Why I Will Never Weigh Less

This should be subtitled: Ya Want Me Thin or Ya Want Me Happy?

I have just come back from a Sugar Run. This is when I get in my car and go! anywhere! there's! sweetstuff! I knew I had to do this when I read an email about MidLifeBloggers and didn't give a shit that I didn't care at all to find out what the sender was talking about. "Hold all discussion about logo colors. I have to get a cupcake."

But first, Molly and I had to get her some food. That dog is going to eat me out of house and home, as my mother used to say (and I didn't understand what it meant then either, hello Chris Martin).

But first I had to go to Michael's to get me a gem or two to fiddle with. And in Michael's, I met with a Very Large Woman who was insidiously insistent on jumping the queue. When I called her on it the first time, she got all humble "Sorry sorry sorry..." she said in what I think was a West Indian accent. And then she preceded to sprint for the next open cash register. Do I have to describe to you my wrath and chagrin and how I arrived at the cash register just a beat after she did and waved my goods over her head for the clerk to take. But the clerk was cowering and yelling for help and obviously wasn't going to Do The Right Thing And Instill Public Decorum. So I flung myself over to the next cash register and stopped myself from hissing a multitude of Ugly American comments.

Still seething, I got into my car, turned the key in the ignition, and--nada. So I jumped out, put Molly on a leash and we walked WALKED all the way down to the pet store. She was hyper as hell which manifests itself as Whirling Dervish act. This, as you might imagine, did not help my mood. I dragged her around the store--actually, she dragged me, more or less--and finally we WALKED all the way back to where the car was parked.

And it still wouldn't start.

So I called D, because when my car won't start I like to remind him that it's his fault I bought it. He told me to call AAA. I called AAA and the operator was just tellling me that there were no tow trucks available but he'd put an order in--. And my car started. Just like that. Obviously some sympatico thing between the AAA vibes and--whatever.

I drove straight to Starbucks because I was lusting after a cupcake. But when I got there, they had those Almond Pecan Cookie things that I'm addicted to. What To Do? What To Do? What To Do?

It was a tough afternoon, guys, so I bought both cupcake and cookie.

There is now a smile on my face (and a crumb on my chest...).

Wordy Wednesday

What is it with this Wordless Wednesday business? Does anyone not get that it's a con. Shove a picture up on your blog and you've done your Wednesday duty? I don't think so. Be that as it may, I'm willing to go along to get along (ha!). So here's my offering for Wordless Wednesday. Except, of course, it has words. Because, people, this is a BLOG! Not a photo album.
This is a photo of my lunch. It is, some of you might recognize, a concoction from WeightWatchers frozen meals. When I was on Weight Watchers oh those many years ago, I lived on this stuff. And it wasn't bad. Either I've changed or they've changed, because this Chicken Mirabella was Mirabad. For one, the pasta, which was about ten stages past al dente, was coated in a gelatinous, yet incredibly taste-free sauce that had an odd shine to it. Almost a glow, in fact. And see that piece of chicken in the upper right corner of the dish? That was one of two--count 'em two--chunks of chicken in the dish. Since the box cover showed FIVE chunks of chicken, I believe I have the makings of a truth in advertising claim on Weight Watchers. Of course, if I won, they'd probably award me a lifetime supply of the stuff.

Fashion is the topic again on MidLifeBloggers. This time it's about the dreaded trip to buy bluejeans. Go have a look.

Not In the Kitchen with Gwyneth and Mario

There are carrots and potatoes and maybe a head or two of garlic roasting in the oven. I've tossed them with olive oil and lightly sprinkled them with sea salt and ground pepper, the four variety kind. To what end, you ask? I'm not sure. They were what was in the refrigerator--you may remember them left over from my last culinary adventure--when I got VERY HUNGRY watching Mario Batali and Gwyneth Paltrow in On The Road Again in Spain.

This is an odd program. The premise seems to be that chef Mario Batali and Gwyneth Paltrow are on a culinary road trip through Spain. The purpose? Well, there is a lovely cookbook that they're flogging at the end of the show, written by Mario with assistance from Gwyneth. I don't think of her as being a particular expert on any cuisine, let alone Spanish. Doesn't she exist on a macrobiotic diet? Or love alone? But, no, Mario has told Oprah; Gwyneth has a healthy appetite. Is that sufficient expertise? What do you think?

