Fud

The anxiety rose, displacing everything around, but disguising it's shape. I knew it to be the same creature, but not what was prodding it from the valley below the abyss. The beast itself remained long mumbling, undeclared. Finally, a tooth showed, and I knew. The key piece to identify the subject.

Food. That old monster. I knew it lurked there. Thought I'd worked it through to exhaustion. Not, apparently, enough.

Not just eating a meal, which was trial enough, with my father picking a fight with himself at us. The food itself lacked nourishment and taste. I hated meat, smothering it with ketchup when I could. My mother cooked it badly, overcooked, unflavored, the cheapest sort. Canned corn or potatoes were her idea of vegetables, which I (comparatively) liked, but they do lack a significant amount of fiber or vitamins. Much fried food, lots of white bread, and always dessert.

Grocery shopping was all about the amount spent. Little for anything fresh, much as I adored fresh fruit it was always too expensive. Sugar, flour, chocolate chips, sweetened condensed milk, always plenty of money for those. Enough for gallons of milk - which I hated most of all. Store bought ice cream, sure. Space Food, Vanilla Wafers, shortening, whatever she was dieting on at the moment... plenty for all that. She bought sugary crap with delight, and begrudged me a peach or two, carefully counted. All my life, I knew I was too expensive, and not worth it.

Nor was I trusted to cook a meal. My friends cooked for their families, sometimes required to. They took it as a burden, but I envied the trust given to them. Not that my mother's lessons on cooking would have been useful. She baked. She worried it all the time, that her pie crusts were tough, or her cookies burnt, or the cake a bit lopsided, but she knew she had a way with sugar, even if it didn't look pretty. Never ate more than a small amount herself, much as she loved it. Always on one or another diet, her weight going up and down - a genuine issue with obesity, but taken to an obsessive extent. Pulling me in it's wake. Still, dessert at every meal.

Then the cleaning up. Always Doing The Dishes, which meant cleaning every surface, but without bleach (which my father banned because his sister used too much) which meant a bacteria smeared room that looked immaculate. I had to dry, usually. When I washed, the criticism, as I tired, became constant. This from the woman who made snide comments about beloved aunts who had dishwashers. "They have to wash them anyway? What's the point? So much expense!" Well, I think now, they only had to do a quick rinse, then the washer does the rest, rinsing and drying, and does it all better. Instead of in mucky water.

This evening, craving meat, I made myself a burger, with extra cheese. Better meat, good cheese, lots of spices, bbq sauce, tasted wonderful.

All the times told with words how loved I was, but actions said "you are expensive, you'd better be worth it." I knew we were fairly poor, I tried to be small and cheap, not ask for much, hedge every request, minimize myself and my needs without complaint. And stole peanut butter, because I was hungry.

And now? How do I feed myself? How do I nourish myself? No one taught me, I've been making it all up as I went along. I honestly didn't know how to fry and egg or steam vegetables or make a pancake. And I did not bake a cake, or pie, or cookies, as an adult on my own, with the odd exception that I could count on one hand over the last 30 odd years. Bought, not made.

I resist cooking well. Perhaps I need to do something different here. Not sure what, because the obvious answers repel me. Not taking lessons, not from people who see love as food. I can barely deal with the community gardens people when they go on about food prep as something wonderful. It's all so fraught for me. This past week I've cried at every meal, and still didn't realize that the food was the trigger for the emotions.

Honestly, don't know where to go with this. I sit in my kitchen, where my laptop is, and want to weep.

Cheesy

Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie once took me to see a cheese making place. Would that be a dairy, exactly? Not that I was that much of a cheese fan, liked it in small amounts. Milk was the bane of my childhood, forced to drink a full glass with every meal, I came to loathe the stuff. Cheese I tolerated, the sharper the better.

When they make cheese, they use milk. I knew this, but the implications were not clear. Not when I was a kid. Milk and bacteria, soured, turned, rotting milk. The stench got into my nose for the next three days. Being a well behaved child, cowed might be a better word, I tried not to breathe, covered my face, and held out as long as possible. Cheese making is interesting, it just smells horrible. Churningly nauseating. I didn't throw up, but it was a close call.

