Hope Smells Like Smoked Meat

There’s hope for us, and we found it in an old bank.

C and I drive about an hour for church on Sundays, to another small town on another lake after another car ride littered with enough moose, deer, bear and small animals to both raise your blood pressure to an unhealthy level and draw out a very real fear of an automobile-accident related death.  The drive is usually followed by either attending church or going grocery shopping.  Fear of death, followed by God or food.  Huh.

Well, yesterday after said drive and said church service, we stuck around to have lunch with the church pastor.  He chose the restaurant, and I can tell you now, in hindsight, that it was undeniably the right choice.  You know the quote from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken that says it was the decision of taking the less trodden path “that made all the difference”?  Well, we followed a new friend down an unknown trail, and when our path ended, there was pork.  Frost is a genius.

Meet Bacon, Ham Steak and Brisket.  Cute now, but extra yummy later.

They have a meat smoker at this particular establishment, and the juicy brisket to prove it.  To me, pig products are a crucial component of successful dining, so to understand my excitement, just imagine me rolling around on the hardwood restaurant floor, kicking my legs in the air and laughing hysterically, with dark barbeque sauce dripping from the corner of my mouth.   Or if you want to sleep tonight, go ahead and skip that.

I, of course, refrained from the above actions yesterday, due to the fact that we were in the company of someone who didn’t really know us yet, and well… I was wearing a skirt.  I’m not about to embarrass myself by giving the other diners a peek at my panties – I've got more class than that.

Here are some other signs that we found a promising restaurant:

• Liberal use of fresh jalapenos and a nice pico de gallo
• Cracked pepper on freshly fried kettle chips
• A Cuban sandwich, which is startling, because Dorothy, we're not in Miami anymore
• I can’t recall any that item on the menu had a moose theme
• Coleslaw served in the pulled pork sandwich, which means that someone did their homework 

In a world of meatloaf (albeit, good meatloaf) and baked chicken breasts, eating yesterday’s meal left me feeling like I was watching a new morning sun rise over the horizon.  In a land of snow and ice, it compares to catching a glimpse of the North Pole workshop.  In a lifeboat, it would be a white sand beach.  In our case, it’s just a little thing called hope, wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with honey. 

Down the hatch, Hope.

Order Up!

Oh you saints of the food service world… you are the gladiators of innumerable, daunting culinary battles.  Meatloaf for seventy?  That’s all?  18 enormous pizzas?  With one oven?   No problem!  Home-made bread for 150 screaming kids? Honey, you look terrified - did someone start a fire? 

This weekend, I cooked for 50 people, spanning 6 meals, Friday night to Sunday afternoon.  To any camp chef or kitchen staffer, this probably wouldn’t be so alarming (or to one exceptional young woman who usually helps out on weekends like this).  I’m not sure why my name was anywhere near the hat they chose from to fill the void this time around, other than, well... the fact that I’m not doing much else these days.  But seriously, someone should have “accidentally” slipped and dropped my name out of the running.

 

The source of my culinary inspiration.

Here are a few lessons I learned this weekend while I was messing around with sharp knives and hotel pans:

1. Always cook more bacon than seems appropriate.  What you don't realize is that people have a special, very-expandable pit in their bodies, solely for stashing fried pork.  As C said on Sunday morning, “If you serve bacon at breakfast, there won’t be leftovers, and if you serve more bacon, there still won’t be leftovers”.  He was right.

2. When making pizza dough in the huge Hobart mixer, be sure to pause the machine when you are pouring flour into the bowl.  I know what you’re thinking and no, the dusty powder didn’t fly everywhere.  Instead, the curlicue dough attachment crushed the aluminum pitcher I was using to dump the flour, which is no longer a cylinder – it’s now just a long oval made out of metal.  It squashed like a tube of toothpaste under a car tire. 

3. Keep your hands out of the Hobart mixer.

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This guy knows what I'm talking about.

4. How to make bear crack.  It’s candy, and I guess bears really do like sweets.  This is just one more trick I’ve learned in our neck of the woods.  If you live in a suburban area, don't use this recipe.  I will not be responsible for bears snacking on your children because you like to take their pictures when they eat out of your bird feeder.  Common sense could save the world.

