Swap Meat

     It’s my mom’s fault, really.  She started my intense love of cooking by telling me everything she knew about food, by giving me a step stool to be at her elbow, but mostly by plunking me down next to her in front of Saturday cooking shows.  I was enthralled by the miracles I saw on screen.  Egg whites became a fluffy meringue in a fascinating, blinding white sheen.  Raw, milky chicken became a spicy cacciatore.  It was magical for me. 

      In keeping with that tradition, I spent a few hours last Saturday watching cooking shows.  The old magic still captivated me and I was proud to share the tradition with Buttercup.  As I made a snack, a show came on promise to help me enjoy my favorite foods without the hours of requisite guilt. 

      Huh?!

      I may experience a myriad of emotions when I eat, but I can safely say “guilt” is not one of them.  Except for the time I took the “not ugly” pancake for myself, I have never experienced any flavor of guilt or buyer’s remorse when it comes to food.  I don’t understand it, to be honest.  I eat when I’m hungry, stop when I’m full, choose a wide variety of colors, flavors, textures, and tastes, and move around as much as I can in between.  Despite my lack of empathy for the guilt-laden eater, I decided to watch anyway. 

      This hyper, chipper woman, who really needs to consider decaf, bounced onto the screen, 2-pound weights in hand.  As she pumped her weights up and down, she shrieked her plans for the show’s menu.  First she intended to create a “mouth-watering plate of crispy nuggets!!”  Second, she planned a “stir fry so amazing you’ll never eat out again!!!!!!”  Last (thank goodness) came a “picnic-worthy tray of deviled eggs.”  The preview shots of the food were only minimally nauseating thanks to the genius of a food stylist, who could probably turn a sow’s ear into a literal silk purse.  As I snarfed down a basin of cheese popcorn, I pointed an orange finger at the screen and chuckled at the theme song, pitifully rivaling my snack for cheesiness. 

      Madame Spazz-Attack, now devoid of workout equipment, took her position in front of the camera and explained her food philosophy: most foods are terrible for your health but we can take bits of other substances (plants, beans, yard work) and create alternatives that are marginally healthier when eaten in tightly controlled, mimsy portions.  It basically boils down to what you swap or “exchange”, as she put it.  I was intrigued and a bit curious topped with a garnish of lightly sarcastic incredulity.

      As Miss Energy Bar did a bouncy jig at the thoughts of crispy nuggets, she nearly wept for the joy of replacing horrible old chicken for (pause for dramatic emphasis ...) firm tofu!  Couldn’t you just die for a plate of firm tofu rolled in plastic egg substitute, coated in whole grain cereal crumbs, and baked to perfection?!  A light dip of the corner in a 1/16 teaspoon serving of mustard may require an extra set of sit-ups, but oh isn’t it worth it?  I licked my orange fingers and laughed as the “stir fry so amazing you’ll never eat out again” turned out to be little more than pre-packaged frozen stir fry mix tossed with a drop of sodium-free soy sauce and served over some mushy, unpronounceable ancient grain.  As I scrubbed my face, trying to rid myself of orange staining, I was rendered motionless as Senorita Caffeine threw out perfectly good egg yolks and replaced them with (again, pause for dramatic emphasis ...) silken tofu!  She shrieked at the sheer wonder of a miracle product capable of producing non-lethal deviled eggs worthy of any gathering. 

      The smell of cheese popcorn lingered in the air as I pondered what I had just witnessed.  How is it that “exchanging” real food for what amounts to solidified air with an odd aftertaste is somehow supposed to free me from feelings of guilt?  I don’t eat tofu on moral grounds.  I mean, come on — what did those poor helpless soybeans do to you?  All they ever wanted was air, light, water, and a foundation named in their honor, ready and willing to take our money at the behest of a celebrity spokesman.  It’s cruel, really.  So utterly unfair that it brings tears.  How can we look ourselves in the mirror knowing we have forced a poor dead soybean to masquerade as a crispy nugget in its final moments on earth? 

      I extend my orange fingers to answer the ringing phone.  It is my mom and she sounds appalled.  “Are you watching this?”  “Watching what?” I ask.  “That actress from the 70’s!” she gasps.  “She thinks some peroxide and concealer is going to make people think she's a blonde bombshell!” 

