I keep forgetting to take the time to sit down and write.
So, promise to myself: I will write 300 words, 4 times a week. And I will do this even if those 300 words are about nothing.
There.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Middling Chef Tells All...well, some.
I felt like doing something a bit different this time.
I'm sitting here with a plate of charry bits and half-baked potatoes, thinking about my vast collection of kitchen knowledge. And, more importantly, that I should share this treasure trove of knowing-ness
I enjoy the Food Network tremendously. I watch the chefs saute and bake and toss pans of whatnot high into the air all the while thinking, with a mental shrug of ennui, "I could do that."
Well I could.
I'd need to make a double recipe because after scraping the whatnot off the ceiling and floor there might not be enough for everybody. And I'm sure that whatever the whatnot lacked in deliciousness would be related solely to poor recipe transcription and not my culinary talents.
So with that in mind here is some of my gathered kitchen wisdom, just for you and in alphabetical order because, well, it had to arranged somehow now didn't it?
Curry Powder: If you do not like the taste of curry powder, get it the hell out of your kitchen. There is something exotic-y about curry powder that, when the middling chef wants to add a pop of the unusual, is positively seductive. The middling chef--let's call her the MC, shall we? stands in the kitchen, spoon in hand after tasting the dillweed and sour cream dressing she's made for a fresh tomato and cucumber salad: "this needs something...hmmm...something a little different. A touch of curry, perhaps." The MC may also attempt to use curry powder to season chicken fingers, savory waffles and pot roast. Curry powder, in the hands of the unskilled, is a bit like a slasher movie. Everyone knows the prom queen is going to get it, and mostly you're just going to be grossed out at the end.
Grill Fires: The MC knows that grill fires happen. She also knows that when they happen, the wisest course of action is to close the lid, turn off the propane (unless it is an out-of-control charcoal fire at which point you're on your own), and walk away. New grills are cheap this time of year.
Muffins: When the MC wants to bake, she goes for muffins. A classic muffin batter is the perfect vessel for most any borderline fruit or hunk of cheese (please note that the MC does not condone using rotten fruit or cheese, only that which is past it's prime but not yet compost...and yes, the MC knows that cheese is not compostable). Once the basic recipe has been mastered, the sky is the baking limit. Home baked muffins offer lots of baking satisfaction without the long-term commitment of cakes, pies or brownies.
Non-stickiness: Here's a little something the MC picked up in a cooking class (hope springs eternal). To make a sticking pan into a non-sticking pan (please don't try this with scuffed, shredded or beaten-down nonstick pans. Those need to be discarded. Immediately.)
Note: Apparently this works because the initial heat causes the metal of the pan to expand, then the oil or other fat creates the nonstick layer between the food and the pan. Who knew?
I feel compelled to add...or warn...that this short list barely scratches the surface of kitchen knowledge accumulated over my odd (as in mathematical term) years. I know some secrets about store-brand cheese that would make your ice cream curdle.
I'm sitting here with a plate of charry bits and half-baked potatoes, thinking about my vast collection of kitchen knowledge. And, more importantly, that I should share this treasure trove of knowing-ness
I enjoy the Food Network tremendously. I watch the chefs saute and bake and toss pans of whatnot high into the air all the while thinking, with a mental shrug of ennui, "I could do that."
Well I could.
I'd need to make a double recipe because after scraping the whatnot off the ceiling and floor there might not be enough for everybody. And I'm sure that whatever the whatnot lacked in deliciousness would be related solely to poor recipe transcription and not my culinary talents.
So with that in mind here is some of my gathered kitchen wisdom, just for you and in alphabetical order because, well, it had to arranged somehow now didn't it?
Curry Powder: If you do not like the taste of curry powder, get it the hell out of your kitchen. There is something exotic-y about curry powder that, when the middling chef wants to add a pop of the unusual, is positively seductive. The middling chef--let's call her the MC, shall we? stands in the kitchen, spoon in hand after tasting the dillweed and sour cream dressing she's made for a fresh tomato and cucumber salad: "this needs something...hmmm...something a little different. A touch of curry, perhaps." The MC may also attempt to use curry powder to season chicken fingers, savory waffles and pot roast. Curry powder, in the hands of the unskilled, is a bit like a slasher movie. Everyone knows the prom queen is going to get it, and mostly you're just going to be grossed out at the end.
Grill Fires: The MC knows that grill fires happen. She also knows that when they happen, the wisest course of action is to close the lid, turn off the propane (unless it is an out-of-control charcoal fire at which point you're on your own), and walk away. New grills are cheap this time of year.