Never drank milk willingly. Refused to put it on my cereal. This caused much parental mirth and scorn, but I held fast. The only thing worse than drinking a cold glass of milk was spooning up warmish milk with soggy cereal remains. The sourish aroma wafted up from the Cap'n Crunch. To this day, I eat cereal dry, or I make hot cream 'o wheat with boiling water. With the wheatabix, I spoon a bit of plain tea on top, just for enough moisture to settle the dust. Once in a while, when I overbrew the tea a bit, I will add a few drops of milk to cut the edge. Maybe a teaspoon's worth. Less than once a month. It's not an allergy, but a mild lactose intolerance. Mild, as long as I don't drink it by the cupful.

D loves milk. I accept this, even as I don't understand it. When we were in Saudi, he kept trying to get milk, none of the sterilized stuff satisfied, tasted wrong. In the first chowhall back, his first glass from the huge stainless tank of supercooled milk numbed the back of his throat, and he fell in love. I get him milk. I pour it in his glass. I've never been able to figure out how much is right to put on his Joe's O's, but that's alright, he never expects. He is willing to make me tea, and I say thanks, those tea bags will do nicely.

When I shopped on Wednesday, I didn't realize he was low. He forgot Thursday, and yesterday as well. We are waiting to walk over and get him milk. He'll carry it back.

Were you ever sent to the corner store for a gallon of milk that weighed more than a seventh of your own mass? In the summer? Having to stop every few yards to put it down and rest your arms? And your fingers are numb because it's cold. And you know you are just going to be forced to drink it?




Planted peas today. Southwest corner spot. Everyone mentioning planting pease this week. Loads of worms, I think they like all the dead leaves. The cardboard put down last fall is nearly undetectable, eaten away, broken down.

Out

Rou was aghast that I mentioned how much I dislike eating outside.

Quite true, it's no kind of treat for me. Never cared for the eating part of picnics, nor the outside aspect of barbecues. Too many bugs either around me or on my food for my taste. Or anything else blowing by. Food cold by the time I got it, which could be just a few seconds. It always seemed a hurried way to eat, furtive and troublesome.

I have such clear recollections of a propane camp stove and a picnic bench at a roadside stop, somewhere in Ontario on a raw, windy day. An attempt to make tea, with only unwarmed chicken, and blown away chips, a billowing plasticized table cloth, cold and hungry and not much to warm up with. The idea of a restaurant, calm and cozy, and with hot food on a plate, with forks and knives, seemed a much better idea.

Likewise a day in Basic, lining up for grub, given a plate of some sort of semi-edible hot substance, but by the time I'd reached the area designated for eating, taken off my cap, it was cold, not really palatable stuff. All I had to eat, so I stuffed it in anyway. After that, the romance of eating on a patio seemed remarkably ludicrous. I want to eat well sheltered, without competition for my sustenance. Without dirt or wind, begging birds or hot sun.

Thankfully, D is a Great Indoorsman. Of course, he had a similar experience, and interpretation thereof, as me. We scoff when asked if we want a table outside or in. Well, IN, every time. No question. This is what civilization is all about.

I'll go out after I'm done eating.

Tarts

Listening to I've Never Seen Star Wars, while the victim, or guest, who tries pop-tarts for the first time - actually likes them. I think I had them a time or two at Aunt Alma's, it's the kind of thing she would have done for me. Mostly I know I got to eat them while doing market surveys at the downtown mall when I first came to this city. We interviewed a lot of little kids, which is a bit like hitting one's head against a brick wall, but more painful. We were required always to ask "anything else" and write down the answer, until they said "no." This is the one time no kid will say "no." They will just make stuff up, or repeat themselves, endlessly. Most of us would just stop asking, and write down "no." Hell, this was about fuckingpoptarts, dammit.

To do the interview, we would heat and present cut up bits of poptart, in varying flavors, leaving halves left over, that we all would nibble on. Minimum wage folks, students, marginal all in our own ways, it was food, more or less. Most of us still got rather sick of it very quickly. One guy did not. We wound up having to get more supplies for the 'study' because he would snarf it down, even stealing whole packages. Later, D would talk about a guy he gamed with, who another friend called a "food vacuum" because no snacks were safe in his presence, and no one else would get any. Probably not the same guy.