      I brush the last orange remnants from my T-shirt and laugh softly to myself.  “Yeah, something like that.”

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Cake Is My Weakness: Part Two

     At 2am, I unmolded my second attempt at a giant cupcake for Buttercup’s birthday.  A beautifully formed confection waited for me to decorate it into a pink and white fantasy worthy of the fairiest of fairy princesses.  I was ecstatic that this cake looked like it might hold up, unlike its pitiful, gelatinous, gluey predecessor.  I dropped in the bed, exhausted but ready to give Buttercup a birthday to remember.  I got up the next morning and readied myself for a day of low-key, autism-friendly festivities, the highlight being my pink-sational centerpiece.  I rounded the corner to the kitchen and gasped at what lay before me.

     My naked cake had cracked.

     I don’t mean a hairline fracture or an unfortunate divot.  I mean a full-fledged, “watch your step please”, deep as the Grand Canyon, crackamundo crevice.  I decided right then that the god of crappy baking must be named Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart and he hates me.  I tried to apologize for whatever I had done to be so displeasing, but it was too late.  Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart had already cursed my cake with his lightning crack of fury.  As I surveyed the damage, The Yankee comes to the kitchen in search of something caffeinated.  “My cake!” I screeched, pointing at the chocolate disaster on the counter, “It’s ruined!”  He yawned, bleary-eyed and grumpy as ever.  “That’s nice.  Where’s the sugar spoon?”  I glared at him, “Don’t tempt me.”

     I stared at my disastrous, cracked cake, looking progressively sadder and more hideous by the minute.  I have no more boxes of cake mix.  I am out of eggs and cocoa powder so scratch baking is out of the question (not that I’m any good at it anyway).  We have to leave for Mom and Dad’s house in an hour.  I am out of options.  I plunk the lid on the cake carrier and grit my teeth.  I’ll think of something ... I have to. 

     We get to Mom and Dad’s, Buttercup blissfully unaware of the crackpot cake in the trunk and the crackpot mother in the front seat.  Dad, Moose and Red, Wolverine and Midge were already present and accounted for.  Mom would arrive later in the afternoon thanks to a no-husbands-allowed vacation she had enjoyed with a friend.  I left unpacking “Krakatoa” for last, and was not surprised to find Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart had deepened the Great Divide to the point the cake was now split in half.  Oh joy.  While Dad and The Yankee talked shop with Moose and Wolverine, Red and Midge tried not to laugh at my cursed attempt at baking.  I tried to laugh it off, “We shall overcome!  I have come armed with icing!”

     Why did I think this would work?

     Evidently, some bored person with a shrewd interest in making a fast buck off DIY bakers decided to sell squares of parchment paper as “easy to roll!” pastry bags in a box of 100.  I quickly discovered 100 is a requirement if you intend to be as tenacious as I am.  For almost an hour, I rolled, re-rolled, taped, glued, folded, wrinkled, and subsequently destroyed 95 squares of the slickest, most slippery paper ever marketed.  I would have had more success nailing cotton candy to a gelatin square.  Red waiting until she got outside before she laughed at me for calling parchment square #96 a “snortin sniveling frick turd moo moo head.” 

     I finally found one of Mom’s pastry bags, filled it with icing, and squeezed.  BOOM!!  The coupler gave way as icing and a decorating tip flew across the kitchen like a runaway balloon.

     I think I screamed a little.

     Finally, I managed to get a bit of cooperation from another one of Mom’s pastry bags.  I mixed electric pink and neon green icing to Buttercup’s exacting specifications.  With some creativity birthed from extreme desperation, I managed to turn the crackamundo cake of doom into a rock covered in a neon vine of electric pink flowers with a garden of beautiful flowers flowing from a crack in the “rock”.  I was sweaty, I had a headache, and I hoped I never saw another square of parchment as long as I lived.  Even so, I was thrilled at Buttercup’s smile and nearly wept as she said, “Oh Mama.  My flower so beautiful.”  Maybe it had been worth the effort after all.  I could breathe a sigh of relief. 