5. Wear good shoes and sleeveless shirts.  I could’ve done hot yoga in that kitchen had I brought a mat, and it’s almost winter here. so I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to work in a Miami restaurant.  If you don’t have any sleeveless shirts, I suppose a bathing suit would work, but I’m not sure how that floral tankini or those Hawaiian board shorts would fly with the state inspector.  Bottom line: it’s hot, and after 12 hours on your feet, you’ll feel like you are waddling around in shoes three sizes too small with a pair of newly acquired cankles.

6. When the crowd has left and the day has ended, you’ll get enough of a happy, tired endorphin rush to help overcome the swelling as well as the bacon aroma that has imbedded itself in your scalp and fingernails.  Above all, you’ll be thankful for those crucial other hands that helped put you food on the table.  At least I was.

So to every line cook, sous chef, dishwasher and baker out there – you are underappreciated champions of the greater public.  You perform miracles daily, converting old bread, eggs, milk and sugar into a bread pudding that I could never rival, and yours feeds 85, while I generally eat my 9"x12" alone on the couch, unless C gets to it first.  You order vast amounts of food with precision and can compose menus quicker than I can write a status update.  You are astonishing individuals, and on behalf of all of us who eat with vigor and abandon, thank you.  Don’t ever stop.  

No Really, It's Up To You

The two girls of our family have developed a reputation among friends of being decision-averse. Don’t worry if you're mentally nodding - we’re not offended.  You’d think that with strong and capable parents, experience living far from home to build independence, a solid education and quite good friends, we would have had ample opportunity to habitually form and express confident (or at least competent) personal preferences.  Psychologically, this has come to be known as making a decision, but despite how supportive and able our parents might be, we don’t really do that.  Not normally, anyway.

We’re two apples from the same tree, but at times I’m amazed at how contrary our natures are, how opposite we’ve become.  I'd compare my sister to a Granny Smith – strong flavor, good for all sorts of things (you can dry them; they’re perfect for pie; I’ve even seen industrial art pieces made with Granny’s), plus they hold up well over time.  This is my big sister – strong and comfortable in herself, super-wicked-enviously fabulous at almost everything, plus she’s gorgeous (which I believe I’ve mentioned before, but really, these things can’t be overstated).  She’s going to age well. 

I’m a Macintosh - a little tart, good to snack on when you need a pick-me-up, and gets nasty bruises immediately upon leaving the tree.  I think these are also the most-dropped apple.  I have an awkward sense of humor and am maybe a little cynical, always available to offer little quips and poised to get the ice cream to soothe your woes, and I am not going to age well.  It’s already happening – I really do bruise easily, plus my neck-skin is starting to loosen like a turkey-gobbler.

Anyhow, we’ve determined so far that she and I are apples, and that we’re different.  Great.  But the point of this whole blurb is that no matter how different we are, over time we’ve somehow both grown deficient in one thing: making decisions.  In my first draft of this post, I went on a little rabbit-trail on how we are indeed capable of asserting ourselves in the face of life’s big choices, but that seemed so … assertive.  So I backspaced it all out. 

Where should we go to dinner?  Umm…I don’t know.

What do you want for your birthday?   You know, I really don’t need anything… 

Should we take a walk, or just sit here for twenty minutes talking about whether we should take a walk?  Well, I don’t really care - what would you like to do? (classic turn-the-tables move)

These snip-its have been practically sucked out of our normal conversation, which is where the maddening indecision seems to grow exponentially, as we avoid choice by verbally throwing it back and forth like a football covered in vomit that neither of us want to touch.

All said though, we can make decisions.  Usually I get the ball rolling, only because as I’ve aged, I’ve also developed a habit of losing my temper, so I just shout out foods or movie titles:  Sushi!! Transformers!!  Rice crispy treats!!  How to Train Your Dragon!!  Then, we disagree once or twice, and eventually, by process of elimination, a decision is made.  Typically, we go eat sushi and then she chooses a far more thought-provoking film.  Whatever.  

So if you struggle with selection, don’t give up.  Just figure out the big things and let the little ones filter themselves out.  Nature has a way of deciding for you anyway, like drops of rain carving through granite.  But really, do what you want - I'm no expert.

