Having grown up in an extremely avocado-centric household, this comes as BIG NEWS to me! I sort of thought maybe Super Bowl Sunday was the unofficial guacamole day, but I'm happy to learn that we seem to have two official set aside: Today, September 16 and November 14. Well, you know, according to this totally random website, which might now qualify as one of my favorite informational websites ever (I mean come on, people! Isn't your life enhanced knowing that Kitchen Klutzes of America Day is June 13 or that March 30 is Turkey Neck Soup Day? I'm sure I'll never miss another National Creme Brulee Day, July 27).
Turns out my birthday to be National Blueberry Pie day, while The Husband pulls National Prime Rib day. Very fitting, considering our vegetarian/carnivorous union.
It is a challenging food pairing, this veggie and meat-eater marriage. The Husband doesn't particularly enjoy cooking, which works out great for me since I'm a bit of a kitchen hog. I have no issues with his desire to have meat in his meal plan, but what does pose a problem is that I -- the meal cooker -- won't touch raw meat with my bare hands...or my knives. Moreover, I don't have the slightest idea how to safely prepare any form of animal for food. But, we do have a temporary compromise. I experiment and have fun with vegetarian dinner recipes, and, in the last 10 minutes of food prep, will toss some frozen Trader Joe's chicken into the oven or heat up a fancy sausage or restaurant leftovers to add to his plate.
This method has been serving us well in the convenience factor for a long time; however, I am no longer satisfied.
My desire for The Husband to have ALL of the ingredients on his plate be as fresh and local as possible is beginning to overwhelm my raw-meat-touching-phobia. A lot of this, I've concluded, has to do with his exceedingly attractive willingness to eat whatever it is that I set down in front of him. He wants to encourage my kitchen creativity, and he's honest about when something tastes great (Leftover Veggie Stir Fry Eric e-Stratta) or if it's not edible (Unintentionally Turkey-Flavored Butternut Squash Soup). He really does love me.
And I want to return the love.
Sometime.
Eventually.
One of these Saturdays, I will bravely approach that stand at the Farmer's Market and purchase a whole, ready-to-cook, locally grown, hormone-free chicken. Then, I will bare my non-latex exam gloves and rub said chicken in butter and herbs and figure out how to cook it. After that, I'll feign confidence and tear cooked meat from bones and freeze it, making my own version of Trader Joe's chicken to later be re-heated and added to The Husband's meal. Finally, I will gently place those bones into my soup pot, add some chunky root vegetables and make soup stock, also to be frozen.
Yes, that is what I shall do.
In the meantime, I'll go home later today and make something familiar and meat free. While I'm cutting/chopping/smashing, I'll be grateful that The Husband loves avocados. I'll recall, with a grin, how I once warned him that any man of mine would have to love himself some avocados; it was my absolute relationship deal breaker about which I wasn't really kidding.
And tonight -- together -- we will celebrate National Guacamole Day.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
We Liked It, We Liked It!
The night after the Drunken Fig experiment, I decided there had to be something simpler to do with the figs. The Husband kept hinting about these dried, possibly candied, figs he'd had in that one salad. Naturally, I went to the internets and did my favorite thing: searched for recipes. Twenty minutes or so of reading and I came up with my own concoction using a few of the sliced figs that had been drying in the oven for a few hours. The little appetizer ended up being a wild success, which I think should also work with straight up, fresh from the tree figs, too. I can't wait to try them again! As follows:
-Slice figs in half, arrange on foil lined baking sheet
-Sprinkle some sugar into each slice (I used organic granulated cause that's what we had, but I suspect brown sugar would be even yummier)
-Broil for 2-5 minutes, until sugar is browned and figs are spilling their magic purple juice (this is why we foil line the baking sheet)
-Spoon a little soft goat cheese into each fig
-Dot with chopped walnuts
DECADENT DELICIOUSNESS!