     “Hey Bert,” someone called out.  “How’d you get a pudding center in the middle of this cake?”

     Crap.

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Cake Is My Weakness: Part One

     Any mother worth her weight in dust bunnies is going to make an effort to see that her child has a very happy birthday.  I don’t mean live zoo animals at lavishly catered affairs costing more than an Ivy League semester.  I mean the small touches that celebrate another year of life with a treasured loved one.  When Buttercup’s birthday rolls around, I look forward to the small ways I can show her I am happy she got to be my little sidekick one more year.  I love all of it: making a “Happy Birthday” sign, picking out pretty napkins I know she will love, wrapping a gift with a sparkly bow … it’s fabulous, every bit of it.  Except the cake.  I can admit it: cake is my weakness.  But not eating it. 

      Hi, my name is Bertha and I can’t bake a cake worth a darn.

      Let me make one thing quite clear before I go any further.  I can cook.  I am an accomplished cook with many a dinner party, wedding, and catered event to my credit.  Aptitude is not the issue here.  It just so happens I am not a cake baker.  And it’s not like I haven’t tried.  Take last year, for instance.

      With Buttercup’s autism, I have to be careful not to hang too many decorations in too many different colors because she finds the busy-ness distracting and says it makes her ears “loud”.  Last year, I decided I would keep the decorations minimal, the guests limited to family, and make the cake the focal point of the table.  After she went to bed the night before the party, I mixed up a box of allegedly idiot-proof cake mix and poured the chocolatey goo into an allegedly easy giant cupcake mold.  My oven thermostat and the thermometer I  had put inside the oven both registered the perfect temperature, so I slid my confection into the oven.  The Yankee sniffed the air, “I don’t even like cake but that smells good for a boxed mix.”  I smiled and dreamed of the flower and candy encrusted masterpiece I would present the next day.  The timer went off to tell me it was time to check the cake’s doneness.  The toothpick came out dripping to I slid the pan back in the oven, after all, the instructions had indicated a 40-50 minute window of time.  At the 50 minute mark, the toothpick (yes, a new clean one) came out dripping.  The Yankee hung over my shoulder.  “That’s weird, Bert.  Are you sure it said 40-50 minutes at 350?”  I huffed, exasperated.  “Yes, I’m sure.  Read for yourself.”  The new, clean toothpicks dripped at 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110, and 125 minutes.  At 130 minutes, the edges were beginning to turn an unattractive molasses hue. 

      I brought the heated pool of lava to the counter and let it cool the requisite hour.  As I warily unmolded my doubtful cake, the center jiggled like a nightmarish gelatin mold of childhood Christmas horror at my other grandma’s house.  I grit my teeth and said the dirtiest words I could muster.  “This frickin fruitin stupid pile of sugar-laden moo moo crud buckets!  You’re a flitter-flicker ninny-noodle chuckle snort!  Curse you oven of doom and double curse you snardin-gobble-dinger cake pile!!!”  The Yankee laughs, “Oh, my ears are burning.”  I flash him the eyes of death as he chuckles a hasty retreat to another part of the house. 

      My gelatinous flop of a cake, and the unfortunate fact that it’s now past midnight, are not going to deter me from making a beautiful dessert for my Buttercup, so I pull out the old cookbook and start mixing.  A few eggs, some flour and cocoa powder later, I had another cake in the oven.  I crossed my fingers and prayed it would work.  At the 50 minute mark, I checked with yet another toothpick and squinted my eyes.  It came out clean.  I did a happy dance and let the cake cool. 

      Tomorrow, I would decorate the cake of Buttercup’s dreams.  Tomorrow, I would present her with a sugared representation of the sheer depths of a mother’s love.  It would be perfection.  It would be an unparalleled culinary achievement.

      It would be a disaster.

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Freud Chicken

     I’ll admit it: I’m a foodie.  A dyed-in-the-wool, totally engrossed, completely immersed foodie.  I love everything there is about food, cooking, and the culture of eating.    There is nothing like the thrill of a perfectly executed roulade or helping a stranger in a grocery store understand that avocados, aspic, and artichokes are not even remotely related.  It made me a nerd in high school and college, though.  While all my friends were learning the facts of life in the basement of a fraternity house, my dateless self was at the library reading everything I could find on cuts of meat and the secrets to perfectly flaky pastry.  It was my hobby, my passion, and I thought everyone liked to eat. 