The End Is Never Quite Like The Beginning

Into the city we drove, but not without a search for the one stop on this trip that we'd been planning for more than a month in advance: lunch at the dreamy tex-mex fast food joint, Cafe Rio.  This improved love-child of Baja Fresh and Cold Stone Creamery is filled with containers of bright colored treats behind glass and smiling employees shouting urgent commands at you: "Red or Green?!", "Pinto or Black?!", "Indigestion or heartburn?!"  I think they aim to give you an involuntary twitch by the time you reach the register.  They ask.  so.  fast.

After Cafe Rio, we rolled our bodies back to the Caliber and somehow managed to putter our poor, now-vastly-overweight car back to the hotel.  After shimmying up to the desk and checking in, we holed ourselves in the room for the rest of the day, too bloated to go anywhere and too full to want dinner.  But there would always be tomorrow.

Antelope Island had been on my radar for a long time before this trip, years actually.  You see, my family (due to free, magical pass-riding with my dad's airline employer - which seems farther away with each time I hit "checkout" on Expedia) spent a number of February school-vacations skiing Alta and Snowbird in Little Cottonwood Canyon outside of Salt Lake. And there was always that darn island lurking in the distance.  And it was always February.

So this year, I was determined to make the pilgrimage.  It was outstanding, for two central reasons.  First of all, there are 500-700 american bison roaming around, stopping traffic and generally showing visitors their um, best side.

Which is huge, by the way.

Second, there is a beach, which is composed 70/30 or so of the most beautiful white sand (formed like tiny pearls around the fecal matter of brine shrimp) and heaps of molted shells left by brine flies.  If you have a choice, step on the fly shells - they're a lot softer.  The lake is between 4 and 28% salinity depending on the season and rainfall (for reference, the ocean is 3%), so apart from some algae and birds that feed on the previous two species, it's just me, you, and some veeerrry floaty water.  You can even sunbathe in the lake if you like - it's easy as pie.  Which we did.  And it was excellent, but you'll need a shower afterwards - like right now - or you'll stink like an evaporating city pool.

We hiked in the foothills of the Wasatch range, went to the Hogle Zoo, saw the Lion King 3D (I'll tell you about my Lion King life phase some other time... it is way too extensive to slide in here), and went to a Brazilian churrascaria to cap off our western vacation.  There's nothing like 9 types of meat and those little cheesy donuts to really say, "it's time to go back to oatmeal and vegetables".

And that was it.  Just an airport whirlwind and we were home.  Plus a 5.5-hour car ride, then we were really home - just where we started, only a little less pale.  I assume this is Nature's peace offering for the six months of winter she's about to hurl our way.

Thanks, but the gifts better keep coming.

Food That Fights Back

Does anyone know why we don’t eat guinea pigs in America?  Or Canada geese, for that matter?  It seems to me that there some very available food sources that we are neglecting to take advantage of.  Insects, anyone?  I’ve never had a fried grasshopper or a chocolate-covered ant, but I like to think that I’d be up for chewing away at those spindly legs if the opportunity ever presents itself.  Think about it, some of the best foods sources in this world are the ugliest and most un-appetizing in their original form.  Let me convince you.

Passion Fruit – This dark purple fruit contains an ooey-gooey substance unnervingly similar to snot or a pile of frog eggs.  If you like oysters, this is for you.  If you’re a texture person, you might want to stick to apples.

Parsnip – I love parsnips.  If you roast them with olive oil and rosemary, they showcase their incredible natural sweetness and earthy tone that makes a carrot seem so minor league.  Don’t think they’re ugly?  What other vegetable could grow naturally into the shape of your face.

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I know what you're thinking.  It's a shame it didn't have his teeth.

Chicken – Have you ever seen a chicken’s face up close?  I think because we eat them every week and see them frequently in our neighborhoods (some of us), we have become numb to the fact that really, these creatures came from dragons.  

Rambutan – Okay, so I’ve never tried this one, but it looked like something that needed to be referenced here. This Southeast Asian native is sweet and slightly acidic, that is, if you can manage to get past the fact that it looks like the eye of a monster with serious cataracts.  

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 You know who doesn't seem to care?  This guy.

Snails – Stop what you’re doing right now.  Get in your car.  Go to the nearest fishmonger.  Buy snails.  Braise them in enough butter and garlic to make you feel ashamed, then grab a tiny fork and get ready to have the best food experience of your life.  It helps if you have a little plate with divots to serve them in.  That way you can spoon up all of that liquid sunshine.