-Slice figs in half, arrange on foil lined baking sheet
-Sprinkle some sugar into each slice (I used organic granulated cause that's what we had, but I suspect brown sugar would be even yummier)
-Broil for 2-5 minutes, until sugar is browned and figs are spilling their magic purple juice (this is why we foil line the baking sheet)
-Spoon a little soft goat cheese into each fig
-Dot with chopped walnuts
DECADENT DELICIOUSNESS!
Monday, September 14, 2009
In the Beginning, There Were Pea Shoots
Truthfully, not a lot of actual cooking occurred in our kitchen for the first, oh, say 10 years of our 11 years of togetherness. To start with, mostly we ate out or whatever could quickly be unwrapped and plated, re-heated if necessary. Grilled cheese sandwiches were probably my grandest affair.
Certainly, there were spurts of random culinary inspiration along the way. Sister Annika got the ball rolling when she went down the macrobiotics pathway. In fact, Annika plus Mom are the ones that gave me my first REAL knife (cuts cans and tomatoes!) and set me on my first experiments with recipes.
Grief and school and life sort of swept me away from our kitchen for many years there. For quite some time, I fell into a fairly steady brown rice and bean, with the occasional veggie stir fry, routine. I've been trying to figure out just exactly what got me back into exploring my creativity in the kitchen, and I think there are a couple of factors.
First, The Husband surprised me when I returned from an international trip with new kitchen: "the great orange paint/new cabinet doors remodel of 2008." From there, I spent a long time puttering around, getting things organized, preparing the canvas, so to speak.
Second, the Pea Shoots recipe. Who knew such a thing even existed? I sure didn't! But, thanks to my fabulous friends Melissa & Dale Kent and their Tassajara Dinners & Desserts cookbook and wares at our spring Farmer's Market, I learned.
Certainly, there were spurts of random culinary inspiration along the way. Sister Annika got the ball rolling when she went down the macrobiotics pathway. In fact, Annika plus Mom are the ones that gave me my first REAL knife (cuts cans and tomatoes!) and set me on my first experiments with recipes.
Grief and school and life sort of swept me away from our kitchen for many years there. For quite some time, I fell into a fairly steady brown rice and bean, with the occasional veggie stir fry, routine. I've been trying to figure out just exactly what got me back into exploring my creativity in the kitchen, and I think there are a couple of factors.
First, The Husband surprised me when I returned from an international trip with new kitchen: "the great orange paint/new cabinet doors remodel of 2008." From there, I spent a long time puttering around, getting things organized, preparing the canvas, so to speak.
Second, the Pea Shoots recipe. Who knew such a thing even existed? I sure didn't! But, thanks to my fabulous friends Melissa & Dale Kent and their Tassajara Dinners & Desserts cookbook and wares at our spring Farmer's Market, I learned.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Gettin' Figgy With It
Life with the tree is great during the winter, when the branches are bald and cast interesting shadows across the yard. But when those first baby buds begin to emerge come spring, our relationship with the tree takes a turn. Personally, I quite enjoy the remodeling process of what appears to be a naked, harmless, eighty-odd year old tree converting itself into an absurdly prolific Mission Fig factory. Alas, for The Husband, it only marks the onset of this year's battle with his nemesis. He likes to call it the "droppin' shit season." Mostly he's talking about the leaves and the fruit; but sometimes he just means the bird shit, of the exceedingly sticky, purple fig seed variety.
With every season comes the threat that "THIS is the year I'm cutting that bleeping thing down!" Which is predictably countered with threats of divorce -- and wouldn't that be a silly reason to separate -- or promises to tie myself to the trunk -- and wouldn't he be sorry if he chain sawed his wife along with our aged, defenseless tree.
See, the real tragedy is neither of us, in fact, like to eat the figs. They're sort of bland, and a bit icky. And let's be frank, how many hundreds of seeds does one two-inch piece of fruit really need? (Has anyone ever witnessed those seeds becoming trees? I mean, baby fig trees are delivered by stork, right?) Then there's the parade of critters that use the tree as their personal cafeteria: raccoons, opossums, ten different kinds of bird, and, you know, other stuff, worse stuff. Consequently, the season pretty much means we're a couple of fig pushers. This part I quite enjoy, actually. People get so excited over a few strawberry baskets full of fresh Mission Figs; it's kind of awesome.