I can't imagine eating them today. Or pot noodles, as the INSSW show made Sandi Toksvig try. Not sure if the pot noodles are analogous to Ramen noodles, but I assume so.

Made lunch for D's parents, enchiladas, salsa refried rice, salad. Thrown together, no recipe as such, but they turned out well, and D's dad effusive in his praise of my cooking. Nice talk, more comfortable over the years. We had a little plumbing moment this morning, and I got an unexpected, clothed, cold shower down my arm. We sorted that, more or less. Got the second ceiling fan down and replaced - in the music room. Got a foam board to put up more of our postcards, which I found looking for other paperwork. We spent part of this evening doing arts & crafts. A collage. No adhesion yet, but laid out for morning.

Vaccine

Pouring rain, for a short while I expect. But we'd gone out for vegetables, and walked back in rain. Lovely. Remembering getting caught out in the North End of Boston during our first few months there, soaked through and with no clear idea of how far we had to walk to be home and dry. The wind made it shiveringly cold, and we were in t-shirts and shorts, no jacket nor umbrella, no break in sight. Taught us to be prepared, and not mind a bit of wet. I knew better, growing up in Michigan, but I'd grown complacent living here, where summer showers are short, the sun after very hot, and the skies are not, as the song goes, cloudy all day. Not in the summer, certainly.

So we enjoyed our short soak, and are now vigorously toweled off and rather cleaner than expected. D has milk, and all is right with the world. Egg drop soup for dinner.

I've been reading through the archives of Letters Of Note, a wonderful site full of snooping through other people's correspondence. Including Kurt Vonnegut's first letter home after his internment (who here mentioned Vonnegut to me? I can't find the comment.) And several by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Also came across a rant about Encyclopedia Brown. Fair, but not entirely to the point. Yes, the solution to the mystery is an obscure, often obsolete, bit of esoterica, but for me that was the reward, the jewel, of the story. I was reminded of another series of books, about a boy much like Young Mr. Brown, but not mysteries, a bit higher reading level, and a Grandfather lived with the family. Once, they'd brought back fireworks, the car caught on fire, and the whole lot went up in spectacular fashion. I can't for the life of me remember the second series of books, but I do conflate them with Encyclopedia B.

Got my flu shot Thursday, and have been, as expected, a bit peaky since, very tired, achy. Given that I tend to be very ill indeed if I do snag a virus, I am very much pro-vaccine, and consider this inflammatory phase a tiny price to pay for the potential protection it affords. Still very confused at trained nurses, who should understand better the mechanism, who think it "gives you the flu." Yes, a vaccine can cause an inflammatory response, that does feel a bit like the flu. And, yes, it is a best guess for what strain will predominate in a particular year, so it's never a guarantee. And some people just don't come down with them that often, or that badly - but they can be carriers, and nurses can easily come in contact with patients with lowered immune systems, and one particular strain might get them this year. I have learned to be silent and let the chips fall where they wilt.


Having lunch at the BBQ place today, I refreshed my realization that meals are a chore. Much as I do enjoy good food, it never balances out the effort put into shopping, cooking, cleaning up, nor even the effort of deciding what to get or make. My Aunt Alma used to say that some people live to eat, and others eat to live. She was the first sort, I am definitely the latter. If I could swallow the promised futuristic pill of nutrition, and everything would still work properly, that would be just fine. I remember Granny seemed to live on tea and toast, seemed perfectly sensible to me, even as a kid.

Coffee

Tea is wonderful, tea is essential. Tea can be very difficult to find out in the wild, in this coffee culture. Warm water and a cheap teabag in a styrofoam or paper cup is common. Or an aluminum pot of hot water, a ceramic cup, and a small assortment of flavored tisanes and maybe one Earl Grey bag, with a few lemon slices, sugar and fake sugar packets and creamer. As though they should cover up the tiny portion of tea, which they find an unpleasant substitute for coffee. I have not tried to order tea out for many years, giving it up as a bad job. Except at Chinese restaurants, where it is always oolong, but at least it's reliably good. Indian restaurants only serve the sweet milky mix, which is probably fine, but I've never liked sweet tea. A drop of milk* I can stand, especially if I've over steeped a pot but I still want to drink it.

