Tables, turned November 14, 2007
Posted by charmingbutsingle in Being Southern, Cooking, Family.12 comments
For seven long years, I was semi-vegetarian. Everyday of the year, Thanksgiving included. No turkey, no dressing, no stuffing, no gravy. Despite my Grandmother’s protests and my family’s attempts to sway me to eat just one piece of turkey, I abstained from the meat.
My family is full of jokers who delighted in nothing more than talking to their turkey in my presence, nibbling it with glee, holding pieces of it up in front of my face – all in the most kind, teasing way, of course. I was the Thanksgiving Freakshow, she who ate butternut squash dumplings while the rest of the crew devoured various cuts of meat. My youngest cousins would ask me if I was crazy, right before they asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend and looked at me like I was a 100-year-old cat lady who lived in a cave.
So you can imagine how excited my now meat-eating self is about my having a Thanksgiving turkey this year. I love to cook, so much so that I’ve been known to go help my mom cook the night before Thanksgiving just for fun. And these last few months have been a love affair with turkey sandwiches leading up to the Main Event – slow roasted turkey with all the gravy I can ladle away from my family members.
I’m making plans for the cooking already – I am typically in charge of several sides and I’ll be packing some food in a cooler, as my family is driving to visit my brother and his fiancé for the holiday.
As luck would have it, they had a very important announcement for us – they’re completely vegetarian now. Possibly even vegan.
After suffering through SEVEN vegetarian Thanksgivings with my meat devouring brother, my triumphant return to plates of turkey topped with gravy topped with more turkey topped with a side of meat (for good measure) is marred by my brother informing me that he guesses we can use his future mother-in-law’s kitchen, not his, for the baking of the “death” turkey.
And now I am just so torn about the best way to support his decision. I simply can’t decide – should I chase him around the kitchen with the drumstick or just leave the turkey bones in his bed?
Squashing the stressball November 4, 2007
Posted by charmingbutsingle in Cooking, Family, NaBloPoMo, Shopping, Weekend Updates.9 comments
Saturday was, as bumming-around-town Saturdays go, pretty damn perfect.
I woke up at a reasonable time and threw on a little jersey dress and flip flops to take advantage of the continually warm weather here. Hair pulled back, big sunglasses on, skinny latte with sugar free vanilla syrup in hand, I headed out to the farmer’s market with squash on my mind – it might have felt like March, but it is actually November, making it the time to eat winter squash and pumpkin and other things that are fall colors. It is a rule.
The first booth I wandered up to had flat Italian green beans, which I was quick to buy as I’ve never seen them fresh. And then he had buckets full of sunflowers and zinnias, and by the time I left I was weighted down with green beans and bouquets of flowers for my mother and grandmother. As I fumbled with pull money out of my wallet I asked, “These are four, right?” And the man running the both winked and said, “Three.”
I was confused.
“One flower’s on me,” he said with a smile.
And that right there is why I fall in love with the farmer’s market each time I go – gray haired farmers and leaving with armfuls of fresh flowers. I was, of course, insane not to buy some for myself.
And then I found the acorn squashes I’d been dreaming of stuffing (as a side note, I discovered when I went home that the recipe I’d save is for stuffing summer, not winter squash, so I’ll have to improvise with wild rice and walnut and cranberry stuffed squash, a take on this recipe from Gourmet**) and the butternut squash I picked is just so ready for a light toss in olive oil and a warm roasting. I can tell.
A few tamales for my grandfather and some weird, round green eggplants* that look like green apples or green tomatoes and my arms were sufficiently full and the twenty I’d brought was gone. Mission accomplished.
I delivered the tamales and flowers, earning Favored Grandchild Status up until my 19-month-old cousin learns a new word, and then headed out to Old Navy to return some things. I dropped by a massive shoe store to try on knee or mid-calf boots and I discovered that my left foot must be bigger than my right because boots would zip up comfortably on the right foot and fit awkwardly on the left. I blame this on the six months my right foot spent in various casts 10 or 11 years ago, even though it seems highly unlikely that this could be the cause.
No shoes found, I went to my parents’ house to watch football with some family friends and then headed back to my place after our victory, to host Prom Date for some beers and Saturday Night Live before drifting to an extra hour of Daylight Savings Time sleep.
* I’m sure there is something more creative to do with these eggplants, but I am seriously considering a less fatty, twenty-minute active cooking time, play on Eggplant Parmesan – lightly sautéed slices baked with this simple red sauce and a few sprinkles of part-skim mozzarella served over whole wheat pasta. That is, unless y’all come up with something equally quick and easy for these nifty little veggies before Tuesday evening.