This is a very short list of what turns out to be an enormous category of food.  Next time the waiter brings you something that causes stomach acid to creep back up your throat, swallow hard and prepare yourself for what could be simultaneously the best and worst food decision of your life.  Seriously, if you aren’t ready to take unnecessary risks with your food, that’s fine, but could that also mean that you aren’t ready to take unnecessary risks with your life?  I'm right, aren't I?  So grab your meal by its horns and start taking charge today.  

Shop Like There's No Tomorrow

My parents are remarkable people.  For a whole host of reasons, I love and admire them.  Dad is disciplined, hilarious and incredibly giving. He has spent at least a quarter of his time in the last five or so years doing things for C and I, or for my sister and her husband.  Or for almost anyone, for that matter.  Mom is more or less what I hope to grow into someday.  She acts as familial to the cashier at Wal-Mart as she does to me when we go out to breakfast.   She’s unmatched in her compassion, and the tiniest bit crazy.  So while I reference them today, I do so with a deep sense of joy and admiration.

On to the show.

My parents are prepared for disaster.  I don’t mean that they had a Y2K shelter built in the ‘90s (though I do know someone who did), but I am convinced that they could and would survive if every commercial source of food were to suddenly drop into the earth into a selective sinkhole.  I’ve spent the last three years unlearning how to store food.  I have tried to restrict myself to using the canned goods in my cupboard before I go stacking them with more yams and baked beans.

www.preparednesspro.com

Mom and dad have a basement pantry and a standing chest freezer, along with the normal fridge and cupboards in the kitchen.  These are all generally pretty full.  The upside to all of this is that when my sister and I drop everything and decide to show up at their house for dinner, they have no problem (and no complaints, bless them) feeding us a dazzling spread.  It's wonderful.

During the last month and a half, C and I have found ourselves faced with the classic food challenge of the north.  Most people up here have chest freezers and pantries like my parents.  Now, there’s nothing wrong with this on it’s own.  Some people only grocery shop one day a month, which to me means that they are vastly more intelligent and organized than I.  Think of how together you have to be to shop once a month.  That is not me. 

So, like I said, I’ve spent the last three years learning how not to shop like food stores are going to suddenly beam up into outer space.  And now, living where mass-shopping is the norm, I easily become exasperated with the idea of buying pasta and frozen peas like a squirrel gathering nuts.  I have made grocery trips about once every two weeks, which has led to a pretty successful food to meal ratio.  It’s working for us, and I think I’ll stick with it.

This issue is a bit like the snowmobile: it drives me to disproportionate panic and despair. Have you ever seen the television show Hoarders?  I know that this to is like comparing apples and oranges, but my fears stem from this kind of stockpiling.  If you haven’t seen the show, let me give you a snapshot.  Picture your house or flat.  We’ll start with the closets.  Picture each space filled with your normal hanging apparel or folded linens, but then imagine every other square inch crammed with plastic Target bags and shoeboxes, reaching to the ceiling.  Now, picture your worst nightmare of a college dorm room.  See yourself in this bedroom, kicking towels and socks and soda cans out of the way to get to the set of drawers against the wall.  In reality, these are probably empty.  Or stuffed with tortilla chips.

The hallways hardly have enough room to pass between the stacks of boxes, books and magazines.  The bathrooms look like the bedroom did, only it’s hand towels and used perfume bottles on the floor.  Enter the kitchen, where all turns sinister.  Picture the junk in the other rooms.  Here, the floor is covered in bags and opened boxes of food, as well as used paper towels.  There is rotting cabbage on the table and moldy onions in the cupboard.  You may have accidentally made kimchi.  There is a moist, sweet funk in the air.  And inside the fridge?  No way.  We’re not even going there. 

www.blog.wfmu.org

Now, on top of all that, add 85 cats.  Fifteen more are dead and decomposing on the jungle floor. 

This is my fear.

In my mind, there is a direct connection between hoarding and keeping a pantry.  I know that this is ridiculous, but I can’t seem to get past it.  All of you organized folk out there, give me your stories of success.  I need to feed the fires of reason before they go out.

Mom, dad, I’m sorry.  You have a very organized pantry.  Something went wrong when I went to visit your other daughter at college.  I haven’t been able to escape the image since.

Oh, and I’ll be over for dinner tomorrow night.