Muffins: When the MC wants to bake, she goes for muffins. A classic muffin batter is the perfect vessel for most any borderline fruit or hunk of cheese (please note that the MC does not condone using rotten fruit or cheese, only that which is past it's prime but not yet compost...and yes, the MC knows that cheese is not compostable). Once the basic recipe has been mastered, the sky is the baking limit. Home baked muffins offer lots of baking satisfaction without the long-term commitment of cakes, pies or brownies.
Non-stickiness: Here's a little something the MC picked up in a cooking class (hope springs eternal). To make a sticking pan into a non-sticking pan (please don't try this with scuffed, shredded or beaten-down nonstick pans. Those need to be discarded. Immediately.)
- preheat the dry pan on a medium-medium high burner
- add fat to the pan and allow it to come to temp (fyi: if you're using cooking spray on a nonstick pan, add it cold--spraying it into a hot pan is what causes that sticky chemical mess you sometimes see on nonstick cookware)
- add the whatnot, giving it a quick stir after the first minute
Note: Apparently this works because the initial heat causes the metal of the pan to expand, then the oil or other fat creates the nonstick layer between the food and the pan. Who knew?
I feel compelled to add...or warn...that this short list barely scratches the surface of kitchen knowledge accumulated over my odd (as in mathematical term) years. I know some secrets about store-brand cheese that would make your ice cream curdle.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A quck 'n' messy transitional post
Where were we?
Oh yes. Summer was upon us, and I took a 3-month hiatus to move. And move. And move one more time.
I moved into a house; moved my son here from Michigan; moved my writing center into a different space altogether (although confession: I only had to do the packing for that one.)
I love serendipity. At the end of the spring semester, once I finally made the commitment to stay here for a second year, I discovered that I hadn't left myself any time to figure out living arrangements for the 2010-2011 academic year. Worst case scenario, I thought, was that I would stay in my apartment for another year. Eventually we will buy a house, but there are some pesky details that need attention before then. Details like selling the one we own in Michigan, which is no easy task right now.
A second year in the apartment wasn't ideal for many reasons, despite its considerable charms. Chief among these reasons were the complicated set of door locks and alarms that required navigation to get outside, and the fact that I was, by about 20 years, the youngest resident of the house. Combined, they made moving my 8-year-old into the apartment a fairly bad idea.
Enter serendipity. As I was beginning to panic over living arrangements, one of my colleagues was starting to worry about her house. She accepted a one-year teaching assignment in Central America and needed someone to rent the house for the year. Through the magic that is Facebook, it came together for both of us.
Last year brought with it the opportunity to rediscover myself, my priorities, and other things long forgotten in the shadow of cohabitation. This year brings my son to New York, where I will be parenting solo most of the time. My spouse will be the one doing the commuting which, really, doesn't sound so bad right now. I suspect, however, that I have a lot to learn.
And we're off.
Oh yes. Summer was upon us, and I took a 3-month hiatus to move. And move. And move one more time.
I moved into a house; moved my son here from Michigan; moved my writing center into a different space altogether (although confession: I only had to do the packing for that one.)
I love serendipity. At the end of the spring semester, once I finally made the commitment to stay here for a second year, I discovered that I hadn't left myself any time to figure out living arrangements for the 2010-2011 academic year. Worst case scenario, I thought, was that I would stay in my apartment for another year. Eventually we will buy a house, but there are some pesky details that need attention before then. Details like selling the one we own in Michigan, which is no easy task right now.
A second year in the apartment wasn't ideal for many reasons, despite its considerable charms. Chief among these reasons were the complicated set of door locks and alarms that required navigation to get outside, and the fact that I was, by about 20 years, the youngest resident of the house. Combined, they made moving my 8-year-old into the apartment a fairly bad idea.
Enter serendipity. As I was beginning to panic over living arrangements, one of my colleagues was starting to worry about her house. She accepted a one-year teaching assignment in Central America and needed someone to rent the house for the year. Through the magic that is Facebook, it came together for both of us.
Last year brought with it the opportunity to rediscover myself, my priorities, and other things long forgotten in the shadow of cohabitation. This year brings my son to New York, where I will be parenting solo most of the time. My spouse will be the one doing the commuting which, really, doesn't sound so bad right now. I suspect, however, that I have a lot to learn.
And we're off.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
This must be how non-custodial parents feel.
When I decided to make the jump to New York, it was for a lot of reasons. Some were quite selfish, others much less so. Many of them intertwine, and some stand alone. When asked what the hell I was thinking, I typically give an answer tailored to the audience. It is never a lie, though it is probably an incomplete truth.