     I should have known better.

     It’s nice to be known as the “food guru” in your own social circle, but the fun is somewhat diminished when you are alone in your excitement.  Take The Yankee’s dad for instance.  Harmon is the opposite of a foodie.  Of the nine foods in our solar system that do not send him to the men’s room for two hours at a time, there are at least eight of them that he prefers to be absolutely ruined beyond repair (burned, dried out, overcooked, etc.).  He and my mother-in-law, Ursula, came to visit before Buttercup was born.  Having grown up in a household where extravagant hospitality was heaped upon every guest, I was eager to show Harmon and Ursula the highlights of our little spot in the South East USA.  Taking our meager newlywed purse, we showed them the local sites and restaurants.  Not only did Harmon refuse to go anywhere that didn’t have a men’s room strategically located every 10 feet, he insisted we take him to restaurants willing to serve a cheeseburger at all times.  This cheeseburger must be cooked for at least 45 minutes so that any trace of flavor, moistness, or recognizable texture would be a dim memory by the time it reached his plate.  The burger, now in its hockey-puck glory, must be coated in American cheese: the cheaper, greasier, and more yellow, the better.  Condiments would be limited to mayonnaise and mayonnaise alone, thank you, and if you DARED introduce a gaseous, revolting vegetable on his burger, his plate, or the real estate bordering his plate, he would retreat immediately to the port-a-potty we stole from a construction site and tied to the back of the car. 

 
     I decided I didn’t like Harmon.  Not one bit.

     Maybe Ursula would be a better companion.  After all, she seemed the type who might enjoy the subtle nuances of resin-y rosemary present in the perfectly al dente Chanterelle Risotto.  WRONG.  Ursula disliked all spices, flavors, and … well … food in general.  She gagged at the mention of pork, declared our tap water “too spicy”, and snarled her lip at the horror of a freezer devoid of frozen macaroni and cheese (which she pronounced “chee-see mee-yack”).  No meal I could prepare, no restaurant I could take them to would satisfy Ursula’s underwhelming palate.  When I excitedly presented a dinner of The Yankee’s favorite fried chicken, Harmon cut into his chosen portion and threw his fork across the room.  “This chicken has WATER in it!” he cried.  “There’s no water, Harm.  I assure you it is just the natural juices of the chicken because I didn’t overcook it.”  As he packed his bags, Ursula hastily chewing an antacid thanks to my “spicy” tossed salad, he continued to rant.  “Chicken is supposed to be CHEWY!  It’s supposed to be crunchy to the bone and you put WATER IN IT!!”  Ursula popped another antacid, “And you don’t even have chee-see mee-yack in your freezer!”  They slammed the door, squalled tires out of the driveway, and never looked back. 

      That was 10 years ago, and we haven’t heard from them since.

      I learned a lot about food that weekend.  Food is more than the substance we ingest for the purposes of physical survival.  If that were the case, science could have invented a replacement pill a long time ago.  It is the substance of tradition, the pathway to bonding, the litmus test of a relationship.  Were Harmon and Ursula generally disagreeable in other aspects of life?  Absolutely, but their ungrateful attitudes, their hateful xenophobia, their outright disdain for adventure was never more evident than it was at the table.  I guess that’s the other side of being a foodie that attracts me; foodies are often amateur psychologists.  We can tell a lot about people by their habits.  The control freaks who have to have even numbers of ice cubes in their glasses.  The daring lovers of life who will try the hot sauce with the devil on the front of the bottle just for the fun of it.  The kind soft-hearts who generously compliment whatever you put in front of them out of sheer gratitude for the effort.  It’s an interesting perch being a foodie, and I love every second of it.  But not as much as I loved sending a port-a-potty coffee mug to Harmon for Christmas. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Something for Nothing

     I’ve heard a lot of talk lately about coupons.  It seems you can’t turn on the TV, pick up a magazine, or walk into a store without hearing something about coupons.  No one can even agree on how to pronounce the word.  I’ve heard “KOO-puns”, “KOO-pawns”, “CUE-pawns”, “CUE-puns”, and one guy with a sweater around his shoulders and pesto in his cart who said, “koo-PAWN-ays”.  I don’t understand the hype.  Yes, it’s amazing to walk out of a store with a trunk full of items that only cost a few dollars, but what exactly are you getting in those bags?