They are, at least in the episode I watched, accompanied by a middle-aged man who seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him, and a lovely young brunette, whose sole purpose seemed to be to offer a visual contrast to Gwyneth. The foursome drove for a while and then dined for a while. Driving and eating, this is the stuff of great drama.

Actually, it is unscripted television at its most banal, and I'm someone who loves reality shows. But the ones I watch are produced by people who understand arcane dramatic concepts such as story arc and dialogue. The successful reality show are cast so there there is a variety of personality types and edited so there is a narrative line throughout. But the characters in On The Road Again are, with the exception of Battali, bland, insipid, a bit like rice pudding without the raisins. Further, there is no story and the dialogue--well, think of the talk at your dinner table when everyone's mouth is full. All the four can offer is a variation on the theme of "Mmmmmmmmmm."

So in some way this is a gentle form of porn, watching Gwyneth Paltrow put things in her mouth and lick her lips and moan appreciatively. Perhaps that is its purpose after all. But on PBS--isn't that too cheap a thrill?

Stone Grill Restaurant in Sacramento

It was good. Better than good. The meat, Kobe beef, was tender and flavorful. This restaurant, which is either a chain or a franchise, has a gimmick of sorts which almost works. It's called the Stone Grill because they serve your protein on a stone that has been heated to 700plus F. degrees. The heat from the stone, which lasts a llllooonnnggg time, then cooks the protein and you eat it right from the stone. A new kind of do-it-yourself, I guess.

You order your steak or seafood or fish--in our case, it was a couple of NY strips and an order of scallops--and it arrives in front of you raw on the stone. The stone is set into a platter, which is obviously heatproof since the food is already sizzling. The platter includes a section on each side, one for the cooked potatoes and one for the raw veggies.

Up to this point, life is good and the food is wonderful. The aroma of sizzling Kobe beef, just imagine...are you drooling yet? You cut off a perfect piece of steak. Well, perfect if you like your beef rare. Which I do. So perfect for me; never mind about you. Pop it in your mouth--ooooohhh, hot hot hot. Too hot for my delicate mucous membranes. Okay, we can work around that, cut another piece and blow on it. Better, but still uncomfortably hot. Meanwhile, the rest of your steak is still sizzling away. So if you do like it rare--well, them days are gone for this piece of beef. I didn't finish my steak--I never do, should you be buying me dinner--and it was a lovely pinkish medium when I ate it at home for lunch today. However, if I had eaten the whole thing at the restaurant, by the time I finished it would have been shoe leather.

Meanwhile, over at the giant scallops stone, they're sizzling away and getting a nice carmelized crust on them. Grab them now, because in another thirty seconds or so they're going to be OVERCOOKED. Fish, seafood is funny that way; any chef will tell you that cooking it to the right consistency requires a delicate hand. I know this, so I take my scallops off the stone and plunk them in my potato area. Where they sit for a while...and get lost among the fingerlings.

And then there are those lonely raw veggies. I don't know about you, but I don't care for asparagus and mushrooms grilled dry.

So here's the thing. They've not taken this idea far enough. They're assuming everyone has (a) an asbestos mouth, and (b) eats faster than a truck driver on speed. Those of us who dine at leisure--well, we must resign ourselves to overcooked, and therefore tough, food.

One of my dinner companions, the lovely Nanny Goats In Panties (wearing black slacks for all of you who are curious) suggested the one should cut up one's meat all at once, as if one were feeding the two year old, and fling it onto the side where the veggies are. One should. Our host, Mr. Mudpuppy, did not complain. Nor did he eat his mashed potatoes, which left all the more for me--nah nah nah. I can, therefore, recommend the steak and mashed potatoes. And fling--or eat fast.

Someone's In The Kitchen...

and it ain't Dinah. Tis I, me, myself.

I love fiddling in the kitchen on Sunday afternoon, and I love it best of all in the fall and winter when I can use my oven without jacking up my air conditioning expenses. Last week I bought these cute multi-colored root vegetables: carrots and potatoes in several different hues, including blue (potatoes) and white (carrots). And yes, I do buy my crayons in the 64 color boxes.