** I made the stuffed acorn squash and, I have to tell you, I was underwhelmed. I changed the stuffing up a bit – adding some garlic I roasted, upping the amount of dried cranberries, adding lean ground beef and some parmesan cheese, per the suggestions of commenters on epicurious.com. I accidentally omitted the lemon zest, which might have made the stuffing less bland. But the problem isn’t the stuffing – with a touch here and a touch there, the stuffing is fine. (Cook the wild rice in chicken stock; sub in Italian sausage or even some chorizo or add a touch of mozzarella to give it an Italian flair.) The problem is the soft, mushy acorn squash. I followed the roasting instructions completely and the squash was far too mushy. Also, even though I cut the amount of rice down, I have enough stuffing for a very hearty meal left. So, don’t rush home and stuff the acorn squash. (I might put the stuffing in cabbage rolls, though.)
There are songs about all of them, Part 5 June 17, 2007
Posted by charmingbutsingle in Backstory, Cooking, Family, Life, Really. Bad. Habits., Songs I Can't Get Out Of My Head, There are songs about all of them.14 comments
My Daddy – and no, I do not always call him “Daddy,” just when I’m being sappy or cute or when my car is making a weird noise – loves music. My parents liked to grill a lot of on the weekends when I was younger (they still do, actually), and almost every one of these weekend dinner memories is fantastic, with a soundtrack like The Eagles or Santana or Steely Dan or Pat Metheny or Peter Frampton or whomever struck my Dad’s fancy at the time. (And really great food, like beef and chicken kabobs, grilled sausage and juicy hamburgers – each time my Dad grills burgers, he goes around to everyone and says, “Who wants their buns toasted? Buns? Toasted? Come on, sit right here, I’ll toast your buns.” I still giggle like I am seven years old when he does this gag.)
My family is not perfect. We have our disagreements. We fight. We disappoint each other. But I think the reason that I have so many fond memories of growing up and actually have fun spending time with my family is because, at the very heart of it all, we enjoy each other’s company. Maybe not always and sometimes not enough, but as long as you have that core love of another person (or group of people), an appreciation of their quirks and a desire to remain connected to them, most negative or annoying things quickly pass.
One bad habit I inherited from my Dad – and there are many, because we are very much alike, all stubborn and talkative – is listening to the same songs or albums over and over again. And not once or twice. No, I’m talking about 10 or 12 times in a row. He almost lost his life once for playing “The Way” by Fastball a good six times in a row on the car stereo before we were even able to get a half hour out of town on a family vacation. My Discman blissfully saved me from this one hit wonder on repeat. (The soundtracks to most family vacations were Jimmy Buffet and Billy Joel. We’d fly down the highway in a tan Astro van listening to cassette tapes of “Turnstiles” and “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes” that my Dad painstakingly labeled with their names and full track lists, in his boxy engineer-like handwriting.)
For several months, Dad was obsessed with John Hiatt’s live album “Hiatt Comes Alive at Budokan.” He played it almost every weekend when he was grilling. And it is truly a fantastic album full of great tracks – “Have A Little Faith In Me” and “Lipstick Sunset” and “Drive South.” Years ago, he spent several weekends installing and wiring speakers outside to the stereo system inside so he could listening to music while he grilled outside or worked on one of the cars, and the music would continue inside as he went back and forth getting utensils or something to drink. My fondest memories of my Dad are him bursting inside through the door in the living room, singing, in his goofy Dad voice, “It breaks my heart to see those stars, smaaashing a puurfectly goood geee-tar,” while he strummed his air guitar or handed my Mom a tray full of grilled meat.
When he is singing, my Dad squints his eyes into small slits and curves his neck to the right and tilts his head, listening intently to the song, completely lost in the music, momentarily unaware of work or bills or anything else but really hearing the song, breathing it into his lungs and then back out again. (One of my other favorite memories is how my parents used to let us have “candlelight” dinners sometimes on Saturday nights. My brother and I loved this – our favorite menu was steak, grilled mushrooms and baked potatoes. And we’d all sit in near darkness, with candles on the table, their flickering casting the only light, and eat. We felt so special and grown-up doing this and my parents always indulged us.)