      I watched that show, “Coupon Outlandishness” (or whatever it’s called) and became more confused than ever.  One lady walked out of her local grocery store with 2,000 sports drinks, 200 bottles of lotion, 67 bags of flavored coffee, 34 sticks of antiperspirant, and 109 pouches of substandard-super-salty-this-is-insanely-gross-only-eat-in-case-of-nuclear-apocalypse-sorta-kinda-pork-flavored noodles.  As she squealed that her “grocery bill” was a mere $12, I really had to wonder what she fed her family.  I mean, how many ways can you prepare sports drinks and substandard-super-salty-this-is-insanely-gross-only-eat-in-case-of-nuclear-apocalypse-sorta-kinda-pork-flavored noodles? 

     As the cameras followed this savvy shopper back to her hoard, I was appalled by what I saw.  She had enough pre-packaged foods to start her own war-time staples repository.  She, her family, her extended family, her neighborhood, and every kid at her son’s school will never, ever need to buy lotion thanks to her.  Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of bottles of lotion filled her shelves as she beamed about her “grocery store” basement.  Sure, everybody you have ever met will be glowing with deeply-moisturized firmness, but what are they going to eat?  I’m serious!  I have seen coupons for substandard-super-salty-this-is-insanely-gross-only-eat-in-case-of-nuclear-apocalypse-sorta-kinda-pork-flavored noodles, toiletry items, diapers, candles, and maybe even the occasional canned vegetable, but I have never seen a coupon for a fresh vegetable, a cut of fresh meat, a piece of raw fruit, or a bag of potatoes.  Never.  Do these people and their fabulous $50 monthly grocery bills ever eat anything that doesn’t require a can opener or a paring knife to “slit plastic over blueberry crumble before microwaving”?

      On top of limited choices, these people dedicate MASSIVE amounts of time to their coupon obsession.  If you can save your family money on groceries, that’s fabulous.  But I would think one would have to ask himself this question: “If I am sending my child to the bottom of a dumpster to save 10 cents on my purchase of 3 or more liver cheese dog snacks, has my money-saving obsession become my master?” 

      Some might say that I’m just jealous that I don’t stock my pantry for pennies a month.  That may be partly true.  I pride myself on having a fully stocked pantry filled with items purchased at a bulk discount, but I do not let it take over my life.  I have never, and will never, give Buttercup the old “heave-ho” over the side of a dumpster to rescue a poor little 20 cent “koo-PAWN-ay” that someone carelessly tossed out.  I’ve never had much luck with coupons anyway.  All of my local stores put strict limits on the type, number, and amount of coupons and they don’t care if you pitch a fit over it.  One store accepts coupons printed with color ink ONLY.  The other store down the street accepts coupons printed with black ink ONLY.  The store in the middle says 20 coupons per customer, per day, and they welcome you to take your business elsewhere if you disagree.  I guess it’s where I live, but the guests on “Coupon Outlandishness” would never survive here.  These stores prefer you use their “in-store” deals, but I’ve never had much luck with those either, and it’s probably because I read the fine print: "Buy One Apple, Get a FREE STEAK!!!" (Apple must be a Granny Smith not more than 4 inches in diameter that has been mistakenly marked with a Banana-King banana sticker. "Free Steak" refers to the manner in which it was raised as cows are free range on an open prairie in Kansas somewhere.  Steak may not exceed 2 oz. in weight and must contain a ridge of fat at least 3 inches deep to qualify.  Apples marked with Banana-Queen banana stickers do not qualify.  Coupons not valid on this offer.  Sorry, no rain checks and pennies cannot be accepted as a valid form of payment.)

