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food blog index
Struggle in a Bungalow Kitchen
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| | Oh, dear. My husband informed me today that our children have been Boing-Boinged. I do think they are wonderful things, so maybe it's appropriate: http://www.boingboing.net/2006/03/16/earthchildrens_robot.html |
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| I have friends who have a lot of children. Two of my girlfriends each have four, and another one has three. I don’t know exactly what they regularly feed them for lunch, though I know one of them absolutely despairs when time constraints force her to fall back on the ubiquitous chicken nuggets / frozen pizza routine. Having one child who happily eats leftovers and whatever odd bits put before him has always made lunch pretty easy around here, but sometimes he and his cousins go out to grandma’s and if she didn’t have an old-time peasant stand-by to fall back on, I’m not sure what they’d do. Quite often Kipp comes home bearing a little plastic margarine container of leftover eggs and noodles that grandma had whipped up for their main meal. Eggs and noodles. So simple. Yet it never occurred to me to combine the two (except in spahetti a la carbonarawhich is a bit rich for lunch.) So the other day when I was paging through Michael Baruch’s The NewPolish Cuisine, I came across a recipe entitled Busia’s Buttered Noodles with Eggs and thought I’d give it a try this noon. At 11:30Kipp gave me ample notice that he was getting hungry for lunch so I began the preparations. What was nice about waiting for the big pot of water to boil, and then cooking the thick Amish egg noodles I had on hand, was that I had about 45 minutes of “double-productive putter time” in the kitchen. What I mean is that while the meal was cooking, I was able to put away the dishes in the dishwasher, load up the accumulated dirty dishes, clean the counters and sweep the floor. So often I think I must not start cooking until the kitchen is a clean slate. (So often the cooking that I do does not allow double-productive putter time.) But today it seemed to me that lunchtime is a perfect time to put on a pot of boiling water, whether for potatoes or noodles, and not clean up the breakfast dishes until then. All you really have to have on hand for the dish is noodles, eggs, cheese, butter, and salt. I think the parsley in the recipe would be great, but no sense tearing your hair out if you don't have it. The recipe calls for thin Kluski noodle ribbons, but like I mentioned we used fat ones. I think you could even use Creamettes. We didn’t have Parmesan cheese, but used a garlic Asiago-Mozarella Bistro blend we had on hand, so you can really vary the flavors according to your taste. And the dish can be as virtuous as the quality of the ingredients will allow. With a little fruit or veggies on the side, that’s what I call a Lunch--that kids will adore. Buttered Noodles with Eggs 1 pound thin Kluski noodle ribbons4 large whole eggs1/3 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese2 Tablespoons parsley, choppedDash of sea salt¼ tsp fresh ground black pepper4 Tablspoons unsalted butter 1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil and cook noodles according to directions on the package. 2. While the pasta is cooking, place the eggs, grated cheese, parsley, salt and pepper into a medium-sized mixing bowl and beat whit a whisk until well combined. 3. When the noodles are almost cooked, melt the butter in a large nonstick skille over medium heat. Quickly drain the pasta into a colander, add it to the skillet, and toss briefly to cat it with the butter. 4. Now add the egg mixture to the skillet and using a flat wooden sppoon, mix quicky together for less than a minute until the eggs and noodles become creamy and thick. (Do not cook the eggs too long or they will scramble and ruin the dish.) Serve immediately. Serves 4. |
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| I just popped over to Myth and Culture.com and was very impressed by Maggie's post today. She might have a nostalgia for animated gifs on her site, but don't let that fool you. Her mind is definitely top notch. Aproros of her post, I throw her this small bone. http://www.mythandculture.com/weblog/2006/02/death-of-psychotherapy.htmlI'd even sign up for her course in dreamwork if my dreams didn't usually fly right out of my head the minute I open my eyes. Have to work on that. |