So often, I wished I could like coffee. But unlike most people, I can't even stand the smell of it. My father eating shredded wheat with hot coffee poured over is the most likely explanation - since that stinks of wet dog on a hot day. And I have tried to drink it, no one in the army hasn't. I'd have done almost anything on that duty to get some caffeine in me, but I couldn't manage downing a mug of coffee. D has tried as well, and had an even worse reaction than me. I did have some at a local specialty cafe, some Kenyan stuff, along with gazpacho, after a final exam. Not that I liked it much, but I figured I could get used to it. I could taste the quality, although it was not quite happy on my tongue. That place had decent tea, but the odor of coffee around reduced how much I could enjoy it.

In Boston, coffee was water of life, even the hospital cafe had good quality beverage. Dunkin' Donuts was not about pastry, it was all about the caffeine delivery system. I listened to others wax poetic, and I waited to get home to drink tea. No wonder it took me so long to stop drinking sugary cola. At this job, not only is there a coffee maker, two if you count the surgeon lounge, but someone brought in a French press, and a lot of mornings they do a batch up. At least the aroma does not fill the room.

On the other hand, the coffee maker has a hot water spigot, very nearly boiling. And I have a cubby hole to keep a ceramic mug, and a tin of oolong bags. It's not ideal, but it helps.





*Yes, I know. I can't explain this either.

Milk

My young adulthood featured becoming vegetarian. Nothing simple about it, as I had been exposed to nothing but canned vegetables, and hated them. But I never liked meat, although it was a mandatory part of most meals. As was the absolutely mandatory glass of (detested) milk. I had to eat the meat and whatever else I put on my plate, with baked dessert as the reward. I had a lot of gut irritation, and no one could figure out why. A lot of white bread, fried food, cheap meat, sugary baked desserts.

Aunt Alma was so surprized when she made me spinach, and I could not get enough, thought it the best flavor in the world. My body craved it, so it tasted amazing. Summertime, I ate the rhubarb from the back yard, snitching it as it sprouted. I ate sweet clover from the lawn, cherry tomatoes from my mother's garden, and unripe grapes from Mrs. Rizzardi's arbor, through the fence. Any fruit, although my mother would only buy a small amount, because of the expense. Which is part of why I loved visiting Aunt Alma, she would buy me enough peaches and plums to gorge myself.

So, when I cooked for my own meals, on so little income, I subsisted on quick breads, ramen noodles, free candy bars from my job at the theater, fried eggs, and out of a strange habit, milk. Which I still hated, but considered nutritious. I never really felt well, despite lots of dance classes, walking everywhere. Broccoli was my first foray into greenery, along with lettuce. It was a long, slow process. I don't remember when I started steaming frozen vegetables, but that did seem to help quite a lot. That may have been years later, after the army chow halls, when being vegetarian was just not possible. When I ate whatever was put on my tray, and swallowed it without much ado. Some of which may have been - technically - vegetables.

Going to restaurants is what most changed my diet. Eating well cooked and seasoned vegetation opened my eyes to possibilities. Lamb and green beans at the International, a Greek place in Detroit. Having only tried canned green beans, to taste them cooked lovingly was a revelation. Today, I'll go for about anything green and leafy. I never drink milk. I occasionally have a dream about having to drink the stuff again, and it's gagging.


These days, I try to eat more vegetation than not, but I've left it as an exclusive ideal. I like the green stuff. I rarely eat dessert. I have wheatgerm every morning in my hot cereal, meat not every day - more as a side than a main, good eggs from a friend with chickens, never white bread, always some vegetables, a bit more balance. My gut has been pretty stable for a while. Although it has it's moments. Cheese in small amounts, no damn milk. Mostly, no one shouting as I eat, and no one forcing me to ingest what I don't want.

I really enjoy spinach, treated kindly.

Have I mentioned how much I hate milk*?






*The first word I learned to spell was "Bar." My earliest friend boasted spelling the word "Milk." My parents were impressed. I knew it was a better word, if only for having more letters, and being less seedy, but I hated milk too much to bother to learn how to spell it.