     But hey, if coupons are their stock in trade, let them have at it.  They can enjoy all the substandard-super-salty-this-is-insanely-gross-only-eat-in-case-of-nuclear-apocalypse-sorta-kinda-pork-flavored noodles their hearts could ever desire.  I'm having homemade Sausage and Peppers for dinner tonight ... and I didn't use a "koo-PAWN-ay".      

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

It's Hardly the Resurrection

     I was standing in line at the grocery store last week when a woman and her 3 sons walked by.  It was late in the afternoon and I could tell each kid was dreaming of food and a venue far removed from the boring grocery store he had been forced to endure.  As she struggled to push her overloaded cart past the crowd waiting for a turn at the cash register, one of the boys said, “Mommyyyyy!  I’m hungryyyyy!”  She sighed and said, “We’re going home, honey.  Just wait a little longer and we’ll eat soon.”  Another boy chimed in, “What are we having?”  The mother raised her eyebrows to her hairline, pursed her lips in an effort to look excited, inhaled sharply and said, “Leftovers!  YUMMM!” 

     Leftovers.

     It’s one of those words I hate like “cluster”, “skin tag”, and “ironing”.  The mere word “leftovers” conjures images of foods that have outlived their usefulness, worn out their welcome: wrinkled green beans, mushy pasta, hopelessly separated sauces, rubbery meat with a bizarre aftertaste.  A mere shadow of its former glory, a leftover reminds me of a singer from a bygone era, still belting out antique tunes on a stage in Branson.  It’s just sad and I can’t bear the thoughts.  I don’t see pasty, soggy fried chicken … I see 80-year-old Elvis, still strutting his saggy stuff across a glossy stage, his quivery voice cracking as he bumps and grinds his walker to a “party at the county jail”.

      I began to wonder if I was completely alone in my disdain.  I’ve known people who cooked three days’ worth of food on a Friday and then re-warmed it the whole weekend long.  (*wave of nausea*)  A woman standing at the deli counter once told me that she bought herself a rotisserie chicken and would then “eat on it all week”.  (*gulp*)  Nanny used to boil leftover meat and make stir-fry out of it.  (*heave*)  Apparently, just like s’mores, green bean casserole, and onion straws, leftovers are very popular … and I’ve never exactly had an affinity for what is popular. 

     This may explain my hatred for frozen entrees, which are little more than commercially prepared leftovers with a half-teaspoon of blueberry crumble for dessert.  It’s a frozen doggy bag for crying out loud, and people spend millions every year buying this stuff.  I don’t get it.  What pains me are the colorful terms people use for their leftovers: “seconds”, “dinner revisited”, “encore”, “Lazarus” … really?  You’re naming your chewy roast beef and withered carrots after a “revisited” dead guy?  (And on a side note, if carrots are so full of wrinkle-fighting antioxidants, why do the “resurrected” ones look like my great, great grandma?) 

     This is the one area where my best friend, Pocahontas, and I don’t see eye-to-eye.  She will order an extra-large picnic meal from the local Chicken Frying Experts down the street and then refrigerate it.  Over the next few nights, she and her family will heat up the leftovers for dinner, and the put them back in the fridge again.  The mere thoughts of this makes me shudder.  Only in my nightmares could I invent anything more unbelievably horrendous.  Like every rule, there are a few exceptions.  I have no trouble reheating spaghetti sauce (sans pasta), chili, black bean soup, or Chinese takeout fried rice.  And that’s about it.  Yes, it means I have to cook every night.  Yes, it means I have to carefully consider how much I am preparing to prevent waste.  Yes, it means I am treated to a fresh creation every time.  And that, to me, is worth every ounce of effort.  It’s how I show love to my family and how I feel like I have done my best for them.  Pocahontas, on the other hand, has no issues with leftovers.  Her issue lies in the painstaking effort of cooking.  She hates it.  She absolutely hates it.  She would much rather reorganize her organized closet organizational system or polish her polished table until it is spotlessly polished with furniture polish.  That’s what floats her boat.  That’s what makes her feel like her home is, well, homey.  She refrains from singing “White Christmas” to my dusty picture frames, and I manage to stop myself from singing “Cold, Cold Heart” to the Chicken Frying Experts box in her fridge.  Our differences make us who we are, and that’s OK. 

     But I still hate leftovers.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.