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| I'm not the only one wondering: "What the heck is going on?" I saw my friend Hugh last weekend at his brother’s annual Australia Day Party. Every year I go through this ritual of hauling out sunny, summery clothes in the dead of winter and it always shocks me out of my lily-white skin. When summer finally does roll around, though, it’s easier to handle the wardrobe transition. Best to get the shock out of the way early in the year. Anyway, I was talking to my friend who runs several Landmark theatres in the Upper Midwestand I asked him, “What is going on with all these torture movies lately? The levels of violence for entertainment purposes is ratcheting up to really alarming levels. Can you please explain to me how something like Hostelgets booked into the local cineplex?” “Oh, “ he chuckled, “I know the director. He’s a nice guy. Hostel’s not so bad, now. It’s got some redeeming qualities.” “You saw it?” I asked, incredulously. “You [a friend of mine?!]? And the redeeming qualities are. . .? “Well, now, you see, it’s not just dumb teenage girls getting slaughtered. It’s actually privileged frat boy types getting slaughtered.” “I see. So it’s some sort of geek boy revenge fantasy then?” I asked. “Yeah, I dunno. I didn’t see the whole thing. During the part where this girl was getting her eyeballs blowtorched, I covered my eyes with my hand, 'cause, you know, I didn't want to watch, and I accidentally popped out my contact lens.” (This is a typical Hugh anecdote.) “But you said girls didn’t get tortured!” “Okay, well” he mumbled, “I guess a couple did. I didn’t get to see much after the blowtorch bit.” I bring up this subject because Arts & Letters Daily linked to an article about the phenomenon of Torture Porn in the movies. I have not seen Hostel, or Saw, or any of their ilk, nor do I intend to. I think that level of gore has always been with us, but just like the special effects in Star Warshas improved, so have the horror effects. And now it’s more accessible, whereas before you maybe had to go to a video store and rent from the low-budget bottom shelf. I remember one evening back when I was a sophomore in college. I lived in a co-ed dorm and this group of guys we knew had rented some scary movies. A few of my girlfriends and I were invited down to watch. I don’t remember the name of the film; all I remember was some scene in which a young woman’s entire alimentary canal came oozing back up out of her mouth. That was enough for me. The movie scene I could dismiss as so much latex, but what really sickened me was this group of guys who seemed to be enjoying themselves. Critics can blather on all they want about ‘catharsis’, but to me it seemed more like the pathetic end of the genetic line for those fellows, as far as I, a female of their species, was concerned. |
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| The upside of my anger is that it gets me off my backside. Metaphorically so, I suppose, if I just sit down again to write. Ihave learned, however, not to fool myself that the writing, in and of itself, is sufficient response. It is only a beginning, an exercise in working out the world for myself and a precursor to strategizing more effective action, which sometimes includes planning a five-course Valentine’s Day Dinner for my family and sometimes does not. While I was on computer hiatus there was apparently a minor blogland brouhahaover an article in The American Prospectslamming "elite" women who choose not to work in the public sphere while raising children. The author, Linda Hirshman, judges them for a multitude of reasons having to do with power, without once stopping to analyze the very notion underlying all her arguments. And she identifies herself as a philospher! Hirshman does not strike me as particularly bright. Not somuch for what she writes (philosophical shortcomings aside)--she is, after all, as entitled to her opinions as much as anyone (even if she’s just recycling a lot of Simone de Beauvoir’s opinons)--as for her subsequent thin-skinned defense of the article. If she were truly a clever feminist, couldn’t she sense that goading a good number of American women into anger and a sense of solidarity was a good thing? And then be on her merry way? Ah, well, and ho hum, as a favorite writer of mine used to say. Now I must be on my full-flourishing merry human way as I need to get some daylight into my pineal gland and the sun is shining. |