I roasted the potatoes and carrots with some garlic cloves and cut up red onions (which are really, as you know, purple). I then cannily tossed them with several dribbles of the oil of the virgin organic olives, a grinding of four kinds of fresh peppercorns, a toss or two of sea salt and several sprigs of thyme plucked fresh from my garden.

I bet you're wondering what that yellowish cowpie is at the top of the pan. That, my dear friends, is fresh polenta that I made. For that, I had to first sift through a half cup of polenta, taking it out into the broad sunlight to try and ascertain what exactly those dark specks in it were. I was looking, of course, for movement, legs, feelers. I saw none, so I decided that either the black specks were a natural part of the polenta--or they were dead bugs. If the latter, I reassured myself (in the best Alton Brown mode) that they were merely protein to go with my veggies. For some reason, the meal was singing a siren song of lemon to me, so I used the juice of a lemon as part of the polenta's liquid. When the whole mess was nice and thick, I threw it into the pan with the veggies, which is as you see it here.

And here you see it as I've plated it. I recently learned the verb "to plate", but obviously I haven't learned to do it.

Never mind--the whole thing was exquisitely delicious. As it was again tonight. And will be again tomorrow night.

Food

I rarely write about what I've eaten, unless it's some superior thingie that I made and I've taken photos of it and I'm offering it up in a Martha-ish way. That is not the case with today's post. Today I am standing up in front of the group and saying, My name is Jane and I can't keep my mouth empty. You'll notice I have not used the traditional Twelve Step thingie of admitting to an addiction. That's because I'm not addicted to food. I just use it in a mildly damaging manner as a substitute for whatever else is or is not happening in my life. And don't tell me that's an addiction, because I AM NOT ADDICTED.

Can you tell I have a problem, a slight issue with the whole Twelve Step thingie? This made me tres popular in my Drugs and Addiction classes. It's not that I don't believe in the theories or whatever behind the Twelve Steps; it's that the people I know who participate seem to get, um, addicted to the Twelve Steps. They trade one compulsion for another. Is that such a good thing? Shouldn't a Program be working on getting a person to understand the source of their compulsion?

Take me--for a very good example (please, someone, take me). My compulsion to cram food of any and all sorts into my mouth today was a function of--if I keep that mouth busy, it won't have time to scream. See, that's the source of my compulsion. Now all I have to do is deal with the tiny details in my life that are making me want to scream. Easy peasy....or not, as the case may be.

So: today: I ate: a big fat piece of white layer sheet cake with sprinkles on it, purchased for a mere $2.79 at the local Raley's. The same cake, same sprinkles, is $5.99 at the Nugget, our new holier-than-thou, grander-than-Whole Foods market. Sane cake, same lard frosting, just a tad difference in cost, owing no doubt to I'm not sure what. So--I had that cake for dinner. That's how I justify it. Nine million calories--just another steak and potatoes meal, but without having to cut the meat and digest the potato skins. The cake, rather, is psychologically satisfying because (a) IT'S SWEET, and (b) it's mooshy, so I can squish it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

Now I've moved on to itty bitty baby heirloom tomatoes. Much better for me, indeed. And satisfying unto themselves, because they pop and squirt itty bitty tomato seeds into my mouth. An explosion of vegetable glory--and heirloom, as well. Good for the environment, not to mention that organic foods and family farms business.

But the night is young and I'm not done yet. Before I waddle off to bed, I've got some chocolate-cherry soy icecream waiting for me. It's soy, for chrissake. It's healthy. And then there's popcorn in my larder. Did you know that popcorn is the broom of the digestive tract? And, of course, I finish every night with a ritualistic nightcap--glass of milk and piece of chocolate.

Doesn't everyone? Admit it--let he who is without sin cast the first whatever....

In Which I Dutifully Account for My Luncheon With Rocco

I had lunch with Rocco Dispirito last week. Yes, I did. Me and Rocco...and a bunch of other BlogHers. Bertolli has three new microwave in the bag how easy is that pasta sauces--see, here they are.


And here is Rocco, who is every bit as cute and hunky and funny and did I mention hunky as he seems on TV. Truth in advertising is that boy.

