Tinfoil + Raccoon

Meatloaf Cat/Rat Redux

  Meatloaf Cat 
  Originally uploaded by rochelle, et. al..

Someone found this snap of a meatloaf composed by Mr. Raccoon and has used it to illustrate an About.com article on, erm...meatloaf.  She's identified it as a cat, which I think was the original intention, (per the caption) but it really ended up looking like a rat.  When Juniorina opened the oven she shouted in mock horror, "Scabbers!"

Don't Assume: Home Version

Today was one of those days that went on forever, so I enlisted Juniorina to help me prepare a dish for a neighborhood gathering tonight.  Right after work, Juniorette had a guitar lesson, so I emailed Juniorina a recipe for macaroni & cheese (James Beard recipe...to die for).  I even wrote it in a way that would make more sense than normal recipe-speak.  Juniorina is no slouch in the kitchen, but still, formal recipes assume a lot of prior knowledge.  Here's what I sent her:

1. Get the big rice steamer pan and fill it 2/3 to the top with water. Put in some salt (1 teaspoon or so), put lid on, and start to boil.
2. While the water is boiling, get the heavy orange pan that is shaped like a pumpkin. 
   
   1. Melt 4 Tablespoons of butter (that's half a stick) on MEDIUM heat.
   2. When butter is melted, add 4 TABLESPOONS of flour and stir into butter real good. Lower heat to med/low. Let bubble a bit, but do not let it brown.
   3. When your roux is ready (that's the butter and flour mixture), add two cups of milk and stir off and on until it is thick and bubbly.
   4. Add a dash or two of tabasco sauce and turn down heat to LOW
   5. Chop up or grate the big block of yellow cheese
   6. Is your water boiling?  If so, put in your pasta (most of the box)
   7. Put cheese in white sauce and let it bubble and melt.
   8. Add a little bit of half and half (in a small carton in the fridge---maybe 1/4-1/2 cup)
   9. Drain your pasta and add it to the sauce.

I checked with her before I came home, and she assured me that everything was fine, and agreed to take the dish to the neighbor's since I would be getting home late.   We all headed to the neighbor's garage as soon as Juniorette and I got home.  We met some folks, filled our plates, and I thought that Juniorette's first attempt at a classic mac & cheese dish was not too bad for a 12 year-old.   

Despite the miserable weather, I enjoyed meeting some new-to-me neighbors and getting to know others better. Mr and Mrs Bread (so named because they always have leftover bread from Panera after serving dinner to at-risk people on Tuesday nights at their church) had a Santa Claus-sized bag of bread that everyone got to pick from.  I got to hear Scott and another neighbor talk about the radical teacher nuns at Viterbo University.  And I met the neighbor cattycornered from us, who will be a new father come Thursday (wife at home on bedrest).  I declined the offer to stay out and drink beer with Scott and some others, since I hadn't been home all day, and came back to the house to decompress. 

After I'd sat for awhile, I went to the kitchen to tidy up.  Don't assume #1: I saw that Juniorina had used the wrong cheese. She did find a block of cheddar, just not the right one.  I showed her that we had some sharp cheddar that would have given the dish some more tang, but I didn't specify in the recipe.   Then, I did one of those cartoon head-shakes when I found my rice steamer with a big hole in the bottom.  Wha?!  The bottom wasn't burnt, just...missing.  I didn't see any evidence that it had been scrubbed, and there was no sign of kitchen drama.  I asked Juniorina about it and she was fairly evasive. "Look, I'm not mad. I just want to know what happened.  Did you just leave the pan on the burner and forget to turn it off?"   She said "yeah" without real conviction.  Then I remembered seeing the chair under the smoke alarm on the back porch. Obviously, it had gone off and Juniorina had pulled the battery. 

I talked to her some more, asking all sorts of questions.  "Really, I'm not mad.  I'm just curious how this happened.  If you forgot to turn off the burner, just say so."  She wasn't being evasive--she just couldn't tell me what happened, so I had her go over the process. "I had the top part on it."  "You mean the lid?"  "No. The other part." Ding ding ding!  "Oh!" I said. "You cooked the pasta in the rice steamer basket?"  "Yeah!"   

Don't Assume #2:  I gave her a hard time and asked her if she hadn't watched me cook pasta a million times.  I mean, I have cooked pasta a million times. But, I've never invited her to watch me.  She's made box mac & cheese, but uses a smaller pan.  When I told her in the recipe to use the rice steamer pot, I assumed she knew that I just meant to use the pot part, without the steamer basket.  "Nobody tells me these things!" she said.  "Haven't you watched enough Alton Brown?"  "He doesn't tell you how to boil water!"  She had put the pot on the burner with no water in it, but put the water in the steamer basket and got it to boiling.  No wonder I have a bottomless rice cooker now.  And, it's a wonder that I still have a house. And, it's a wonder that the pasta was not a gummy mess!

