So my parent's have this cat named Daisy. She was born during the Industrial Revolution and has been known by many names including Fazer, Piss-wagon, Cro-magnon, and most recently, The Yowler. She's hyper thyroid (translation: perpetually starving, but doesn't like the new cat food...ever) and has feline dementia (translation: gets lost in open spaces & pees any damn place she wants to). She's old and she's earned it, I suppose, but the trouble is, whenever we have guests over, they wake up in the middle of the night nearly frightened to death upon hearing Daisy's yowling. The noise she makes is so unearthly that you would swear it was coming from some ghost in the night, some extraterrestrial terror...certainly not from a five pound tabby who's roaming the halls.
You turn the light on and wipe the sweat from your forehead, calming yourself down as you remember what they told you about the cat: "don't be alarmed if you hear strange noises at night...it's just the cat". Feeling better, you switch the light out and began to drift off into dreamland upon a unicorn, when suddenly, that horrible noise "woooowyaaaaooowww" is right beside you! You nearly jump straight out of bed, grasping a pillow between your arms that says "cats rule", and look down with trepidation at the ball of fur next to your bed. It's Daisy of course, but as it's 3am, she's taken on a whole new shape, and you begin to wonder if she's really just a cat or a phantom demon from the underworld who's come to destroy you. Needless to say, after disturbing nightmares involving a deranged "puss in boots" character who's trying to kill you with a catnip toy shaped like a fish, you stumble down to the kitchen and find your enemy passed out like a kitten on top of the stove. But you're not convinced of her innocence (not to mention alarmed by the fact that the cat is napping on the stovetop...my mom tells you that she just loves warm places and not to be scared of her. Besides, she added, she was about to take Daisy to the vet. Sick? you ask. "No, no...we're just going on vacation".
Now before you think, "gosh, this poor, ancient cat has to be subjected to a cage and torn from her house...what horrible people", let me enlighten you. The place Daisy goes to is a cat exclusive veterinary hospital complete with white columns, a fish tank, and new age music. For the bargain price of $38 dollars per day, Daisy gets to reside in a "cat condo". Yup, a floor to ceiling, multiple floored mecca with choice of views. "Does Daisy prefer a view of the road or a view of the woods?" a vet tech asks her. My mom thoughtfully considers this question and replies, "the woods, please". Needless to say, Daisy leapt into her swanky digs and didn't give my mom a second glance.
I told my husband about Daisy's luxe accommodations, and after a brief moment of silence, he announced to me that his upcoming golf trip to vegas was going to be cheaper than Daisy's stay at the cat condos...what can I say? The cat has style.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
wine snobs
I like red wine. A lot. Pinot noir is my favorite varietal because of its effortless drinkability (no need to decant for half the day) and it's clean, fruit forward style. Now, before you start ruffling your feathers and dropping big words like: mouthfeel, minerality, barnyard, and super tuscan, let me point out that most people who talk like they know about wine, know very little about wine (this statement can refer to most things actually). You know the type, right? You're trying to enjoy your $9 glass of pinot, and Grant Dimwitt III (the very same one from the cocktail party with the swanky pad in Manhattan and the free Yankees tickets) asks you what your favorite pinot noir is (with a horrible french accent). You smile and get ready to respond to his question, but before you utter a single word he's already started telling you (and everyone else at the bar) about his close connection to the owner of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti ("you know, my buddy at DRC?"). He pauses for a moment to allow for the gasps and whispers of awe to transpire, then swirls his glass and becomes somber and nearly emotional as he describes a Sassicaia, a Screaming Eagle and a Grange as though reciting a Shakespearean sonnet: "No, it wasn't a true red, it was more of a medium ruby, a muddied blood, a purple-crushed velvet" (an insecure junior investment banker tries to hide his michelob ultra behind his briefcase). "And the nose? Like the dying embers of a long burning fire: smoke and cedar, with a touch of vanilla...at once muted and multidimensional" (you start seeing unicorns again and the bartender nods his head as though he fully understands how something can be both muted and multidimensional at the same time). "The palate was lush and tasted of wet leaves after a November rain (this is about the time when you choke on your baguette and have the urge to ask this idiot how many times he's eaten wet leaves). "A hint of white pepper, and the tannins firm and ripe, with a welcome taste of slate and raspberries, and an elegant finish" (a unicorn chugs the rest of the neglected michelob ultra and gives you a wink). "It had the most decadent, velvety mouthfeel..." (was he still talking?). The funny thing about guys like Grant is that they usually impress people, and I always find that rather baffling. So what if you've googled the top ten wines of the world and have memorized Wine Spectator's tasting notes on all of them, anyone can do that...but only a Grant type will. Many junior investment bankers will be impressed by his flashy suit, which he says was made custom for him by a small italian mill in Milan that no one has ever heard of (your unicorn friend lifts the jacket from the back of his chair with his teeth and shows you the label: Joseph A. Bank). He gives a few dumbfounded suits his business card and leaves without paying the tab...