BlogHer08, The Aftermath

So I'm back. I have done conferred with the masses and now I'm standing in my living room with three different sized boxes 'cause I'M PACKING. Except I can't decided what should go in which sized box, and it's all too confusing, and when things get confusing, I get sleepy, and this sentence could go on forever, couldn't it, yes indeedy I havent spent years reading Faulkner not to pick up something useful. But I digress.

BlogHer08: There were too many people (ONE THOUSAND of 'em, count 'em) to do the traditional BlogHer shoutout post where you link to everyone you met, or at least gathered a card from. Instead, I'm visiting all of you wonderful women, and I shall post on your sites in the next day or two. There were also too many experiences, impressions, whatevers to do the traditional BlogHer Recap Post. Instead, you'll get this piecemeal, whenever it hits me. Think of it as the Continuing Saga of Jane at BlogHer08. Don't know if it will last two days or two weeks. Stay tuned to find out.

I have uploaded the photos I took to Flickr. Done it quick and dirty without titles or even making sure they're the right way around. So in the next day or so, I'll be using Picnik's amazing (truly, I've tried it) photo editing service, which just coincidentally happens to be bundled with Flickr to make some silk purses of the sow's ears that I shot. Really, I am a good photographer...artsy even (see my pic of clams at Redondo Beach that Schmap.com is using for their LA photo Guide). But stick a camera in my hand at an event like BlogHer and I might as well be shooting with the back of my head, using my left foot to hit the shutter. Yes, that bad. Part of the problem--maybe the whole problem--is that I forget to take pictures. Just don't think about it. And then when I do, well, the scene in front of me seems so boring and predictable and couldn't we buy a postcard that does a better job. So I rush to focus on something vaguely visually interesting, but then I'm somewhat embarassed to be taking pictures in public, so I don't focus properly or frame well, and the results are something like this:

If you crank your head sideways, you will surely see the cookies from Day One's Cookies and Milk midmorning snack. In my mind I had an image of a closeup of all the cookies, but that image never made it to my viewfinder. Whatever.

I did eat one of those cookies, but did not take the milk because I'm lactose-intolerant but very tolerant of the well-being of those around me. I ate a cookie because I did not eat breakfast. I did not even see breakfast. I can only believe, because others have told me, that the hotel provided breakfasts on both days, but damned if I knew where. Breakfast began at 8:30. I got there about 9:15. Is it possible that they cleared the whole thing away by then? I asked one blogger who was carrying a plate full of croissants (as well as a belly full of baby) and she graciously shared one with me. So Stephanie Precourt of Adventures In Babywearing, if it was you who took pity on me--thank you.

More anon.....

...and at MidLifeBloggers, there's a new post up on Bodysnarking. Do you know what that is? Do you do it? And I'll be posting about MidLifeBloggers at BlogHer'08 tomorrow...and that's a promise, I think.

Is The Food Channel Dumbing Down?

I think so. I just watched the latest episode of The Next Food Channel Network Star (or whatever it's called). Between the episode itself and the commercials, it seems clear that The Food Channel is looking to appeal to the common mom cook without much time (or talent?) in the kitchen. I don't mean to be snobby, but when I watch a cooking program, it's to be taken to a higher level in the kitchen. Rachel Ray doesn't cut it with me. Bobby Flay--eh, he's cute, albeit somewhat damp looking, but he doesn't inspire me to new culinary heights. Thinking about it, the only Food Channel programs I really enjoy are the ones with professional chefs doing high concept cooking. The other stuff--the easy, peasy in the kitchen stuff--nah, I can do that myself without the laugh track.

Jury Duty Will Turn Me Into A Fat Drunk

I just got back from the supermarket. Both there and at home, I tried to lock my car with my house key. One is a simple brass key; the other a big chrome one with a thick black rubber handle. I went to the supermarket to buy milk. While there, during several wanderings around the relevant aisles, I put in my cart: a novel, the name of which I can't even remember right now; a bottle of chilled Reisling, because I've recently discovered that I like it; a cute little cup of almonds and some other crunchy stuff that is made to go in the cup holder of one's car; 2 bags of salad, complete with dressing; 2 bags of salted peanuts, 2for a $1 Planters; a good sized chunk of white cake of the birthday genre, two layers frosted and sprinkled with multicolor somethings; and, oh yes, the milk. After the clerk had checked my food through and put it in the paper sack, as requested, I went for my wallet. And came up with air. Checked my pockets--nope. Went out to the car--nada. Went back into the checker to tell her I was going home and I probably wouldn't be back that night. At home, I discovered my wallet.

