leave room for dessert.
I had a conversation recently with a girl friend about the male appetite and how easily we underestimate it. Women, it seems, don't really eat all that much. We tend to graze through-out the day. This is why we can always say "oh, I'm not really all that hungry," and then eat a salad for dinner. We've been eating all day. Therefore, our first instinct when cooking for others is to take the amount that we would eat, multiple it by the number of people coming and then add a bit. But it's never enough. If an invitee is a male who is cooking for himself, then the problem becomes amplified.
I had what I thought was lots of food. I was convinced I was going to be eating leftovers for weeks to come. I had more root vegetables than I could physically cook. The haggis was a large one. There were triffle and cookies. But my guests were predominately males who all enjoy their food. I think on average they all had three helpings. There wasn't much of anything left. I was flabbergasted. My grandmother had always told me that a good hostess has lots of everything out as leftovers can always be put away, but it's pretty hard to produce more food.
At first I was pleased. Yes, they like it and then I started to panic. Guests aren't supposed to go home hungry and they were still giving each other more helpings. Maybe they hadn't remembered desert because when the rest of the courses arrived, they started to look a little green around the gills.
Recovering on the couches, discussion swirled around various topics of conversation as we swirled various types of whiskey in our glasses. And then all of sudden, the males jumped up, clapped their hands and proclaimed, "We can't leave you with this mess, " and rushed into the kitchen. There were more of them trying to help then there were jobs for them to do and the ones who had found something to do weren't going to share with those who hadn't. I was stunned. Guests weren't supposed to attack your kitchen and clean it up. I protested and was evicted. I was allowed back when they realised they didn't know where everything went. I think the kitchen was cleaner when they left then when they had arrived.
They'll all be invited back. Next time, I'll increase the muliplier and add factors. I'm pretty sure, next time they'll leave room for dessert.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Robbie Burns: Part II
The early Scots were known for being a fairly tough race. The Romans built a wall to keep them out. This just gave the Scots something else to destroy when they came through on a raid.
After having cooked a so-called Scottish meal, I'm pretty sure that I know why the Scots were so tough. They ate potatoes and turnips. Now it's not the actual eating of these root vegetables that makes you strong - it's preparing them.
I had very carefully figured out what time everything had to be on the stove by and so was trying to prepare the food accordingly. I started with the potatoes. Scrub 'em, peel 'em, chop 'em up and plop them in the pan. It was at the "chop 'em" part that I ran into trouble. These potatoes were not exactly easy to deal with. They were slippery and futhermore they were hard. I began to wish I had a better knife - ideally a cleaver. My brother has one. We used it to chop frozen meat. It would have chopped the potatoes by itself and poured me a drink. But no, I was stuck chopping potatoes. And then it happened. I brought the knife down and discovered on impact that the potato had slide and I was in the process of chopping my fingers. Sucking three fingers at once, I swore loudly. My great-grandfather was a sailer. I always thought I could have learned a lot from him.
I staunched the drips of blood, wrapped band-aids over all the cuts and finished the potatoes. I was a trooper. I ended up with more potato pieces then would fit in the pan. I decided that they would boil down and crammed them all in. The joys of cleaning starch off a stove!
Then I looked at the turnips. Now I knew from experience that turnips are harder than potatoes. One of my friends had assured me that he liked turnips. He had even offered to help carry home the Burns supplies which meant that we had ended up with two large turnips. He had choosen them carefully - they were huge and they were hard. I stabbed the smaller one with my knive. All the other knives went and hid. They weren't stupid.; this thing was going to eat knives for breakfast. I managed to make an incision. Then I tried to pull the knife out. I left it there. I had already managed to slice three fingers at once. If I tried to attack the two turnips, I was going to lose a hand. I picked up the phone, "You know those turnips you choose? . . . oh and don't forget to bring a knife."