Custard

Went to the Hong Kong Tea House for dim sum, an entirely reasonable treat.* I love the shrimp paste in bell pepper. And chicken steamed bun. D ordered a custard steamed bun that was quite special, Pot stickers, and fried rice. Po Lei tea in a brown pot, tiny cups. We nibbled and talked and enjoyed each other's company. A place I have never seen without obviously asian patrons at the next table. They'd had a flooding problem, and had to close for over two weeks, so we made a point of going back as soon as they re-opened.

They know us, and we know them, by sight, and we care about their endeavor.

The first year they opened, they provided a dessert soup with every dinner. This was a new thing, but interesting. D loved the tapioca one, and I the red bean, but I suspect most people were more confused than pleased. A hot, sweet soup for dessert is not a familiar tradition, here. Such good food, generous but not excessive, tasty. A bit of patience is necessary with the non-English-as-first-language staff. Once, a waitress brought what was obviously fish to a non-fish-eating D, and tried to explain him what he'd ordered by showing him her pad. He had to apologetically explain that he would not order fish, and could not read her letters either. The staff has become more fluent, the soups have (sadly) disappeared, but the food is still wonderful. Their spicy bean curd is so soft, like custard, in a sauce to clear the sinuses. The tea is a comfort and joy to me.

We talked about the delicate balance between a restaurant staying solvent, being stingy, and making a patron feel they are being treated generously. We miss India Quality in Boston. D went to pick up food once, and they gave him tea while he waited. A simple thing, a few pennies cost, but it was a kindness he appreciated, an attitude that made us feel cared for, and at that moment we became dedicated customers. Yes, the food was always amazing, but try eating even very good food, if you feel upset. So restaurants need to master that imponderable of 'welcomeness."

Where do you feel welcome? Where does the food taste better because of that?





*Unlike the tapas place we got dragged to, which seemed to be a great place to get overcharged for not enough food. This place has dim sum for a reasonable price, and enough to fill one up nicely.

Squishy

Frozen blackberries, strawberries, half banana, lime yogurt, a dash of tangerine/orange juice. With a slice of bread, this was dinner last evening.

Called off for today. Didn't need it, didn't want it, but this is life right now. Getting buggerall done, here.

Reading about the Americanisms that BBC readers don't like. Avoided the actual "article", but over at Separated By A Common Language Lynnequist has a thorough and reasoned (and researched) response.

Since there are so many readers here who speak other varieties of English, I'd be curious about both your take on this, and your own observations about the differences. I happen to love how everyone in different places express themselves differently, and I'm glad to make different expressions part of my vocabulary. But then, I love words, and playing with them.

My mother would be horrified that I prefer the word bucket to pail. But then I get to exclaim "Bucket!" at work, without actually swearing. That wouldn't help her feel better.

Surfeit

I don't do diets. Ever.

I work with a gaggle of body image and diet, and food, obsessed women. Which I struggle with. My mother was a dieter, of the yo-yo type. All the women in my family were from peasant stock, not tall, a bit dumpy, and I express the phenotype just as much as my cousins and my aunts, and my granny as well. My mother pushed her pudginess into obesity.

Oh, I'm sure there were reasons, which she hid behind her eating habits. Her father was quite a piece of work, from what I have pieced together. She married another, who made her life miserable. She really never gorged, kept her treats small and rare, but she went on drastic diets, lost a lot of weight, then gained it all back, and more. I remember coping with it, as a small girl, thinking about her choices. I defended the protein diet she got on, to my aunts and granny who worried about her health. I went on some with her, like the apple diet.

The summer before I started high school, allowed to borrow books from the adult side of the library, I read through the romance section. By the time I was done, I was thoroughly sick of the genre. Which is exactly the way I felt about diets by the time I reached adulthood. They seemed unreal and toxic. I would never indulge in any fad diet, and talk of food as a subject tended to sicken me. Nor, indeed, ever read another romance novel.

So, hearing my cow-orkers go on about food makes me despair of women today. Not all, of course, but this mind-set dispirits me. I figure this is part of why, although I am certainly dumpy-body-shaped, I'm not obese. I've never lost or gained a lot of weight quickly. I was thinner in army basic, but I also stopped my periods and got severe bronchitis. I was thinner in Boston because I had to walk so much - but I also had more foot and back pain. I'm not a natural runner, and I'm getting older. I look very much like my cousin, who is also, (and I mean this with great warmth and affection and admiration) a dumpy woman like (but 20 years older than) me. She has no issue showing a photo of herself in a bathing suit by the pool on vacation. I strive to have such confidence. I'm getting there.