Don't assume #3: I think I tend to assume that my girls know how to do things because I either knew how to do things or had different interests at their age.  While I was no major whiz in the kitchen at 12, I suspect I had a few more skills than Juniorina, and possibly, a lot more interest. So, I learned a lesson or two tonight. Let's just hope I remember at least one of them.

Mad Pooper Puts Supper on the Table

Our youngest cat Gidget, now known as the Mad Pooper for her serial soiling of the neighborhood sandbox, has been quite an ambassador for us.  She's proven to be quite the huntress, and led to me being yelled at be a neighbor for the first time ever in my life.  I won't detail the negative interaction, except to say that I think it was entirely warranted, which led me to profuse apologies, the scooping of said sandbox, and a determination to keep Gidget inside. Even while I was scooping, the neighbors and I ended up chatting in a reasonably friendly way and we all chuckled uncomfortably about "what a way to meet your neighbors, huh?"  But, you know, it was fine.

Then, last night, the Mrs. knocks on my door with a bag of beautiful, cleaned fresh veggies from the community garden where she volunteers, and even more apologies for the weekend debacle, saying that they found more poop in the box, but knew that I had been keeping Gidget inside and shouldn't have assumed it was all her doing.  I assured her it was fine, that I was the bad neighbor for having possibly started the, uh, trend and insisted that apologies were not needed.  Somehow, we ended up talking about cherries, and the cherry tree at the end of the block.  I told her about my slick new cherry pitter and my prowess as a pie-baker and she said perhaps she'd bring some cherries down some time.  Swell! 

Sometime this afternoon while I was still at work, the neighbor-Mr. dropped by with his peace offering--a gallon of unprocessed cherries.  I thought that was right nice.  Then I realized that I had a gallon of juicy cherries that needed processing in the next few hours.  These cherries would not wait.  So, I made a lovely stir fry with the previous evening's gift veggies, setting off the fire alarm for the first time, having forgotten that I can't use the wok directly on the coils of electric stove. Then I decided I'd process the cherries and whip up a couple of pies after supper, one of which I'd deliver to the pooped-upon cherry-gifters.

I'd pitted about half the cherries when Juniorina decided she'd like to help out, so I did some kitchen clean-up while she pitted the remainder of the fruit.  At that point, I figured I could freeze the fruit, or make the pie. Of course, I opted for the path of most complication. I mixed the cherries with quick cook tapioca and sugar, and left them to sit for 15 minutes while I ran to the store for pie crust (I make my own crusts 95% of the time, but I figure for all the work that cherries take, it's no big crime to buy a decent lard-filled crust).  As I left for the store, guess who ran out between my legs, making her bid for freedom?  It was raining, getting late, and there was no chance of catching her.  It's all a big game of dodging and zipping and seeking refuge in the neighbor's hedge (the neighbors who like her).  So, I got in the car and hoped that the rain would force Gidge back inside.

I'm still learning my grocery stores here, and chose the wrong one for crust. I went to the closest non-convenience store to my house, but found, pretty much, a deluxe convenience store. They had crust, but not the best quality.  Nonetheless, I settled.   When I got home, Gidget was around in the yard, but I had to get the pies in the oven.  By then, I was getting tired and cranky with myself for having spent the whole night in the kitchen.  So, I filled the pies, and decided to make a crumb crust because I had too much filling for one big pie, and everyone knows that cherry pies have to have some sort of top.  Finally, they were filled and topped and popped into the oven, and I went out to try and lure Gidget back in. Unsuccessful, I went to check on the pies, only to discover a burning smell and smoke roiling from the oven.  Crap! I'd set it to broil.  So, I turned the oven off, got the fan to blow out the smoke and moved the broiled pie to the lower rack and started up again on bake.

The pies came out, not pretty, but pretty tasty and Gidget came in shortly after I started writing this. So, tomorrow morning, I'll head down the alley, a pie in one hand, and a pooper scooper in the other. Hello neighbor!

Cooking! is! Exciting!

I don't know if it's a sign of stress, sitting here as I am waiting to hear from a mortgage banker, but I got a bit giggly while ordering books this morning. While going through Baker & Taylor's April Forecast I was perusing the Cooking section for kitchen/cooking memoirs.  While I didn't find any upcoming bios, I noticed that about a quarter of the titles had exclamation points.   