So what's going on here?

• a. Jane is discombobulated
• b. Jane is nuts
• c. Jane spent the day sitting in a court room doing her civic duty

Correct answer: a & c, although there are some who would argue for b as well.

I'm on jury duty, for the umpteenth time. If my statistics winning the lottery were anywhere near my stats getting called for jury duty, I'd be a rich woman. As it is, I'm fried from sitting and waiting and listening to nothing and sitting some more and waiting some more and eating bad food and breathing recirculated air.

I consider misplacing my wallet God or someone's way of say, Whoa, Jane...there must be a better way of dealing with your frustration. There must, I'm sure; there is, I know. But what, right now, I cannot say.

First do what you have to, then reward yourself...

This is my cousin's advice, and today I followed it. First I walked; then I had coffee and ! at Starbucks. But what a walk that was. I'm going to drive it this afternoon, so I can know to the nth of an nth just how far I heaved my body. It took me 40 minutes, door to door.....

Something over a mile, it is. That means that I'm a 40 minute miler. It also means that I walked over two miles today. Hey!

And my reward was the coffee and the ! (which, okay, was a Bearclaw--but sheesh, two miles, guys!). And I got to read someone else's copy of the NY Times Arts & Leisure section. From yesterday, true. But since I'm not in NY, that made no difference to me.

I am feeling so very very GOOD, as in noble and pure and very well exercised.

Odds & Sods

I hate to ruin the pristinicity of my last post, the grandiose interview with the grandiose Akaky, but--hey, it's another day and this is, after all, a blog that's doing Blog365. So--on to other more mundane things.

Like, this photograph of an empty jar of Archer Farms Butter Toffee. I bought it at Target late this afternoon. I ate the premium caramel clusters with almonds & cashews when I got home a short time later. Oh, what, no photo? That's because my cell phone--my SPRINT cell phone--will not do as it's bidden and cough up the picture.

Suffice to say, and more than sufficient to my caloric needs, this stuff is fantastic. Better than fantastic; it's awesome.

Can we talk about that word awesome? As in striking awe in a person. Not, as it is used today, as in hey dude really cool.

S'all for now, boys and girls. Tomorrow at 6:50 sharp, I'm off to catch a train to Stitches West, where I will mingle with ninetymillion other knitters, some of whom I even know. And some not so much.

Ta ra for now...

Tomato, Tomahto, and Spotted Dick

Whit over at Honea Express is celebrating the joys of an English gastronomical adventure today; he's having some Spotted Dick that a friend sent him. Reading his post, seeing the kick he got out of what is to the Brits just your average tea time sweet took me back to the days when I had just returned to America from London. The dumbest turn of phrase then could bring down the house , and I used to be very proud of the fact that I spoke both American and English English. And that I knew the difference. Now? Not so much, I would think. Does one order a Milky Coffee at the Starbucks in England, or is it now just another Grande Drip with Room for Cream. And the cream--is it Top of the Milk or boring American style Half & Half? I guess not only the milk is homogenized these days, but the entire world as well. That makes me sad--sorta.

How's About Some Cabbage & Apples?

It's Sunday and I'm in the kitchen with the Food Channel again. But yesterday I was there as well...and here's what I made
I'm calling it, in a streak of originality, Cabbage & Apple Side Dish. I made it to eat on it's own, but it would be terrific as a Thanksgiving dish. And it's cheap. And easy. And I made it up.