My Dad’s favorite song, and the one that always makes me think of him, is “Feels Like Rain” by John Hiatt. It is a beautiful song about a romantic relationship and I know that he loves it because behind his playful demeanor is a very sensitive man who loves his wife, his family and being outdoors. (Also he named his first fishing boat “Feels Like Rain,” and I can think of no higher endorsement of or honor for a song than this.) He spends time out at his fishing camp, down in the far far end of the bayou, where you can only get by boat, where there isn’t running water. And thank God, because it is so still and peaceful that if everyone could get out there and put up with using a bucket instead of a toilet, no one would want to do anything but sit out there in the serenity. My parents will build an on-land camp out on the coast when they retire and they’ve made it clear that they will be packing up a Jeep and going down there for months at a time, driving into town for groceries every two weeks and my Dad will fish, my mom will sit in a rocking chair with hot tea and read and in the evenings they will go on boat rides alone after they eat fresh-caught fish. (Also, should I have children, they can go to camp Grandpa and Grandma for two weeks each summer and we can all visit on the weekends, I have been told.)
And I can imagine my Dad bursting through the door to the camp one evening while my Mom is making a salad, extending a hand that’s holding a platter of grilled redfish, his eyes squinted and his head tilted to the side, singing that “We ain’t never gonna make that bridge tonight, across the Pooontchaaaartraaaain …” One part silly and another part completely serious.
If I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d pay off my student loans first. They’d want me to.
And then I’d buy them a house on pilings on the coast, with a porch that stretches around each side, a place to dock the boat and a good roof to protect them when it Feels Like Rain.
… Come Sit By Us June 15, 2007
Posted by charmingbutsingle in Being Southern, Cooking, Friends, Men, Random Musings on Life, Women.11 comments
Just back from one of those great post-work-week dinners with my girlfriends that are a perfect end to any week. Beers on an outside patio that most patrons eschewed because of the heat that’s gone from ridiculous to downright oppressive this week. Our fellow diners, it seemed, forgot that the sky had been threatening to open up with rain for most of the day and this, coupled with a slight breeze, made it borderline pleasant outside – in the shade, of course. Not that we minded having the patio almost to ourselves.
Together Southern Belle, Church Group Girl and I are a fury of stories punctuated with jerky hand motions and long, winding tangents, each one more hilarious than the last. Somehow talk of cooking leads to talk of lasagna, leads to talk of The Sopranos Finale, and seriously, how livid was I after spending an hour and a half in my hotter than hell kitchen making lasagna from scratch – Scratch! – only to have the whole thing cut to black while Journey played? And, did I tell you that I used The Barefoot Contessa’s tip and soaked my noodles in hot hot tap water instead of boiling them and they were delish. And, yes, all of her recipes start with two sticks of butter, which is okay because Paula Deen’s all start with four sticks. And lately I haven’t want to cook anyway, because can we go back to the soul-draining heat that leaves you sweaty walking from office to parking spot and zaps your will to do anything but collapse partially disrobed on your bed underneath your ceiling fan and stay very still, so to not exert any energy?
Ahem.
Not surprisingly, we gossiped about men. Because if these dinners had an agenda, “Men” would be a standing item.
“I met this nice guy last night. Friend of [The Banker’s friend]. We talked for awhile and I thought we had a nice time. He’s a Wine Distributor, so you know I just wanted to marry him right then and there. But of course he didn’t ask for my number,” I grumbled.
I did not tell them about mentally preparing myself to give him my business card, but chickening out at the last minute. I’d already shared that gem with Married Friend and The Banker over a morning coffee-and-e-mail session. (At least I’m imagining that they were drinking coffee, because it WAS 8 a.m., but I wasn’t actually there to witness the coffee firsthand.) And, well, I figure that disclosing such a fact to one group of girlfriends negates the requirement to tell another group – this is in subsection four of the “Sins of Omission: Honesty is Not Always the Best Policy” part of the Girl Bylaws, right before the “Sins of Commission: Seriously, You Kissed Him?” part.
“You and the boys who flirt but don’t ask for your number!” Church Group Girl exclaimed, with no other point than that.
Later, same topic, she dropped this gem: “I don’t want a boyfriend. I just want to eat,” noting that its time to pull herself back to working out and not eating whatever it is that she wants to eat.
“God bless the empire waist,” said Southern Belle, who weighs maybe a buck ten soaking wet and has no belly to hide. Although, yes, I do agree at times.
From men to tragic girlfriends who dress poorly, they were telling me about a woman they know who, at age forty, wears tiny T-shirts boasting rhinestoned slogans like, “Spoiled.” Which, of course, I could not believe, until they told me that she also had one that said “You Can’t Afford Me.” This nearly sent me into a fit of disbelief, which was topped only when Southern Belle described one of the woman’s unfortunate cocktail party shoe choices – Red Patent Pleather Knee-High Boots.