The back-up chopper arrived on time with his knife. It was a typical guy's knife: heavy duty and sharp. He started on the turnips. I would have started at one end and tried to hack slices off going across. He started by making the turnip square. Then it didn't skid across the chopping board when you tried to hack bits off it. Except that he didn't hack bits off it, he cut slices and then made cubes. It was the most symmetrical chopping of a turnip I've ever seen. Except that all those perfect cubes wouldn't fit in the pan. Two large turnips create a lot of chopped turnip. We had to break out the tupperware. They were carefully stacked into a box and placed in the fridge.
I still have ten fingers. Last time I chopped potatoes, I made them rectangular, then I hacked them into bits.
After having cooked a so-called Scottish meal, I'm pretty sure that I know why the Scots were so tough. They ate potatoes and turnips. Now it's not the actual eating of these root vegetables that makes you strong - it's preparing them.
I had very carefully figured out what time everything had to be on the stove by and so was trying to prepare the food accordingly. I started with the potatoes. Scrub 'em, peel 'em, chop 'em up and plop them in the pan. It was at the "chop 'em" part that I ran into trouble. These potatoes were not exactly easy to deal with. They were slippery and futhermore they were hard. I began to wish I had a better knife - ideally a cleaver. My brother has one. We used it to chop frozen meat. It would have chopped the potatoes by itself and poured me a drink. But no, I was stuck chopping potatoes. And then it happened. I brought the knife down and discovered on impact that the potato had slide and I was in the process of chopping my fingers. Sucking three fingers at once, I swore loudly. My great-grandfather was a sailer. I always thought I could have learned a lot from him.
I staunched the drips of blood, wrapped band-aids over all the cuts and finished the potatoes. I was a trooper. I ended up with more potato pieces then would fit in the pan. I decided that they would boil down and crammed them all in. The joys of cleaning starch off a stove!
Then I looked at the turnips. Now I knew from experience that turnips are harder than potatoes. One of my friends had assured me that he liked turnips. He had even offered to help carry home the Burns supplies which meant that we had ended up with two large turnips. He had choosen them carefully - they were huge and they were hard. I stabbed the smaller one with my knive. All the other knives went and hid. They weren't stupid.; this thing was going to eat knives for breakfast. I managed to make an incision. Then I tried to pull the knife out. I left it there. I had already managed to slice three fingers at once. If I tried to attack the two turnips, I was going to lose a hand. I picked up the phone, "You know those turnips you choose? . . . oh and don't forget to bring a knife."
The back-up chopper arrived on time with his knife. It was a typical guy's knife: heavy duty and sharp. He started on the turnips. I would have started at one end and tried to hack slices off going across. He started by making the turnip square. Then it didn't skid across the chopping board when you tried to hack bits off it. Except that he didn't hack bits off it, he cut slices and then made cubes. It was the most symmetrical chopping of a turnip I've ever seen. Except that all those perfect cubes wouldn't fit in the pan. Two large turnips create a lot of chopped turnip. We had to break out the tupperware. They were carefully stacked into a box and placed in the fridge.
I still have ten fingers. Last time I chopped potatoes, I made them rectangular, then I hacked them into bits.
Robbie Burns : Part I
When I moved out, my father was very worried. On top of the normal father anxiety, I think my father thought I was going to kill myself; not on purpose of course but I was going to be cooking for myself. When I was little and helping my grandmother make dessert, I had had a brilliant idea. We were having meringues for dessert with cream. Two white things, one on top of the other. An aesthetics disaster waiting to happen. I suggested that we colour them. At this time my mother was decorating a lot of cakes so me and food colouring were good friends. The meringues were served with cream but now one was blue and one was pink. I forget which was which. My family has never forgotten my brilliant idea. They were pretty sure I had tried to poison them. Food shouldn't be sky blue and rose pink apparently.
I think it was shortly after that that I was given the task of setting the table. I'm very good at setting tables. I can do it American or European style. For meat with or without steak knives, for fish, for soup, for dessert, with cloth or paper napkins, with the good cutlery or the everyday, with the best plates or the everyday, the appropriate coffee or tea set for afterwards, the right serving spoons - you name it, I've probably put it on a table. Needless to say I had years of practice.