My current favorite? Domaine Serene Evenstad Reserve pinot noir from Oregon. Forget europe, drink some A-mur-ican wine already!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
how to open things / mushroom gravy
Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to open things? So difficult in fact, that sometimes it seems like the manufacturers are purposefully trying to make it a challenge to get into whatever the product is, like a raccoon trying to open the lid to a garbage pail? Take an aseptic carton of soy milk...narrow spout on top of package with even narrower flimsy piece of silver plastic, and you're supposed to open it by grabbing hold of a 1/2 inch piece of plastic that's about as wide as a paperclip?!? Needless to say, unless you happen to be a midget or own a chimpanzee, there is almost no way you'll be successful at opening this container. It will eventually open, of course, just not in the way the manufacturer hoped: a quick and satisfying stab with a knife will split that sucker right open, and even though the milk will pour out the wrong way and end up on your countertop instead of in your tea, you will have won the battle against the container...because that's all that really matters, right? It's like opening a jar of pasta sauce. You have to prepare yourself for the exertion, and even though there are hundreds of jars filled with edible things, it's always the damn pasta sauce jar that just doesn't want to open. Sure, you can try the "tap, tap, tap" maneuver on the side of a countertop (which apparently allows air to escape the jar or something, but I'm fairly certain someone just made that up), or you can use a grippy thing to prevent your hands from slipping, or you can be mature about it and whack the top of the jar with a knife a thousand times while screaming obscenities, then hand it to your unicorn friend with a sarcastic grin (and feel better about your inability to open the jar as he hopelessly knocks it around with his hooves). And what about chip bags? This kind of packaging really irks me because it looks so simple: "grab either side of bag and open" or "tear here". The first one is the worst because when you pull on either side of the bag, the pressure inside builds and you suddenly become nervous, and begin to doubt yourself ("is this bag going to explode?"). So you decide to flip the bag over and try the other end. Same problem. What usually ends up happening is you wimp out and grab a pair of scissors or you pretend to be tough and end up with chips all over you. The "tear here" bag is significantly easier because when you follow the instructions (gasp!) it does actually open, but it usually tears a hole that starts at the top and goes directly down to the bottom of the bag so that all the chips fall out the side. Hmm. I recommend scissors in both cases.
Let's move on to my favorite kind of packaging...the old "pull and twist" tab that lies beneath countless screw off lids from lotions to ketchup to shampoo. This devilish packaging never, and I mean never, opens. The smallest film of plastic beckons you to fail as the harmless looking directions simply say "pull and twist". After you manage to grab hold of the 1/8 inch long tab that's as thick as a strand of hair, you twist with your index finger and thumb...and find yourself holding nothing at all. Again, I recommend the knife solution here. Do you see a pattern forming? When you need to open something, grab a knife and a pair of scissors, let out a high-pitched "I've completely lost my mind" laugh, and bust into that damn package!
When I was in middle school, everyday at lunch we had to drink milk (this by itself is bizarre for reasons I will not go into at the moment). They were served to us in mini paper cartons, and although we had small hands on our sides, we weren't rocket scientists. "Peel glued together paper backwards, then somehow push forward into a spout shape and pour". What?!? said the girl with the unicorn trapper-keeper. Let's just say our success rate with these little guys was mediocre. I usually opened the wrong end (why does it matter which end you open?) and the milk would splash out awkwardly and get all over my oshkosh b'gosh jumper (what was my mother thinking??). Or I'd try to open both ends and neither one would miraculously turn into a perfect spout, and I'd end up with a large opening more conducive to slurping than sipping. The worst part is, when you're a kid you can't just pull out a knife and stab your milk carton open (because that will mean that you're going to become a serial killer). All I can say is, thank god I'm an adult now and can open packages however the hell I want...
I'm giving you a gravy recipe because I love gravy. The reason it's standing all by itself and not acting as the finishing touch on some vegan masterpiece is because it's a masterpiece in itself, and I put in on everything from panfried tempeh to sandwiches to crostini to pasta (or I just eat it with a spoon).