Here's what to do:

1. Chop 1 purple onion (nice color, doncha think?) and a couple of cloves garlic and brown them in some oil (I used walnut, but olive would do as well). I got them quite brown, some were actually crispy, but you don't have to do that. You can just saute them till they're limp or golden or however you like your onion/garlic mixture.
2. Add 2-3 T of butter (sweet, please, is there any other kind to cook with? d'oh?)
3. Cut up half a cabbage into chunks or slivers or however you want to slice 'em. Add to skillet (I did tell you to do this in a large skillet or dutch oven, didn't I). You can use any kind of cabbage. Mine was the frilly kind because--it just was.
4. Peel, core and slice a tart apple and mix it in with the whole thing. Do some salt and peppering, if you like. Cover the pot and stir occasionally. Oh, did I mention this should be on a medium fire?
5. Cook until the cabbage and the apples are limp. Serve. Eat.
6. This is an expandable recipe. Just add more of everything to feed more people. Mine provided a side dish for four (me and three more of me.).

B is for...

...what? what is B for? I can't believe I'm stymied already! !!!!

B is for -- Bacon. Should a Jew eat bacon? No, tis an absolute prohibition against eating the meat of things whose hoofs aren't cloved...or is it those that are? Whatever, bacon is from the pig and the pig is the animal that, according to the Torah, has the wrong kind of hoofs...or is it hooves? Thus, Jews are forbidden to have any meat that was at one time a part of a pig. That means bacon. And ham. And pork chops. And pork roast. And also, I think, head cheese.

Now, let me tell you a little secret about Jews and pigs. We love 'em. Particularly bacon. And ham. Perhaps we don't consider that once the meat is cured, that is salted and brined and whatever, it is still of a pig. Pork itself? Not so much. I must confess that my stomach does a mini-heave at pork. Like my grandfather is maybe playing with my kishkes. But that's just me.

Pork is a big deal, I hear, in Israel, where they call it White Steak. As in (and this was told to me as a truly true fact), the bar mitzvah boy wanted only white steak at his reception. Pork is also a big deal at Chinese restaurants, which are the restaurants of choice for Jews looking for a night away from the kitchen. Look at Jerry Seinfeld, how often you saw him picking and poking with chopsticks. And the Rosses across the street when I was growing up: Thursday night was the cook's night off, and they had Chinese. Sweet 'n Sour Pork. Yum. In a gelatinous sauce that is comprised mostly of cornstarch and red dye #2. You don't even have to be particularly adept with chopsticks to jam one into a piece of fried pork and bring it successfully to your mouth.

But this isn't about P for pork; it's a treatise on B for bacon. Which only happens tangentially to be a function of the pig animal. Those of you who are not British or Canadian, you will be surprised to learn that the Brits have a panoply of bacon cuts. Bacon is a really big deal to them. And they don't cook it very well. In fact, they barely cook it at all, so what you get most often is a hunk of ham with some fat attached to it. Not bacon at all, as in American bacon, which is crisp, the fat being cooked away to perfection. I would say that this is just another thing that we do better than they (and, hey, I just said it), but then my friends who are British will come back at me with a harsh comment or two. And they are a snarky lot...

So forget I cast any aspersions on our friends across the pond...can't we all just get along??????????

The Newly-Single Woman Goes Food Shopping

...and what she buys--well, just have a look.




I spent just about what I always spend at the supermarket, give or take a dollar or two (or ten)(or twenty). But there was a noticeable difference in what I bought. I haven't exactly reached the cat food and powdered milk stage, but I think the perceptive reader can tell there's a change in my larder.

For example, Coke Diet 6-8 oz. Have you seen these 8 oz. cans? They're kinda compressed, sort of midget versions of the real thing. I bought them because I never finish my Cokes, and before I was newly-single they would hang around the refrigerator going flat. And annoying D. Who could drink a 12-pack of Diet Coke in 36 hours.

If you scan both photos, you'll see that there is no meat. NO MEAT! Where's the beef? It's not a meal if there's no meat. Gotta have meat. This was the mantra I lived by before I was newly-single. But now--ha! I get to eat what I want, when I want. Maybe I will eat meat and maybe I won't. My call--tra la la!

There are, of course, the obligatory diet frozen dinners for those evenings when I just don't feel like cooking. Before I was newly-single, those were the nights we ate fast food. My cousin wrote Fast Food Nation, so I know how awful that stuff is for you. Now stocked up as I am with Lean Gourmet Meals, I can get my engineered food and multi-syllabic chemical additives without leaving the comfort of my own home.