The only food I enjoy is the stuff I actually get to eat. Otherwise, it's pictures of food, and since I can't smell or taste it, I can but shrug and say, "eh." I eat more or less what I want, while listening to my body. When I have enough, when I've overindulged in sugar or bread, when I need vegetables or fruits, or need concentrated protein. And I adjust. I listen when part of me says, 'enough' and I stop. I don't drink soda, I never plan dessert, rarely order any when we eat out, don't keep candy in the place. Most of the sweets I eat are, have you guessed? Yup, at work, brought in by the dieting women.

Solace

Attended a small tutoring class last night, observing only. And, well, I can do this. I began to realize the breadth of resources I have in my head, from history and speech training, acting, and history, casual linguistics, and a sometimes frightening vocabulary. I know the specific difference between P and B. B is voiced, P is unvoiced, for instance. Organizational skills from the military and nursing. A willingness to play it by ear. A curiosity about everything, anything, so that I can at least ask an intelligent question on most subjects. I'm halfway through the training, thinking it will be enough for me to start. Brain awhirl through the night, though.


Strong storms swept through as I was getting out of work, rain mixed with snow pellets, thunder and winds. Then it all blew out. A short day that felt very long. Not sure how that works, but it was all I could do to keep going to the end, at about two. Wanted to nap, but couldn't doze. Hot bath helped, as hot baths do. Some days just wear hard, that's all. D in much the same state of mind, so we got chinese food delivered. Solace egg rolls.

Candy

The day after my birthday† was the day for the Monthly Birthday Cake at work. M brought it in with a flourish, and I felt bad for her that I reflexively recoiled from the white heap of sugary frosting. Cake was white with some sort of pinkish filling, which did nothing to improve my revulsion. I really can't do pink or white sugary things. Decided recently that I never really liked cake, it was always only a frosting delivery system, and if it's not a good chocolate fudge frosting, then there is no point to cake at all. I remember as a kid eating all the cake first, leaving a triangular arch of chocolate frosting to savor as the last, best, taste in my mouth.

I did try one of the red roses from the "birthday" cake, or a bit of it. Buttercream disgust.

Don't mind the odd bit of carrot cake, if it's not too sweet.

But aside from chocolate, and good chocolate at that, I'm not much tempted by sweets these days. I'll scarf down ordinary chocolate candy, Hershey kisses or Snickers sort of thing, if I'm hungry and have only five minutes to stifle the pangs at work. But I don't buy it for home. Ok, the odd Hershey with almonds, but not often. And I do have the Trader Joe's chocolate with almond bars (due to trip to a state with TJs) that will last me months, having a piece every other day or so. I do love chocolate, but I can do without it.

Maple sugar candy, however, I do adore. Haven't had any of that for years. Still, I could always make a small leaf* last quite a while.

My sweet tooth is shrinking, over the years. Become more particular, more sensitive to what kind of sugar it wants. I can't remember the last time I actually had dessert after a meal. As a mid morning snack at work, surrounded by cow-orkers who bring in their baking, yes. Instead of anything else. When facility staff had a dessert-share gathering, I couldn't even go in the room, the stench of so much sugar put me right off the idea of anything in my mouth.

I do enjoy sweets, but in smaller and smaller amounts. And mostly chocolate.




*Maple sugar candy is properly shaped into little maple leaves.
†My age now has a whole number square root. And I'm not 25 or 36. Nor 64.

Stew

D is making stew* for our lunch. It is not bland, ordinary stew either. No, this has a bit of kick, with peppers and a bit of cayenne, stew with a chili undercurrent. He tends to make more than we can eat in one day, which is fine, because I have learned to take the leftovers, make some biscuits, fry the strained out solids, make gravy from the liquids, throw together, for a different meal. I called it Fried, or as of today, Refried Stew. Wouldn't work if D didn't make it so well in the first place.