I was eventually upgraded to being allowed back in the kitchen. I got to help with serving. I think the rationale was the food was already cooked so there wasn't much I could do to it. I'm pretty good at serving now too. I'm even better at helping to clean up!
But now I'm on my own and I'm a young professional. I announced to my family that I was going to have people over for Robbie Burns. I was going to host my first official dinner party. My family started calling with cooking suggestions and tips about three weeks before the actual date. I'm pretty sure they felt they had a moral obligation to ensure that I did not let my imagination get the better of me. It had to be 'normal.' Not that they said this. They stressed traditional. It's a traditional thing; you can't serve that, it's not traditional; well that's not the traditional way of cooking it.
They got the date wrong and phoned me the day they thought I was having people over and the day afterwards. In any other family, they would have been overly supportive. And they were, but when you've been subtly kicked out of a kitchen for most of your life, you get suspicious of unsolicited cooking advice. I mean my mother wasn't just calling me, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle were all giving me advice. When your bachelor uncle who never eats vegetables is telling you how to cook turnips, you know that there's a family conspiracy afoot. In a few years, they'll tell me the code name of the operation. Right now they're still recovering from the fact that all the guests had second helpings. They're also now offering to come visit me. I think I'll make them make me dinner. I'll set the table.
Note: I would like to thank my various relatives for their help. Their advice was actually most appreciated and used.
I think it was shortly after that that I was given the task of setting the table. I'm very good at setting tables. I can do it American or European style. For meat with or without steak knives, for fish, for soup, for dessert, with cloth or paper napkins, with the good cutlery or the everyday, with the best plates or the everyday, the appropriate coffee or tea set for afterwards, the right serving spoons - you name it, I've probably put it on a table. Needless to say I had years of practice.
I was eventually upgraded to being allowed back in the kitchen. I got to help with serving. I think the rationale was the food was already cooked so there wasn't much I could do to it. I'm pretty good at serving now too. I'm even better at helping to clean up!
But now I'm on my own and I'm a young professional. I announced to my family that I was going to have people over for Robbie Burns. I was going to host my first official dinner party. My family started calling with cooking suggestions and tips about three weeks before the actual date. I'm pretty sure they felt they had a moral obligation to ensure that I did not let my imagination get the better of me. It had to be 'normal.' Not that they said this. They stressed traditional. It's a traditional thing; you can't serve that, it's not traditional; well that's not the traditional way of cooking it.
They got the date wrong and phoned me the day they thought I was having people over and the day afterwards. In any other family, they would have been overly supportive. And they were, but when you've been subtly kicked out of a kitchen for most of your life, you get suspicious of unsolicited cooking advice. I mean my mother wasn't just calling me, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle were all giving me advice. When your bachelor uncle who never eats vegetables is telling you how to cook turnips, you know that there's a family conspiracy afoot. In a few years, they'll tell me the code name of the operation. Right now they're still recovering from the fact that all the guests had second helpings. They're also now offering to come visit me. I think I'll make them make me dinner. I'll set the table.
Note: I would like to thank my various relatives for their help. Their advice was actually most appreciated and used.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Just because it's on sale . . .
I popped into Loblaws on my way home from the market. I was looking for dried mushrooms. It had struck me that having dried mushrooms on hand would be useful. The type of thing you sprinkled into pasta dishes, quiches and omelettes. The fact that I only make omelettes on a regular basis out of those items did not deter me. If I had dried mushrooms, then I would make pasta and quiches. It was a prerequisite for expanding my cooking ability and having more exciting things to eat.
I got as far as the marked-down fruit. I had been thinking of making banana bread for awhile but hadn't had the right number or ripeness of bananas on hand. I did however have the yogurt and it wasn't going to be around much longer. I had bought my weekly banana supply at the market but here was a deal. Two large bunches of bananas for 99 cents. AND they were ready for making banana bread. Generally buying bananas that are about to bite the dust is a bad idea but in my mind, it was a huge time saving. I wouldn't have to bring bananas to the edge of death because someone had already done it for me.