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| A good choice was made for me last night. Yesterday I went to the mailbox and found a package had arrived from my friend H. It contained a DVD copy of the movie The World’s Fastest Indian, which opens today. Sending the screening copy to us was part of Hugh’s attempt to court the motorcycle racing community and as my husband runs a website devoted to the sport, it was a logical idea. So the family gathered ‘round the electronic hearth last night to watch it and I have to admit, it’s been ages since I’ve been so surprised by a movie. As the story unfolded, I kept expecting terrible things to happen. I kept expecting every minor little conflict, setback or ordeal to flare up in typical Hollywoodoverblown fashion. I half expected someone would try to rip off Anthony Hopkins’ fingernails with a pliers, after having seen Syriana—oh, not literally, but I was sure somehow, in some way, my sensibilities were going to be violently asssaulted. And they were not. Nothing bad happened, and I can’t tell you the many ways in which nothing bad happened, because finding that out for yourself will be a pleasure, should you decide to see the movie. Has this one film restored my faith in humanity? Faith has been trickling back in on a daily basis since the dark day of December's previous post. I was ill for a while, physically so, with tremendous, unnatural fatigue and a rash under my eyes and on my neck, exacerbated by my computer monitor, of all things, so that, in part, explains my absence. The doctor tested me for thyroid problems and lupus, but test results were fine, and she was stumped. Only I knew how badly my immune system had been impaired, and the reasons why. There wasn’t anything to do but take convalescing into my own hands. Convalesce is such a lovely word. It was rolling around in my brain one morning, so much so that I rose early from slumber just to look up its etymology. It’s from the Latin and means “to begin to grow strong.” In the effort to regain a sturdy immune system, I have turned to sunlight and pure food, rest and reading old favorites. The World Fastest Indiandid nothing to mar my progress and, if blogging is any indication of health, it certainly gave me a boost of strength. Thank you, Hugh! |
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| I made a very bad choice last night. Our basement family room is the warmest place in the house. It’s next to the laundry / furnace room, so the heat from the dryer and the boiler always keeps it cozy. We remodeled this summer. There are no books down there yet, just a television and a sofa. I took a basket of clothes to fold and sat on the couch, flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch. I paused at a scene of a desperate woman talking to a plastic surgeon, who was vile. In fact, the whole show just got more vile and revolting from there, and I'm not talking about the sex or the gruesome surgical procedures in and of themselves; I'm talking about the way people treated each other. Worse than HBO’s Rome. I turned it off after yet another moment of being profoundly glad I’d had a miscarriage--so deeply relieved I was not going to bring another child into thisworld, but heartsick for the one I already had brought. And that feeling made me angry; that I should feel that way, clearly means I’ve got my “tent pitched in a world not right”. . . but there are other worlds. I just need to make more conscious and deliberate choices to pitch my tent where I want it to be. In case you are wondering, the show was called Nip Tuck. Unfortunately I don’t pay enough attention to television even to have been forewarned. Last night’s ambush pushed me to some sort sort of breaking point. I did a Google search on the show, was elated to find I’m not alone, and I signed my name to a petitionto squeeze the financial life out of the FX network, unless they rethink their entertainment choices. Ha! Take that! But even as I did so, I wondered what is going on with the men who create these shows. I remember reading an interview in Smithsonian magazine about HBO’s Rome. Bruno Heller, the co-creator of the show said: “the series attempts to show the Romans without judging them by modern, Christian morality. Certain things are repressed in our own culture, like the open enjoyment of others’ pain, the desire to make people submit to your will, the guilt-free use of slaves. . . This was all quite normal to the Romans.” These things are just ‘repressed’, are they? Perhaps in Heller’s damaged psyche, but not, I assure you in my own. So much damage, everywhere. It’s no wonder I feel the need to turn away, repair the damage, and take some serous multi-vitamins. Where do we turn, though? Towards nature, towards beauty, towards traditional Christmas activity. I can’t think of any place else to go, any place else where God and goodness and inspiration might be. To bake: Gingersnaps and Orange Cookie Cut-Outs. To buy: a Christmas Tree. To dream: of a family getaway. To go: for a walk with the dog. To send: some glorious Christmas Cards. |
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