“They didn’t even have a pointed toe!” Southern Belle exclaimed.
“I love that the squared toe is what offended you most about that really terrible-sounding outfit,” I said.
“Well, pointed-toe shoes DO elongate your legs,” she said.
The Circle of Dating (Title sung to the tune of “The Circle of Life” from the Lion King, which you will now have stuck in your head all day. You’re welcome.) June 3, 2007
Posted by charmingbutsingle in Cooking, Dating, Friends, Life, Men, Single Girl Cliches, Wheat Thins and Wine.31 comments
I find that I go through three predictable stages each time I find myself in a bit of a dry spell, man-wise. Like the phases of the moon, I can chart my desire to find water in the vast desert of alone-ness pretty precisely, which is helpful when I find myself in the Woe-Is-Me and I-Am-Quitting mindset.
The first stage is one of total and utter distress. I announce to everyone, including but not limited to, my friends, family members, strangers I meet in bars and people I share an elevator with that “Dating. Is. Hard.” I soon follow that up with an “I am trying so hard! You wouldn’t believe how hard I am trying! Don’t you hear me telling you how hard I am trying!”
Stage One is when I annoy friends about why they don’t introduce me to Single Men. Stage One is when I am most likely to text message old flings after two glasses of wine. And then again after the third. And then again when I get home.
Stage One is not pretty. It is also very tiring.
After a few weeks or months of intense distress over the state of my love life, I slip into the second stage of the dry spell, during which I unleash my inner Hermit upon my apartment. I lounge about in my trusty black capri-length sweat pants, a tank top and leopard-print fuzzy slippers, hair piled in a messy twist of waves atop my head, face free of anything other than moisturizer. I eat take out and drink white wine and beer while I obsessively rub lotion on my knees and elbows. I watch hours of Grey’s Anatomy DVDs, both Bridget Jones’s movies and whichever of the following four movies fits my mood: “Little Miss Sunshine,” “The Devil Wears Prada,” “Elizabethtown” or “Thank You For Smoking.” And I read Glamour magazine with a critical eye and announce to no one in particular that anyone who wears a $1,200 dress or dares to go out and be social when she could be snuggled under the covers is just plain nuts.
Stage Two is also when I am most likely to pine after something fatty and full of sugar. And not in a way that can be cured by eating one cupcake or one cookie or one gallon of Blue Bell ice cream. But in the way that I become obsessed with one particular type of food – right now, it is Blondies. All I think about day in and day out is Blondies with gooey centers. Blondies with chocolate chips and pecans. Blondies with white chocolate chips and almonds. Blondies with paper clips and tree bark and ants.
Of all of the stages, I have to say that I like Stage Two the best. (Though in recent years I try to avoid buying anything that could resemble and/or be turned into a sweet, because once I go down the road of gooey treat over-eating, I find it hard to go back.)
Stage Two is no muss, no fuss. I become obsessed with bad TV shows. I trim my split ends. I revel in the fact that I do not have to go anywhere if I do not want to. Because I said so and I am in charge.
I become one with my alone-ness.
Lately, however, I can scarcely handle more than a weekend or two of Stage Two behavior. I get bored. I begin to force myself to put on my ballet flats and leave the house. I start to yell at Bridget Jones and Meredith Grey to just Get Over It when they grace my TV screen. I remember that I am only 27 and I have good years ahead of me. That dating is hard, but so what? That my elbows are looking pretty soft and it would be a shame to waste such well-moisturized elbows on my pillows and blankets.
Enter Stage Three.
Stage Three brings me back to unbridled optimism and hope. I momentarily forget that I am bitter and am reminded of only how great a Certain Look or the Light Graze of Fingertips is. I have total Dating Amnesia, which is necessary, I think. Because sometimes I become to focused on the bad. And I’m learning every day to remember that Life Plans and Timelines were made to be thrown out. To focus not on the outsiders looking in, but on the person looking out, as she is the one who actually has to live this life.
Mark my words. Next weekend, I enter Stage Three.
But first I’m going to bake a pan of Blondies*.
* My Blog Crush Smitten Kitchen posted this ridiculously simple and versatile recipe that is basic perfection and a total crowd-pleaser. I made a double batch with semi-sweet chocolate chips added in for Mother’s Day and I am not exaggerating when I say that I could not get them cut into squares and arranged on a plate from the prying hands of my family members who ate a casserole-sized pan full of the things with glee. And I will tell you that cooking a dish from scratch – even a very easy one – and seeing my loved ones enjoy it warms my cold, bitter heart.