So I arrived home with about sixteen bananas. Five barely ripe and the rest looking as though they had escaped from an old people's home. I put the groceries away and went to start on the bread. Ah, yes my favourite recipe calls for one cup of mashed ripe bananas
which translates into two bananas.
I choose the two bananas that looked the ripest. And then, I choose a third. I managed to stuff three bananas into the cup although they tried to ooze back out in protest.
I made the bread, well actually I made muffins. This is why I love this recipe. Despite my best efforts to ruin it, it can not be ruined. The first time I made it, I didn't even cook it at the right temperature. It didn't matter. It always comes out of the pan. And even if you indent it while trying to get it out of the pan, it bounces back. It's indestructible and it's delicious.
I was about to start on a massive banana bread production. At the rate of turning bananas into bread, I could make five batches. Except that I had no more yogurt. The fact that I had no idea what I was going to do with about a gazillion muffins didn't even enter my mind. I had bananas to use up.
I have discovered that bananas put in the fridge ripen slower so I made room in the fridge for my bananas. My fridge looked like it had been invaded. I've been eating bananas for awhile now. I'm approaching potassium overdose. But I've still got a week's worth to go. I think next time I'll buy apples. I haven't made my favourite apple dish in a while.
_________________________________________________________________
From the King Arthur Baking Cookbook
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 cup mashed bananas (as many as you can fit or 2-3 very ripe large bananas)
2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 2/3 cups flour
1 cup yogurt, buttermilk or sour cream
Preheat Oven to 350F.
Beat together eggs, sugar and oil. Blend in the mashed bananas and vanilla. Blend well in a separate bowl the baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and flour. Add all at once to banana mixture. Mix quickly but thoroughly, then stir in yogurt, mixing until just combined.
Pour into a greased and floured 9 x 5 inch loaf pan. Bake for about one hour, until a cake tester inserted in the middle, comes out clean. If the bread browns too quickly, tent it with aluminium foil after 40 minutes.
Note that if you have a non-stick-ish pan, it doesn't need to be greased and floured. You can use it to make muffins and then it takes less time to cook.
I got as far as the marked-down fruit. I had been thinking of making banana bread for awhile but hadn't had the right number or ripeness of bananas on hand. I did however have the yogurt and it wasn't going to be around much longer. I had bought my weekly banana supply at the market but here was a deal. Two large bunches of bananas for 99 cents. AND they were ready for making banana bread. Generally buying bananas that are about to bite the dust is a bad idea but in my mind, it was a huge time saving. I wouldn't have to bring bananas to the edge of death because someone had already done it for me.
So I arrived home with about sixteen bananas. Five barely ripe and the rest looking as though they had escaped from an old people's home. I put the groceries away and went to start on the bread. Ah, yes my favourite recipe calls for one cup of mashed ripe bananas
which translates into two bananas.
I choose the two bananas that looked the ripest. And then, I choose a third. I managed to stuff three bananas into the cup although they tried to ooze back out in protest.
I made the bread, well actually I made muffins. This is why I love this recipe. Despite my best efforts to ruin it, it can not be ruined. The first time I made it, I didn't even cook it at the right temperature. It didn't matter. It always comes out of the pan. And even if you indent it while trying to get it out of the pan, it bounces back. It's indestructible and it's delicious.
I was about to start on a massive banana bread production. At the rate of turning bananas into bread, I could make five batches. Except that I had no more yogurt. The fact that I had no idea what I was going to do with about a gazillion muffins didn't even enter my mind. I had bananas to use up.
I have discovered that bananas put in the fridge ripen slower so I made room in the fridge for my bananas. My fridge looked like it had been invaded. I've been eating bananas for awhile now. I'm approaching potassium overdose. But I've still got a week's worth to go. I think next time I'll buy apples. I haven't made my favourite apple dish in a while.