Then there's the Nature's Path Organic Optimum Zen cereal. This was an impulse buy, I must confess; I went originally for Cheerio's. But how, in my current situation, could I resist a breakfast food that promised me "a 'Zen' moment, where health, mental balance, spiritual fulfillment come together and you can 'be' the best that you are." I'm really liking that whole mindfulness thing, so why shouldn't my stomach benefit as well.

You can see I bought lots of produce. Grapes and cherries. For me. All for me! And salad stuff and single serving cans of tuna and beans and cantaloupe and my own mini watermelon, which is listed as Org Personal H2O (which the wicked might think was a strange device for pleasuring onesself, but it's merely the supermarket's way of cataloging Very, Very, Very Small Watermelon).

And finally, you'll notice the last two items are digestive-related. A bit close to the cat food model, perhaps, but don't you think that a newly-single woman has earned the right to her heartburn.

Shopping For One

I've just come back from a trip to the supermarket. The larder is bare, D is away, and I can indulge myself. Here's what I got: 10 for $5 cups of yogurt. Eight varieties of frozen diet dinners. Apples, Orville Redenwhoozie Popcorn, a Cantaloupe Melon (as opposed to a Cantaloupe What???), toilet paper, and an InStyle AtHome magazine. The last two items belong quite properly in the bathroom.

This is how I eat when I'm on my own. Quick and dirty, as it were. Without any thought at all. For much of my life, eating bored me. Food was fuel. I was pleased if it tasted good, but generally, I resented the time it took to eat. I had much better things to do. I can't remember what, but I can remember thinking so.

Then, sigh! as happens so often, life intrudes and food became--well let's just say we have had a rather too close relationship at times. There was the period when I couldn't go to sleep without a glass of milk and five Hershey kisses. I broke myself of that, but then when my mother died, I took to toasting marshmallows over the gas burners. My own little campfire in the privacy of my own little kitchen.

Life is--can I say 'extruding'?--these days. I'm not sure what I mean by that but I like the symmetry of the verbs. Whatever. At least for these days, I'm eating quick and dirty again. Yogurt, Lean Cuisine...and, yes, I admit it, Hersey's chocolate in bed at night. With milk. So sue me.

Making Myself Sick

I cannot stand cute. I abhor twee. Don't give me any angels, please, and unless I sneeze, don't bless me. As a recent post of mine attested, I call things as I see them. Dead is dead, dumb is dumb, and bullshit is bullshit.

So why is it that whenever I want to refer to a friend that I have made through blogging, I keep wanting to say bliend? Pronounced blend, as in blog + friend. Omygod I'm gonna puke....

So--one of my "bliends" is offering this month an easy summer recipe/hint/treat a day, and I'm addicted. She lives in Napa and is in the Food & Wine Trade, as they say, so she is nothing if not au courant, etc. etc. with all things Foodie.

The other day I made HelenJane's Tomato Avocado Salad. I seeded and sliced chocolate brown Rosso Bruno tomatoes, peeled and sliced an avocado, cut up into--yep, you guessed it--thin slices some Vidalia onion, poured olive oil on it, salt and pepper and the juice of a lime. It was, in a word, exquisite (and you know that if I say it, I mean it). This is exactly HelenJane's recipe, and she has lots more. Go visit. Maybe you'll make a new bliend, too.

Chopped Rosso Bruno Tomato Salad

Chopped Rosso Bruno Tomatoes
Originally uploaded by By Jane.

The beginning of a tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella salad. The tomatos are heritage, I believe, and their skins are so dark they look to be chocolate. The basil was the purple, frilly kind and I tore it into bite size pieces. The fresh mozzarella was perlina, very small balls, the size of a pea. Mixed together and drizzled with an extra virgin, cold pressed olive oil.

Nothing more. Nothing less. Sufficient.

The Story of the Stuffed Cabbage - Part II

My mother taught me to cook. My two earliest memories of being in the kitchen as more than an observer were when she had me preparing roast chicken. Salt and pepper it inside and out, shove a quartered onion up it, put it in a pan, stick it in the oven at 375 for an hour or so, and when the leg wiggles, the chicken is done.