Mr. Raccoon can tell you that I get pretty excited about cooking. This past Sunday, I woke up and the first thing I thought of was "Dutch Baby--I must have a Dutch Baby for breakfast!"  For the uninitiated, a Dutch Baby is an oven-baked pancake involving lots of butter, a dousing of lemon juice and a dusting of powdered sugar.  I'd only ever had a Dutch Baby at the best breakfast restaurant ever, The Original Pancake House.  (Not to be confused with the the very pedestrian, copycat Original House of Pancakes.) Unfortunately, we don't have an OPH in Bloomington (and I checked...none in La Crosse).  The closest one is in Champaign, IL, but I wasn't  willing to drive an hour for breakfast.  I'd never attempted a Dutch Baby before because I'd been under the impression that it was a yeast-based dish and sort of a big production.  So keen was my desire for a Dutch Baby, however, that I went in search of a recipe, and found out that a Dutch Baby is perfectly attainable in the home kitchen.  It's no trouble to compose--eggs, flour, butter and milk. But it takes 20-30 minutes to puff up in the oven--sort of like a souffle.   At the second I took my first bite, it was the best, most satisyfing thing I'd ever tasted, and I exclaimed several times throughout breakfast, quite pleased with myself.  Here's a selection of Dutch Baby recipes , some with fancy fillings, but do yourself a favor and start out with the stripped down version. 

So, who am I to begrudge cookbook authors their exclamation points when I can write a dozen sentences about a pancake?  I think I understand. But, I'm still giggling.  Look for these enthralling cookbook titles in a library near you!!

Appetizers! Good Housekeeping Favorite Recipes
Baja! Cooking on the Edge
Crepes, Waffles and Pancakes!
Grill! Quick and Delicious Recipes for Indoor and OUtdoor Grilling
I Love Crabcakes!
Pillsbury Good for you! Fast and Healthy Family Favorites
Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food!

And, here are two titles that made me giggle, even sans extra punctuation.
A Man and His Meatballs
Donuts: An American Passion

Bon apetit! 

Pomegranate Patience

When I was growing up, we had access to fresh fruit. It's just that it wasn't always so fresh, and there was seldom more than the bland assortment available at Rod's Bi-Rite in Hudson--apples (Red Delicious only), oranges, grapes and bananas.  A grapefruit might make its way into the house once in awhile,  there was watermelon in the summer. and until I was about 10, we had a very climbable peach tree that was, despite my protests, sacrificed to make way for a Very Big Garage. Anything else--pears, pineapple, fruit cocktail--came from a can.  I didn't taste fresh pineapple until sometime in my 20s.

Determined to give my girls a broader fruit experience, I started bringing home a piece of something  exotic every now and then when they were toddlers. They've tried star fruit, kiwi, guava, mango, kumquat, figs, ugli fruit and others.  Some, like mango and fresh pineapple, we've made semi-regular favorites. Some, we don't get so often because the quality is too iffy to chance a couple bucks on. A few weeks ago, my neighborhood grocery store, not known for its adventurous produce selection, had a whole display devoted to pomegranates. There was a huge box, special signage, and even fancy pomegranate-only bags.  We'd had pomegranates before, but it'd been awhile, so I grabbed a couple, hoping they wouldn't end up as compost.  Since those first two, I've brought home several, and they disappear within a couple days.  Juniorette likes them okay, but Juniorina is a devotee.

Watching her eat them, I've learned that she is an incredibly patient person.  Have you ever eaten a pomegranate?  It's not a fruit you can grab on your way out the door for a quick snack.  You can't easily or neatly peel or slice it. It doesn't lend itself to dipping or pie-making or drink garnishing. Pomegranates come with a leathery skin and are filled will clusters of seeds in juice sacs that honeycombed between pockets of spongy tissue.  As someone who often passes up oranges because they're too much  fuss, I stand in awe of my 11-year old child who not only tolerates the complication of a pomegranate, but celebrates it. 

Last week, I sat behind her and watched as she slowly peeled the skin off about a third of the fruit, sampling a seed now and then as she went. After she had a good part of the inside exposed, she commenced to picking out the seeds, a few at a time, and putting them into a pile.  Once she had a good-sized pile, only then did she allow herself whole mouthfuls of the tart, juicy seeds.  Sometimes she'll give over an hour or more to an entire pomegranate as she reads or writes in her journal. To me, it's a sign that she's alright,  really alright, at an age when many kids are already twitching with anxiety, shuttled around from lesson to lesson, checking their cell phones or asking a friend, "is my butt too big?"   I like knowing that my kids have things to teach or, more accurately, reteach me.  I'd like to regain the patience for pomegranates.