_________________________________________________________________
From the King Arthur Baking Cookbook
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 cup mashed bananas (as many as you can fit or 2-3 very ripe large bananas)
2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 2/3 cups flour
1 cup yogurt, buttermilk or sour cream
Preheat Oven to 350F.
Beat together eggs, sugar and oil. Blend in the mashed bananas and vanilla. Blend well in a separate bowl the baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and flour. Add all at once to banana mixture. Mix quickly but thoroughly, then stir in yogurt, mixing until just combined.
Pour into a greased and floured 9 x 5 inch loaf pan. Bake for about one hour, until a cake tester inserted in the middle, comes out clean. If the bread browns too quickly, tent it with aluminium foil after 40 minutes.
Note that if you have a non-stick-ish pan, it doesn't need to be greased and floured. You can use it to make muffins and then it takes less time to cook.
Bread Making 101
Today I can barely move. My stomach hurts as though I did fifty crunches.
Yesterday I made bread.
Everyone in my family makes bread. Apparently it's easy. Some of them make it on a more regular basis than others but it's something they all have tucked up their cooking sleeves.
My apartment tends to be like a sauna. The heating is hot water and has two modes: On or Off. This is determined by the superintendent who normally has the heating in On mode and then some. The result is a warm moist environment that is perfect for making bread as it would rise in no time flat.
I decided that I would venture into this world of bread making as I had a clear advantage: there was no need to search for the warmest spot in the house. I woke up in the morning to discover that the heating was only in On mode and barely so. My advantage had gone. Deciding that it would come back, I continued.
I pulled down my baking bible and cracked it open to the basic white bread recipe. As I scanned down the list of ingredients, my eyes lit upon milk powder and potato flour or flakes. Who keeps this stuff in their cupboards? I pulled down Joy of Cooking which tends to complicate things by giving you too many option. Sure enough: three recipes for easy white bread. What happened to easy, easier, easiest and then publishing the easiest version. I start working off both cook books. One for ingredients and one for method.
I mix it all together and start kneading. I can't remember whether you use the flat of your hands or your knuckles, so I alternate. I double check the method and discover you're supposed to let the dough rest at the half-way mark, five minutes. Whoa! My arms are already tired, I'm starting to feel a sweat and I've just started. I keep going and then I can feel it in my abs. I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm giving them a work-out. Much later, the dough is ready to rise and my apartment still hasn't warmed up. The bathroom is looking like the best spot so I stick it there for the next hour and half.
I remembered the next part from watching my Mum. You took the bread, pushed it down, dumped it out of the bowl, kneaded it a bit and then put it into tins. Checked the recipe. "The dough should be given another rising." Huh! Ok, back into the bathroom it went.
And the rest of my day was spent beating up the dough (gently as instructed by my methods recipe) and then waiting for it to recover. I felt like a boxer dancing around an opponent yelling "You gonna get up so I can knock you down again?"
Eventually the loaves went in the oven. I pulled them out at the right time. It was time for the hollow finger test. You dump the bread out of the pan, and tap the bottom with your finger. Who makes this stuff up? If it sounds hollow, then it's done. My loaves passed. So I waited for them to cool.
They taste like basic white bread. The type you had with peanut butter and jam as a child for lunch. Kinda bland actually.
So today I can't move but I'm eating bland bread. If anyone suggests that I go to the gym, I'll hit them on the head with a loaf. It will make a hollow sound.
Yesterday I made bread.
Everyone in my family makes bread. Apparently it's easy. Some of them make it on a more regular basis than others but it's something they all have tucked up their cooking sleeves.
My apartment tends to be like a sauna. The heating is hot water and has two modes: On or Off. This is determined by the superintendent who normally has the heating in On mode and then some. The result is a warm moist environment that is perfect for making bread as it would rise in no time flat.