Always a challenge, cooking for two. Hard enough for one, but at least there is no argument over different tastes. D and I have never completely agreed on what tastes good, finding the overlap, and adjusting our palates, has taken a while. He still has no idea how I can eat a dinner of steamed green beans, and I still have no clue why anyone would voluntarily drink milk, but we accept these oddities. And there are always leftovers. We are not the kind to clean our plates if we are full. Wrap it up, put it in the fridge until it goes green, then throw it away. Doing better about not doing the second one, and therefore not the third.

Aware that food prices around the world are escalating, only having to cook for two seems more and more a blessing. We can live on less.



*Or would you call it soup? Discussion over at Separated by a Common Language.

Ova

Eggs are my stop gap, but still good, food. D has a touch for making soft, lovely scrambled eggs. I do a more crunchy fried egg, sometimes even with yolk intact, the white all browned - "Slap in the face." Getting better eggs makes a difference, as well. Worth the extra buck or so, spread out over a half dozen meals.

It wasn't always so. My mother made poached eggs, in an aluminum poaching pan, four little cups suspended above the boiling water. I detested the globby white, and choked it down first, to leave the tasty yolk as the last bit in my mouth. Boiled eggs were not as bad, with plenty of salt on the rubbery white. Deviled eggs were for company, and paprika helped get the albumin down. The yolk was the only bit I liked.

I made eggs for myself badly, on my own at first. Survived on eggs and ramen. When an acquaintance made breakfast for us, I watched her egg frying technique with great attention. That helped. The ex was very proud of how he made (actually- ruined) eggs, turning them into crumbly, tasteless, masses of denatured protein. When I came back from Basic and wouldn't eat them anymore, he was quite put out. Army mess halls usually did a very good eggs, any style, and that's when they became a staple in my diet. With tabasco. Eating in diners, traveling, eggs are reliable. I've had inedible hash browns, horrible waffles, but the eggs have never been the culprit in a bad breakfast out. A local pub makes Eggs in Purgatory. Fried in a slice of french bread, with hot marinara, hash browns, bacon. When it's good, it's marvelous. When it's bad, it's still edible. (Only available for brunch, and the cooks are not equally good.)

A gentle touch, reduce heat a tad, dash of salt, or a bit of lemon pepper, Cholula and cheese, maybe a slash of salsa, all good.

Cayenne

Finally got around to shopping, fresh produce and fridge replenishment. Clementines and avocados, pears and our own chilies. Quite a relief.


Amazed that one plant has produced so many little peppers, and there are more flowers on it. I'm hoping I can wrap it up, and it may survive the winter.


Moby usually very enthusiastic about fresh wheatgrass. Today, ho hum. Wondering if he's feeling a bit off, sleeping more than usual. Maybe, hard to tell with cats.

Flan

Took D to lunch, since I was called off today. I'd been craving flan, and the Rio Grande Cafe has my ideal flan. It also has a huge papier mache sculpture of a woman in a taco. Don't think too hard about that. The restaurant serves up southwest/diner food. Burritos and tacos and all the fusion versions of US/Mexican comfort foods. Been there forever. And when the state once thought to close them to use the old train station for other uses, the state employees got in such a rage, they backed down and left it as it was.


Yes, and a suspended train track, with train. When we took Moira and C, and their daughter Plum there, the waitress made sure the train was on and in view of our youngest friend. Plum was properly entranced.



The flan is not the richest, but we like it best. Red Iguana has a much richer, sweeter version, and it's very good. But when we want flan, we want a very mild flavor, a light texture, we want it from Rio Grande Cafe.



Then we play Xeno's paradox, until one of us gives in and takes the last bit.

It's not great food, but it's good, reliable, and easy, and the staff are great, and they have a jukebox untouched by the years and a revolving art exhibit. A diner in the old sense, and we don't go there for haute cuisine. Cheap and reliable, one of very few in this area.

Grilled

How do two days of work turn into such a hard week? No, don't answer that, I don't want to whine. Adjusting to the bifocals for scrubbing is working, but it is challenging, and my neck aches. Home tired and hungry, neither of us interested in actually cooking as such. Earlier in the week, we'd gathered potential ingredients, really good bread, havarti and gouda, and Kettle chips. So, we did grilled cheese and chips.

"Now all we need is tomato soup."

"And Fritos."

Talk about childhood comfort foods. Hit the spot, although I did want to watch Mr. Rogers. Instead, we watched Rockford Files.