The other memory is when I made dinner for my dad. My mother was away and that left me in the dominant female position, which I fulfilled with a meal heavy on food types that I liked, canned green beans for one, but also a new-to-me product, Cool Whip. I hate to tell you how long ago this was; suffice to say, Cool Whip did not start out in those cute little tubs in the freezer. It originally came in packets that you had to mix up. I thought it was, well, cool. So canned green beans and Cool Whip--even I knew that something was missing, so I mixed several different colors of Cool Whip. Blue Cool Whip as meat, yellow Cool Whip as potatoes, and red Cool Whip as salad. The green was taken care of by our canned beans, remember. My father was a peach, and I believe he cleaned his plate and may have asked for seconds.

All of this was a preamble to a lifetime reputation as one hell of a cook. Thus, I felt no fear when faced with the Stuffed Cabbage. I found two recipes, one in the vintage Good Housekeeping that my sister gave me when I got married [the first time] and the other in Joan Nathan's Jewish Holiday Cookbook. I used the first the only other time I made Stuffed Cabbage, which was back when I was married [the first time] and had an unfortunate mishap with the stuffing bowl and the dish washing soap, which tainted forever that recipe with the tang of lemon Palmolive. That being the case, I elected to go with Joan Nathan.

Nathan's recipe is unique, or so it seems to me, in two ways. First, rather than lemon, she uses frozen lemonade. Second, she recommends that one freeze the cabbage head for two days prior to making the rolls because this makes it easier to fold the cabbage. I followed her recipe to the T--almost. The only part I didn't do: Miss B is a vegetarian, and thus my Stuffed Cabbage had to be meat less. I substituted some product called Chorn (or that may be the name of the village in Russia that my grandfather came from). Whatever--this stuff is made of egg whites and other things and is crumbled up to look just like hamburger meat that's been cooked. I mixed the fake hamburger with the onion and garlic and rice that Nathan called for--and it didn't smell bad, but it didn't smell good either. Although how fake meat would/should smell is beyond me. Still, I must have had a frisson of concern because I did note the odd odor.

But I persisted and went on to the prepping of the cabbage. This called for defrosting the thing over night (can you see how long this is taking on the shetl--two days to freeze, one day to defrost, and this is just the cabbage we're talking about). Then I cut the core out of it and, as instructed, began to separate and spread the cabbage leaves out. Nathan is right; the formerly crisp, sturdy cabbage leaves were now, well, limp. They had taken on an odd coloration, sort of translucent, but with a vaguely plastic look. Kinda like they food samples that some Asian restaurants put in their windows. It's food, but yet not food.

However, they were quite easy to work with, and I began the stuffing processing with a kind of joy. I was channeling my mother; my hands just seemed to know how they should go, and it was a kind of Zen moment for me. Soon, I had a pot full of little cabbage rolls. I meant to stop at this point and take a picture so this could be an illustrated tale, but I poured the tomato sauce over them before I remembered that. So, sadly, my story is text only. I put the covered pot in the oven at 350 for four hours, as Nathan said to, and walked away, feeling proud.

You all know where this is going, don't you. I don't have to drag it out and detail the odor of burning tomato sauce, turning the temp down, more odor, more temp down, until after two hours or so, I couldn't stand it and pulled the pot out. Already I had some crispy critters in there, but I could remember times my mother had burned things and she just left the burnt parts and served up the still-good middles. So all was okay, I could still feel pride, and we would eat our Stuffed Cabbage for dinner.

Even up to the point when I served myself a portion of the Cabbage from the pot, I was still walking in my mother's shoes. I could feel myself holding the spoon as she had (and, truth be told, it was her spoon) and plating the Stuffed Cabbage as she had and taken a forkful as she once did and--.

These were not my mother's Stuffed Cabbage. I hope they weren't Joan Nathan's Stuffed Cabbage either. They were, in a word, awful. I don't think it was just the fake meat, although that probably contributed (Note: can fake meat go bad, because this stuff smelled rank). The frozen cabbage certainly contributed. It occurred to me that the chemical breakdown that renders the cabbage malleable may also make it spoiled. Whatever, my Stuffed Cabbage were gag-worthy. I had D try them, just to make sure I wasn't prejudiced by having dealt with all the ingredients, and he said, "it's not often that I can't eat something...."

He went out for hamburgers, and I stuffed my Stuffed Cabbage down the disposal. It was, to say the least, a chastening experience.