I commented in a short essay once that I was concerned that I had sacrificed the last vestiges of my son's childhood for Blue Cross. While I still am concerned about this, I'm also at the "what's done is done" point in the process, which is a bit of a relief. Of course, the next question is along the lines of "but what has been done?"
We're in New York this week, just the two of us. It is the first time in a year that it has been this way. Just the two of us, for longer than just a few hours. And I discovered today that I don't know him quite as well as I used to.
There aren't major changes in him, no complete differences or absolute unexpectedness. Just little things like the way he no longer needs me to order for him when we're out to lunch because he's too nervous. Or how he doesn't need the company of a parent when he's the first one awake in the morning. Small things that are part of growing up, and that I wasn't there to watch unfold.
And it leaves me feeling quite maudlin.
When I decided to make the jump to New York, it was for a lot of reasons. Some were quite selfish, others much less so. Many of them intertwine, and some stand alone. When asked what the hell I was thinking, I typically give an answer tailored to the audience. It is never a lie, though it is probably an incomplete truth.
I commented in a short essay once that I was concerned that I had sacrificed the last vestiges of my son's childhood for Blue Cross. While I still am concerned about this, I'm also at the "what's done is done" point in the process, which is a bit of a relief. Of course, the next question is along the lines of "but what has been done?"
We're in New York this week, just the two of us. It is the first time in a year that it has been this way. Just the two of us, for longer than just a few hours. And I discovered today that I don't know him quite as well as I used to.
There aren't major changes in him, no complete differences or absolute unexpectedness. Just little things like the way he no longer needs me to order for him when we're out to lunch because he's too nervous. Or how he doesn't need the company of a parent when he's the first one awake in the morning. Small things that are part of growing up, and that I wasn't there to watch unfold.
And it leaves me feeling quite maudlin.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
10 Things
As soon as I wake up (as in become functional, which will require much more coffee and a shower), I'm off to Michigan for the summer.
This must mean I've finished my first year here. So what I really want to know (and undoubtedly you do, too) is this: what have I learned?
Here, in random order as they occur to me in my caffeine-deprived state, are 10 things I've learned from my year of living solo in New York:
Now, on to summer in Michigan.
This must mean I've finished my first year here. So what I really want to know (and undoubtedly you do, too) is this: what have I learned?
Here, in random order as they occur to me in my caffeine-deprived state, are 10 things I've learned from my year of living solo in New York:
- How to ride a horse. Although this had been on my bucket list for years, it wasn't until a friend and colleague nagged me incessantly that I finally signed up for lessons. I'm definitely not a natural talent, but I'm improving. Hopefully I won't lose it all over the course of the summer
- How to meet strangers in the laundromat. The laundromat is a great place to meet people. Seriously. I picked up my hairstylist there.
- That when it comes to corresponding with people I have great intentions but horrible follow-through. If it weren't for Facebook and email, I would've lost touch with just about everybody I know who doesn't live in New York. (I always knew this one, but really saw it in action this year.)
- Fry cakes, when done right, are vastly superior to donuts.
- That trusting the universe will get me much farther than pretending I have all the answers.
- Also, when I shut up and listen to them, I have good instincts. And that trusting my instincts sometimes requires counterintuitive actions.
- How to make a terrific mustard-maple chicken. Heck, before, I didn't even know New York had a maple industry. Sad, but true.
- That I'm okay by myself. I miss my boys, but one of the things this year has required of me is that I function externally rather than internally. I may often be socially awkward, but I'm still social and I think this is strangely easy to lose sight of this when we're part of a cohesive unit.
- The pronunciation difference between Keuka and Cayuga is this: one has a voiceless velar plosive (k-sound) in the middle, while the other does not.
- And finally, I have discovered that I can do, or find a way around, pretty much anything I decide to take on. Sometimes it requires rational approaches; sometimes it takes the help of friends; sometimes it takes a little more hard work than I had budgeted but at the end of it all, the goal is met. (Or modified. What it isn't is abandoned--which may have been the hardest lesson of all)
Now, on to summer in Michigan.
Friday, June 11, 2010
There was a time, not that long ago really, when New York existed only as an inconvenience. Starting about ten years ago, we would go to Maine for the summer--something unheard of in Michigan, as most Michiganders prefer to go "up north." (Make a mitten with your hand, and everything from the base of your fingers to the tips is "up north." The Upper Peninsula isn't up north, by the way--it's the U.P.)