Best grilled cheese ever. Better than pre-sliced, plastic-packaged-cheese on wonder-bread-flavored nostalgia. We've upgraded.

Chili

New bowl with chili. Cayenne. Made D's chili more potent, as well as the salsa rice. More growing. New bowl more lovely than my poor photography shows, but it is exquisite, subtle colors, perfectly made, sensuous glazes, satisfying lip. Impeccable bit of pottery. Safe place for these fruits to dry. Cat in background, not happy with heat and strong winds these two days. He retreated inside very quickly.

Market

Finally this weekend, I managed to get my ass moving enough to clean. Started with cleaning a bit of carpet, due to Moby re-marking it. Enzymatic cleaner, hot water, and Feliway, and hopefully that will discourage further deposits. This is new, sort of, he's always liked throw rugs placed anywhere, but not regular carpeting. I'm sure it's a cat thing that makes perfect sense to him. Staring at the clean area spurred me on to do more, although we started with a grocery run.

We shop, when we can, at a market that is further away, and with somewhat higher prices at times, but on stuff we often can't get at the Close store. We learned to do this in Boston, eclectically shopping in different places throughout the week, since we often stopped on the way home from elsewhere, always walking, often just wanting to carry a bag, not bring the wheeled cart.

So we go to the Upper Store, in part because of a few brands, better cheeses, mostly because it's so much less frustrating, to move around in, to check out. They deal with our cloth bags without a whimper or a snarl, and seem to actually train their baggers. I mentioned the Upper Store at work, and they were aghast, "It's more expensive!" They mostly shop at Costco, and the like, getting huge amounts at discount, having houses (or living with their parents) with plenty of places to store the bulk, and more people to eat the food.

We are two people with different tastes, in a small apartment. Even if we pay twice as much (we don't) it's still a bargain because we eat what we buy. Getting twice as much would mean throwing half away, as it went bad, or we got sick of it. Which is why we don't make a point of going to Farmer's Markets (although I did at the excellent ones in Boston.) Prices seem good, fresh local vegetation, until I factor in how much of the mass will get eaten, versus thrown away, or just goes bad.

My mother often complained about the prices of food. But however low our income then, as we teetered on the edges of poverty, I would have preferred less food with better nutrition. No money for more than a couple pieces of fruit, when it was cheap. But we always had sugar and flour, coffee and tea, white bread and mayonnaise. She isn't really to blame, this was how her mother cooked, the common wisdom then was Fill 'em up with whatever will stick to their ribs.

But something is wrong when spinach is a rare treat given me by Aunt Alma. The first time I tasted spinach, I was in heaven. I ate lemons, just pulling apart sections and eating them like an orange, also from my dear aunt. I ate the rhubarb out of the back yard, the sour grapes from the arbor through the neighbors fence, the cherry tomatoes from the garden (bless mom for the garden) clover leaves. I may have been a bit malnourished. Not that I did much better when I had to feed myself. I still struggle to eat well, it all gets very complicated and fraught.

Because I wanted to brag about all the cleaning that got done, and instead ranted on about food.

Suey

Once, long ago, there was a place called Chop Suey Luey's. They delivered good Chinese food, and if you asked for the Chicken curry extra hot, they believed. Amazing stuff, sinus clearing and full of happy. But the restaurant changed hands, closed, and the best egg rolls ever seemed to be gone as all must pass away. This was years ago, before we left for Boston.

Once we moved closer to downtown, we looked for places that would bring us food, for those evenings after work when I cannot bear to drive, nor even to think of leaving the apartment. And we both simply want dinner and to indulge our agoraphobia. So, we poked around for same. And found Canton Village.

As soon as we tasted the curry chicken we knew. Had to be at least some of the same people running it. The egg rolls are different, and crispy bits of heaven. So every other week, sometimes less, we get a decent, and much needed meal, from them. They've finally figured out how to get into and around this building, after a few early bumps. And I've also come to treasure their wonton soup, pot stickers, & ham fried rice. The only element missing, and it vanished during the waning CSL days, was plum sauce, little packets of paradise. I've never tasted the like.

Nothing is perfect. And that is beautiful.

Moby spotted a young bird on the balcony. Now he's in the Fortress, resting from the excitement.