I decided that I would venture into this world of bread making as I had a clear advantage: there was no need to search for the warmest spot in the house. I woke up in the morning to discover that the heating was only in On mode and barely so. My advantage had gone. Deciding that it would come back, I continued.
I pulled down my baking bible and cracked it open to the basic white bread recipe. As I scanned down the list of ingredients, my eyes lit upon milk powder and potato flour or flakes. Who keeps this stuff in their cupboards? I pulled down Joy of Cooking which tends to complicate things by giving you too many option. Sure enough: three recipes for easy white bread. What happened to easy, easier, easiest and then publishing the easiest version. I start working off both cook books. One for ingredients and one for method.
I mix it all together and start kneading. I can't remember whether you use the flat of your hands or your knuckles, so I alternate. I double check the method and discover you're supposed to let the dough rest at the half-way mark, five minutes. Whoa! My arms are already tired, I'm starting to feel a sweat and I've just started. I keep going and then I can feel it in my abs. I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm giving them a work-out. Much later, the dough is ready to rise and my apartment still hasn't warmed up. The bathroom is looking like the best spot so I stick it there for the next hour and half.
I remembered the next part from watching my Mum. You took the bread, pushed it down, dumped it out of the bowl, kneaded it a bit and then put it into tins. Checked the recipe. "The dough should be given another rising." Huh! Ok, back into the bathroom it went.
And the rest of my day was spent beating up the dough (gently as instructed by my methods recipe) and then waiting for it to recover. I felt like a boxer dancing around an opponent yelling "You gonna get up so I can knock you down again?"
Eventually the loaves went in the oven. I pulled them out at the right time. It was time for the hollow finger test. You dump the bread out of the pan, and tap the bottom with your finger. Who makes this stuff up? If it sounds hollow, then it's done. My loaves passed. So I waited for them to cool.
They taste like basic white bread. The type you had with peanut butter and jam as a child for lunch. Kinda bland actually.
So today I can't move but I'm eating bland bread. If anyone suggests that I go to the gym, I'll hit them on the head with a loaf. It will make a hollow sound.
Hog's Hock
I love the meat section in the grocery store, specifically the marked down section. Others I know wouldn't touch meat that was near its best by date, but I grew up with a deep freeze. The deep freeze means that as long as you observe some basic rules, then you can eat meat that is technically long past its prime. And the rules are easy to follow: buy the meat, bring it home, dump it in the freezer. When you are ready to eat the meat, you thaw it, cook it and enjoy.
I browse the marked down section carefully. I know that I don't like liver but somehow, buying liver for half its price always seems like a good idea. Luckily, it has always stayed an idea and on the shelf.
But the other day, I saw something else. It was cheap, it sounded traditional and I had a faint idea you could make soup with it. It was hog's hock. It was only two dollars. For two dollars I could experiment. I could afford to get it wrong. I scooped it up and put it in my basket. Upon arriving home, I followed the rules and dumped it in the freezer.
My go-to-guide is the Joy of Cooking (JOC). JOC would know what to do with hog's hock. It knows everything. JOC knew that it was good in soup, but so did I. I began to wonder if it was one of those things that everybody knew about but nobody tried. I mean under every other type of pock product, there was a recipe. Under hog's hock, there was a description of what one could do with it but no recipe. Extremely helpful.
I flipped to the Soup section in JOC which unlike the Meat section did know how to cook it. (Do the sections in JOC not talk to one another? ) There were two recipes for pea soup which called for a hog's hock. However, they also called for dried split peas which my kitchen does not carry on a regular basis. You have to pre-order that one if you want to use it. However, I was willing to make the special purchase as I remembered the thick soup-like mixture with pork bits that is served at steam shows, which I love. I would recreate that dish! It would be missing the smoky flavour of being cooked in a large cast iron pot outdoors but it would be fabulous and totally appropriate for winter. I put dried split peas on my mental shopping list.