We love Maine, though, so every summer it was the same big question--"how are we gonna get there?" Flying has become increasingly painful since 9-11, increased security issues compounded by luggage fees, long lines and generally annoyed people. Driving takes longer, but we can carry on all the liquids we want. Driving from Michigan to Maine also requires going through New York, and the annual conversation went something like this:
"How are we getting to Maine this year?"
"Well, we could fly, but I hate dealing with the airport, and we'll have to rent a car, and we won't get to stop in Vermont."
"Yeah, but if we drive, we'll have to go through New York. I hate that stretch through New York. There's nothing there. Miles and miles of nothing."
"True, but when we finally get out of New York, we're at Bennington."
Every year, the same conversation.
Recently, on a drive back from Plattsburgh, I was trying to explain this to a friend who has always lived in New York. I also admitted that on the big list of places I've always wanted to live, New York didn't even make the semi-final cut. In all of my wanderings, both real and imagined, it wasn't even up for consideration.
But here I am. I'm cleaning up my apartment, tossing things that will spoil over the next 3-4 weeks, and getting ready to head to Michigan for a bit. I'll enjoy my time in Michigan, seeing friends, doing the things that I have typically done there, and spending some much-needed time with my family. But I know, even though New York is an inconvenience, and even though New York isn't on my list of places I want to live, that to some extent I'll be marking off the days. I'll be ready to come home to this unlikely place.
I have plans. Big plans.
We love Maine, though, so every summer it was the same big question--"how are we gonna get there?" Flying has become increasingly painful since 9-11, increased security issues compounded by luggage fees, long lines and generally annoyed people. Driving takes longer, but we can carry on all the liquids we want. Driving from Michigan to Maine also requires going through New York, and the annual conversation went something like this:
"How are we getting to Maine this year?"
"Well, we could fly, but I hate dealing with the airport, and we'll have to rent a car, and we won't get to stop in Vermont."
"Yeah, but if we drive, we'll have to go through New York. I hate that stretch through New York. There's nothing there. Miles and miles of nothing."
"True, but when we finally get out of New York, we're at Bennington."
Every year, the same conversation.
Recently, on a drive back from Plattsburgh, I was trying to explain this to a friend who has always lived in New York. I also admitted that on the big list of places I've always wanted to live, New York didn't even make the semi-final cut. In all of my wanderings, both real and imagined, it wasn't even up for consideration.
But here I am. I'm cleaning up my apartment, tossing things that will spoil over the next 3-4 weeks, and getting ready to head to Michigan for a bit. I'll enjoy my time in Michigan, seeing friends, doing the things that I have typically done there, and spending some much-needed time with my family. But I know, even though New York is an inconvenience, and even though New York isn't on my list of places I want to live, that to some extent I'll be marking off the days. I'll be ready to come home to this unlikely place.
I have plans. Big plans.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Finger Lakes Cooling
Once upon a time, I did all those things that need to be done once in a while--change the flat tire, unclog the sink, take out the trash, kill the black ants, get the oil changed, move to Alaska. If you're a single, obstinate woman, this is what you do--it all by yourself.
Then, eventually, I got married and someone else changed the tires, unclogged the sink, took out the trash, killed the ants and got the oil changed (that move to Alaska thingy was a singular event predicated on the fact that I was in my mid-20's and thought "what the hell. I've never been to Alaska." So I moved there).
And then, even more eventually, I moved to New York, leaving the tire-changing, sink-unclogging, trash-taking, ant-killing, oil-changing spouse in Michigan. And I am proud to admit that I have relearned how to do all of those things without asking for help. Well, sort of. When my tire went flat my first reaction was to call my husband who, while sympathetic, wasn't really in a position to help beyond asking "so, what are you going to do about it?"
One thing I had never done--and that almost made me break down and ask for help--was install a window unit air conditioner.
We had a string of extra-toasty days here in Upstate New York which were manageable during the day but really, who can sleep in an 84 degree bedroom? So I marched myself into Lowe's and stood there gaping at the assortment of window units.
Who knew there were so many features, options and variables? Since it was just for night, in my bedroom, I chose the smallest, cheapest one, dragged it off the stack and carried it to the checkout. (Did I get a cart? No. Did I ask for assistance? Of course not, though I found out after I was in line that one of the employees was chasing me with a cart--in my determination to get the thing done, I never even noticed. And for what it's worth, men who are shopping at Lowe's are really, really, amused by watching a short, fat, middle-aged woman dragging air conditioners across the store.)
I lugged it upstairs and into my bedroom, managed with only mild cursing to get it out of the box and sat there, aghast at all of the pieces that needed to be attached. My trusty Ikea tool kit next to me, I eventually got it assembled. (I have a few screws left over if anyone needs 'em. ) All that remained was putting it into the window, plugging it in, and turning it on.