Still, unrelenting fig pushing is never sufficient. There are always more figs: more figs on the Tree, more figs on the ground, on our shoes/staining the carpet, more figs in the the trash. Truthfully, this never used to bother me. I mean, you know, the tree is beautiful and it's fun to give away fruit; but the tree is also mean. The leaves are scratchy and cause a rash on one's arms after harvest. There's this vicious, stingy milk in the stem and peel of the fruit that literally burns one's flesh if one does not use protection. ThetTree does not want to make it easy, for anyone. So, the subsequent waste was all right, until it finally dawned on me that these figs are FOOD, man! What in the local, organic-loving world are we doing letting this free food go to waste?
"Hence," she declared, "This is the year we'll learn to love the figs!"
The project began the moment those green touches began to speckle the winter branches. At first, it was a little inkling in the back of my mind, a nudge, a poke. The Husband casually mentioned how much he actually enjoyed those dried figs in that one salad at that one restaurant. Check! A friend sends me a simple preserves recipe she's used with her own backyard crops. Check! Then, the tree filled out and the figs inserted their own color splashes in the yard.
The next thing I know, it's here: Fig Week.
All my big talk of being ready for it this time is coming to literal fruition. For the last several days, my culinary world has revolved exclusively around this one-woman production -- from picking to prepping to preserving. Fig after fig, after fig. I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my kitchen, it's fig-tastic! My first ever attempt at making jam was a mild success. Nine half-pint jars of runnier than expected, yet simply gorgeous, deeply purple Drunken Fig Preserves are quickly being spoken for amongst all those fig lovin' friends. Baking sheets dotted with shriveling fig halves have occupied all oven real estate for three days and counting.
For all this pleasure derived from food production, not to mention the bragging about it on Facebook, The Husband and I have yet to actually taste the final results (I know, I know, rookie mistake, always sample the goods, whatever). There's a bit of trepidation in the air. What if, after all the fuss, what if we still don't like the taste of the figs?
Well, no matter. At least there are a few lessons to be gleaned from the experience:
With every season comes the threat that "THIS is the year I'm cutting that bleeping thing down!" Which is predictably countered with threats of divorce -- and wouldn't that be a silly reason to separate -- or promises to tie myself to the trunk -- and wouldn't he be sorry if he chain sawed his wife along with our aged, defenseless tree.
See, the real tragedy is neither of us, in fact, like to eat the figs. They're sort of bland, and a bit icky. And let's be frank, how many hundreds of seeds does one two-inch piece of fruit really need? (Has anyone ever witnessed those seeds becoming trees? I mean, baby fig trees are delivered by stork, right?) Then there's the parade of critters that use the tree as their personal cafeteria: raccoons, opossums, ten different kinds of bird, and, you know, other stuff, worse stuff. Consequently, the season pretty much means we're a couple of fig pushers. This part I quite enjoy, actually. People get so excited over a few strawberry baskets full of fresh Mission Figs; it's kind of awesome.
Still, unrelenting fig pushing is never sufficient. There are always more figs: more figs on the Tree, more figs on the ground, on our shoes/staining the carpet, more figs in the the trash. Truthfully, this never used to bother me. I mean, you know, the tree is beautiful and it's fun to give away fruit; but the tree is also mean. The leaves are scratchy and cause a rash on one's arms after harvest. There's this vicious, stingy milk in the stem and peel of the fruit that literally burns one's flesh if one does not use protection. ThetTree does not want to make it easy, for anyone. So, the subsequent waste was all right, until it finally dawned on me that these figs are FOOD, man! What in the local, organic-loving world are we doing letting this free food go to waste?
"Hence," she declared, "This is the year we'll learn to love the figs!"