Today I bought split peas. I didn't know whether the recipe called for green or yellow ones, so I got both. Each bag was less than fifty cents. I was beginning to feel smug. A hearty healthy soup which was going to be dirt-cheap to make. Then I informed my grandmother that I had bought split peas. Her mother used dried split peas. Then my grandmother informed me that she does not like them. And then it hit me. The fabulous soup I remembered was made with white beans. I have no idea what these recipes will produce and whether I will actually want to eat the final product.
I love the reduced meat section in the grocery store.
One day I will resurrect a frost bitten hog's hock from my freezer and throw it out. Probably a few days later, I will discover some dried peas. I'll try and feed them to the birds.
Or one day I will try and feed you a soup. Beware.
I browse the marked down section carefully. I know that I don't like liver but somehow, buying liver for half its price always seems like a good idea. Luckily, it has always stayed an idea and on the shelf.
But the other day, I saw something else. It was cheap, it sounded traditional and I had a faint idea you could make soup with it. It was hog's hock. It was only two dollars. For two dollars I could experiment. I could afford to get it wrong. I scooped it up and put it in my basket. Upon arriving home, I followed the rules and dumped it in the freezer.
My go-to-guide is the Joy of Cooking (JOC). JOC would know what to do with hog's hock. It knows everything. JOC knew that it was good in soup, but so did I. I began to wonder if it was one of those things that everybody knew about but nobody tried. I mean under every other type of pock product, there was a recipe. Under hog's hock, there was a description of what one could do with it but no recipe. Extremely helpful.
I flipped to the Soup section in JOC which unlike the Meat section did know how to cook it. (Do the sections in JOC not talk to one another? ) There were two recipes for pea soup which called for a hog's hock. However, they also called for dried split peas which my kitchen does not carry on a regular basis. You have to pre-order that one if you want to use it. However, I was willing to make the special purchase as I remembered the thick soup-like mixture with pork bits that is served at steam shows, which I love. I would recreate that dish! It would be missing the smoky flavour of being cooked in a large cast iron pot outdoors but it would be fabulous and totally appropriate for winter. I put dried split peas on my mental shopping list.
Today I bought split peas. I didn't know whether the recipe called for green or yellow ones, so I got both. Each bag was less than fifty cents. I was beginning to feel smug. A hearty healthy soup which was going to be dirt-cheap to make. Then I informed my grandmother that I had bought split peas. Her mother used dried split peas. Then my grandmother informed me that she does not like them. And then it hit me. The fabulous soup I remembered was made with white beans. I have no idea what these recipes will produce and whether I will actually want to eat the final product.
I love the reduced meat section in the grocery store.
One day I will resurrect a frost bitten hog's hock from my freezer and throw it out. Probably a few days later, I will discover some dried peas. I'll try and feed them to the birds.
Or one day I will try and feed you a soup. Beware.
Blogging
Yesterday I was having a conversation about blogs and about why you'd want to do them. At the time, I was saying that they were for those with large egos who wanted others to know what they were doing - that they welcomed the comments of strangers. What kind of people keep blogs?
And then I talked to my grandmother today. I was telling her about my adventures in the kitchen and as she laughed, she said I should write them down. So I thought I would and share them with those who would appreciate the story.
Then I remembered that somewhere I had a private blog. It had been for me to experiment with writing so I was going to strip it and re-use it for my kitchen stories. But I started reading some of the previous posts and although a bit cryptic for the outsider, I can't bring myself to delete them. So they remain.
Yesterday blogs were bad. Today I'm about to post a dozen stories. Enjoy.
And then I talked to my grandmother today. I was telling her about my adventures in the kitchen and as she laughed, she said I should write them down. So I thought I would and share them with those who would appreciate the story.
Then I remembered that somewhere I had a private blog. It had been for me to experiment with writing so I was going to strip it and re-use it for my kitchen stories. But I started reading some of the previous posts and although a bit cryptic for the outsider, I can't bring myself to delete them. So they remain.
Yesterday blogs were bad. Today I'm about to post a dozen stories. Enjoy.