Who Needs Cookbooks When You've Got Google

David Rothman pointed to this WaPo article titled My Dinner With Google about using Google to find a dinner menu based on ingredients in your cupboard. I was surprised that this got several column inches in the Post, as I've been using Google to supplement my not-too-shabby cookbook collection for a couple years.  I bet that 10-20% of my at-home googling is spent recipe hunting.

It's also a great library tool for those multiculti projects where kids have to prepare a recipe from their assigned culture.  Today, for example, a woman asked for a cookbook with African recipes for a kid's project. While a colleague looked for a cookbook, I asked her if she had a specific country.  She threw out "Ethiopia."  I googled "Ethiopian recipes" and threw in "lentils" since I'm such a culinary smarty-pants, and got a good list of sites.  Patron walked out with books and a way to search at home, if nothing looked good in the books.

Chocomarshpeno

  marshchocopeno 
  Originally uploaded by rochelle, et. al..

We had a perfectly lovely fall Friday, off school and work today, so we built a fire in the chiminea and roasted whatever we could get our hands on.  The girls went for S'mores, but I got creative and  grabbed one of the last jalapenos from the garden and roasted it.  When it was still hot, I shoved a square of a Hershey bar inside. Then I shoved the chocopeno inside a roasted marshmallow.  It was ridiculously messy, but quite tasty.

The Smells of New Orleans

In an essay published by Andrei Codrescu just weeks before Katrina decimated his adopted home town, New Orleans, Codrescu complained about the pesky tourists that were so much a part of his neighborhood.  He wrote, “I must now work on the remaining problems: the stink and the talking. The stink isn’t so bad if you consider it part of the general funk of New Orleans in the summer: rotting crawfish shell, steaming piles of fresh mule doo-doo, garbage-truck juice, decomposing small rodents, beer urine and night-blooming jasmine and magnolias.”

I remember some of those smells from the couple times I was in New Orleans, the only place I’d never been homesick.  I could get a whiff of beer pee in my own home town, after the annual pub crawl.  To my tourist nose, however, New Orleans beer pee was made downright exotic by the 300-year old streets I walked down on my way to a library conference session. What I most remember, though, is the smell of peppers, onions and celery, the Creole trinity, beckoning with fragrant fingers from restaurant kitchens wherever I walked. I was outside the Gumbo Shop on Saint Peter when those fingers turned into hands and pulled me in for my first taste of New Orleans.  Red beans and Rice. Crème Caramel. Upon my return, I pulled out my prized purchase, a Gumbo Shop cookbook, and tackled my inaugural gumbo--Chicken Andouille.  I sipped dry red wine and my husband provided me with a soundtrack—Dr. John singing “Mama Roux.” As soon as those vegetables started to sweat and soften in the roux, I was back on St. Peter Street and it made my heart ache.  I hope that some day I'll be able to make that trip again, outside my kitchen. 

Right now, I imagine that garbage truck juice and beer pee would smell every bit as sweet as night-blooming jasmine and magnolias.

Codrescu quote from Gambit Weekly, August 23, 2005

Coffee Savings Calculator (and why I'm ignoring it)

Mr. Raccoon sent these two links about  how those daily mochas/lattes/fraps can add up. I'm sure he's sharing the sites as a service to the curious and that there's no telegraphed message to me (clearing throat).  The first is a calculator where you can plug in a single-drink price, cups per day, coffee days per year, etc,  and see how much you could save over a ten year period, if you opted for the free or cheap office sludge.  And here's a blog post from Undernews, talking about the calculator.

I put myself on a $5/week coffee budget about a year ago, but it didn't last very long.  I'm not sure it's even so much the coffee itself as how much I enjoy being a regular at the Hound.  It means a lot to me to have a  non-corporate, caffeine-based Cheers close by.  I suppose I could change to just plain coffee.  Those mochas do add up. But, I prefer to justify it as a contribution to the economic health of my local economy.  I also enjoy seeing the first Coffee Hound baby, Hans, get bigger and open-eyed--he's about three months old now.  Hans is frequently attached to one of his Hound-owner parents in a front pack snuggli, or in the arms of a grandparent or family friend.  You won't see that at Starblechs.

In the Kitchen: Everything You Know is Wrong

Librarian in Black shared this wonderful "Kitchen Myths" site.  Avocado pit in the guacamole?  Baking soda in the fridge?  Hot pan/cold oil?  No bananas in the fridge??  Fuggedaboudit.  Lies, all lies!  The debunks all come with sources.  Nice catch, LIB!