Well, except that the way the window is set up with vinyl frames for the storm windows, I couldn't get it stabilized. And my bed was in the way. And the only outlet that would accommodate the plug is on the farthest wall.
So I shoved my bed into the middle of the room and managed to break off one of the bed frame wheels. Then I squashed a stack of paperback novels into the window crevice to stabilize the thing. The shiny covers made them a little slippery, so when I tried to get the air conditioner tilted to the correct angle, they slid out from underneath each other, tumbling out the window in a gruesome display of flying fiction.
Then I realized that there was no way the cord was going to get anywhere near the outlet. Plus the directions made a really big deal about having a dedicated, direct-access outlet as power source.
Really, all I wanted was cold air--did it have to be so hard?
Again to Lowe's where I bought packs of shims, a role of electrical tape, and spent 45 minutes staring at extension cords, certain that I was about to blow up the entire house. (To my credit, I had checked the volt/amp requirements and knew what I needed in an extension cord. I bought the heaviest one they had.)
Back home, I removed the slippery paperbacks, built a stack of shims and taped them together, put the damn air conditioner back into the damn window, adjusted the angle, attached the side-thingies to fill the extra space, wrapped tape around the whole mess, attached the extension cord, plugged it in, shoved my bed against a different wall, put the stack of books under the leg with a missing wheel, held my breath, counted to ten and turned the a/c on.
Ahhhhh. I slept well that night.
Then, eventually, I got married and someone else changed the tires, unclogged the sink, took out the trash, killed the ants and got the oil changed (that move to Alaska thingy was a singular event predicated on the fact that I was in my mid-20's and thought "what the hell. I've never been to Alaska." So I moved there).
And then, even more eventually, I moved to New York, leaving the tire-changing, sink-unclogging, trash-taking, ant-killing, oil-changing spouse in Michigan. And I am proud to admit that I have relearned how to do all of those things without asking for help. Well, sort of. When my tire went flat my first reaction was to call my husband who, while sympathetic, wasn't really in a position to help beyond asking "so, what are you going to do about it?"
One thing I had never done--and that almost made me break down and ask for help--was install a window unit air conditioner.
We had a string of extra-toasty days here in Upstate New York which were manageable during the day but really, who can sleep in an 84 degree bedroom? So I marched myself into Lowe's and stood there gaping at the assortment of window units.
Who knew there were so many features, options and variables? Since it was just for night, in my bedroom, I chose the smallest, cheapest one, dragged it off the stack and carried it to the checkout. (Did I get a cart? No. Did I ask for assistance? Of course not, though I found out after I was in line that one of the employees was chasing me with a cart--in my determination to get the thing done, I never even noticed. And for what it's worth, men who are shopping at Lowe's are really, really, amused by watching a short, fat, middle-aged woman dragging air conditioners across the store.)
I lugged it upstairs and into my bedroom, managed with only mild cursing to get it out of the box and sat there, aghast at all of the pieces that needed to be attached. My trusty Ikea tool kit next to me, I eventually got it assembled. (I have a few screws left over if anyone needs 'em. ) All that remained was putting it into the window, plugging it in, and turning it on.
Well, except that the way the window is set up with vinyl frames for the storm windows, I couldn't get it stabilized. And my bed was in the way. And the only outlet that would accommodate the plug is on the farthest wall.
So I shoved my bed into the middle of the room and managed to break off one of the bed frame wheels. Then I squashed a stack of paperback novels into the window crevice to stabilize the thing. The shiny covers made them a little slippery, so when I tried to get the air conditioner tilted to the correct angle, they slid out from underneath each other, tumbling out the window in a gruesome display of flying fiction.
Then I realized that there was no way the cord was going to get anywhere near the outlet. Plus the directions made a really big deal about having a dedicated, direct-access outlet as power source.
Really, all I wanted was cold air--did it have to be so hard?
Again to Lowe's where I bought packs of shims, a role of electrical tape, and spent 45 minutes staring at extension cords, certain that I was about to blow up the entire house. (To my credit, I had checked the volt/amp requirements and knew what I needed in an extension cord. I bought the heaviest one they had.)
Back home, I removed the slippery paperbacks, built a stack of shims and taped them together, put the damn air conditioner back into the damn window, adjusted the angle, attached the side-thingies to fill the extra space, wrapped tape around the whole mess, attached the extension cord, plugged it in, shoved my bed against a different wall, put the stack of books under the leg with a missing wheel, held my breath, counted to ten and turned the a/c on.
Ahhhhh. I slept well that night.
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