The project began the moment those green touches began to speckle the winter branches. At first, it was a little inkling in the back of my mind, a nudge, a poke. The Husband casually mentioned how much he actually enjoyed those dried figs in that one salad at that one restaurant. Check! A friend sends me a simple preserves recipe she's used with her own backyard crops. Check! Then, the tree filled out and the figs inserted their own color splashes in the yard.
The next thing I know, it's here: Fig Week.
All my big talk of being ready for it this time is coming to literal fruition. For the last several days, my culinary world has revolved exclusively around this one-woman production -- from picking to prepping to preserving. Fig after fig, after fig. I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my kitchen, it's fig-tastic! My first ever attempt at making jam was a mild success. Nine half-pint jars of runnier than expected, yet simply gorgeous, deeply purple Drunken Fig Preserves are quickly being spoken for amongst all those fig lovin' friends. Baking sheets dotted with shriveling fig halves have occupied all oven real estate for three days and counting.
For all this pleasure derived from food production, not to mention the bragging about it on Facebook, The Husband and I have yet to actually taste the final results (I know, I know, rookie mistake, always sample the goods, whatever). There's a bit of trepidation in the air. What if, after all the fuss, what if we still don't like the taste of the figs?
Well, no matter. At least there are a few lessons to be gleaned from the experience:
- Whatever the form -- fresh, dried or jammed -- a fig pusher is always well received.
- Kitchen food production from backyard harvest is tremendously enjoyable and never a waste of time.
- One does not rush a drying fig.
The Kitchen Dance
Our section of the world seems hold on tight to the "bigger is better" notion, kitchen size being no exception. Except, I totally take exception to that!
Starting with my Mom and ending with myself, I come from a short line of small-kitchen-cooks. Somehow, Mom managed to feed five children (plus a husband plus a constant stream of short/long-term guests, not to mention the orchestration of many-a-holiday) in what amounts to a short hallway, plus a pantry. It's very distinct in my memories being asked repeatedly, by everyone who saw it, "How does she cook in there?
"Very well, thank you" should have been my standard reply.
Actually, it was a fun place to be and was often where all the action took place, just like any standard to gourmet sized kitchens. We developed a system for sharing the narrow space, eventually dubbed "The Kitchen Dance."
You know, Mom opens the fridge door and Kid twists hips to slide behind to go stare at the pantry shelves for something to nibble. Kid loads the dishwasher and Another Kid side-steps to the inches of space remaining in front of the stove. Mom chops veggies on the only counter top and All Five Kids sashay fluidly around one another to catch a glimpse over her shoulders at what's for dinner.
The Kitchen Dance.
So, when I moved in with The Husband and his even narrower/shorter kitchen -- sans pantry and counter top -- the transition was easy. In no time at all, we developed our own steps for our own version of the Kitchen Dance.
It was just like coming home.
Starting with my Mom and ending with myself, I come from a short line of small-kitchen-cooks. Somehow, Mom managed to feed five children (plus a husband plus a constant stream of short/long-term guests, not to mention the orchestration of many-a-holiday) in what amounts to a short hallway, plus a pantry. It's very distinct in my memories being asked repeatedly, by everyone who saw it, "How does she cook in there?
"Very well, thank you" should have been my standard reply.
Actually, it was a fun place to be and was often where all the action took place, just like any standard to gourmet sized kitchens. We developed a system for sharing the narrow space, eventually dubbed "The Kitchen Dance."
You know, Mom opens the fridge door and Kid twists hips to slide behind to go stare at the pantry shelves for something to nibble. Kid loads the dishwasher and Another Kid side-steps to the inches of space remaining in front of the stove. Mom chops veggies on the only counter top and All Five Kids sashay fluidly around one another to catch a glimpse over her shoulders at what's for dinner.
The Kitchen Dance.
So, when I moved in with The Husband and his even narrower/shorter kitchen -- sans pantry and counter top -- the transition was easy. In no time at all, we developed our own steps for our own version of the Kitchen Dance.
It was just like coming home.
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