Mushroom Gravy
1 yellow onion, diced
1 package button mushrooms, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 T extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup dry white wine or 1/4 cup mirin (if you want a sweeter gravy...I like it both ways)
1/2 cup stock (Imagine No-Chicken stock)
1 heaping T of freshly minced thyme
1 tsp. arrowroot (this is a thickener like corn starch...you can find it at Whole Foods)
1 T shoyu or tamari (naturally brewed soy sauce. I don't recommend using Kikkoman or other processed soy sauces, but if that's all you've got, use a smaller amount because they have a higher sodium content than naturally brewed soy sauces)
black pepper to taste
In a deep saute pan, heat oil and add onions over a medium flame. Allow onions to brown and carmelize (translation: put down the spoon!), then add garlic and mushrooms. Allow to cook until brown and sticking to the bottom of the pan, then deglaze with wine, loosen the crispy bits from the bottom of the pan with your wooden spoon, and allow the mixture to absorb the liquid until almost dry. Now add stock, thyme, and shoyu and turn down flame to low, and simmer for several minutes. Add arrowroot and stir to incorporate, allowing mixture to thicken. Remove from flame and allow to cool, then place in a blender (I use a Vita-Mix blender = the best blender on the planet) or use an immersion blender to puree briefly, just a few seconds is enough. Gently reheat if necessary and add freshly cracked black pepper and serve to a few unicorns with boring entrees.
Let's move on to my favorite kind of packaging...the old "pull and twist" tab that lies beneath countless screw off lids from lotions to ketchup to shampoo. This devilish packaging never, and I mean never, opens. The smallest film of plastic beckons you to fail as the harmless looking directions simply say "pull and twist". After you manage to grab hold of the 1/8 inch long tab that's as thick as a strand of hair, you twist with your index finger and thumb...and find yourself holding nothing at all. Again, I recommend the knife solution here. Do you see a pattern forming? When you need to open something, grab a knife and a pair of scissors, let out a high-pitched "I've completely lost my mind" laugh, and bust into that damn package!
When I was in middle school, everyday at lunch we had to drink milk (this by itself is bizarre for reasons I will not go into at the moment). They were served to us in mini paper cartons, and although we had small hands on our sides, we weren't rocket scientists. "Peel glued together paper backwards, then somehow push forward into a spout shape and pour". What?!? said the girl with the unicorn trapper-keeper. Let's just say our success rate with these little guys was mediocre. I usually opened the wrong end (why does it matter which end you open?) and the milk would splash out awkwardly and get all over my oshkosh b'gosh jumper (what was my mother thinking??). Or I'd try to open both ends and neither one would miraculously turn into a perfect spout, and I'd end up with a large opening more conducive to slurping than sipping. The worst part is, when you're a kid you can't just pull out a knife and stab your milk carton open (because that will mean that you're going to become a serial killer). All I can say is, thank god I'm an adult now and can open packages however the hell I want...
I'm giving you a gravy recipe because I love gravy. The reason it's standing all by itself and not acting as the finishing touch on some vegan masterpiece is because it's a masterpiece in itself, and I put in on everything from panfried tempeh to sandwiches to crostini to pasta (or I just eat it with a spoon).
Mushroom Gravy
1 yellow onion, diced
1 package button mushrooms, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 T extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup dry white wine or 1/4 cup mirin (if you want a sweeter gravy...I like it both ways)
1/2 cup stock (Imagine No-Chicken stock)
1 heaping T of freshly minced thyme
1 tsp. arrowroot (this is a thickener like corn starch...you can find it at Whole Foods)
1 T shoyu or tamari (naturally brewed soy sauce. I don't recommend using Kikkoman or other processed soy sauces, but if that's all you've got, use a smaller amount because they have a higher sodium content than naturally brewed soy sauces)
black pepper to taste
In a deep saute pan, heat oil and add onions over a medium flame. Allow onions to brown and carmelize (translation: put down the spoon!), then add garlic and mushrooms. Allow to cook until brown and sticking to the bottom of the pan, then deglaze with wine, loosen the crispy bits from the bottom of the pan with your wooden spoon, and allow the mixture to absorb the liquid until almost dry. Now add stock, thyme, and shoyu and turn down flame to low, and simmer for several minutes. Add arrowroot and stir to incorporate, allowing mixture to thicken. Remove from flame and allow to cool, then place in a blender (I use a Vita-Mix blender = the best blender on the planet) or use an immersion blender to puree briefly, just a few seconds is enough. Gently reheat if necessary and add freshly cracked black pepper and serve to a few unicorns with boring entrees.
Friday, October 7, 2011
concerning illness & the quarter-life crisis
Sometimes, I think I'm sick when I'm not really sick. This strange phenomenon was passed down to me by my wonderful father, who has, in the course of the last 20 years had every ailment from esophageal cancer to bird flu...Luckily, none of these ailments have ever proved fatal, and somehow (miraculously) my father is still alive. When I was young and full of hope, my parents rented the movie Outbreak, and as a result, I developed a fear of monkeys and I contracted the ebola virus immediately upon watching the end credits. My father once drank his bodyweight in fruit punch on a hot summer's day after skipping breakfast and lunch. Needless to say, after saying his farewells to my mom and declaring that "this was the big one" he realized that he was just suffering from high blood sugar, not a heart attack.
For my father and I, the illness may start from one of two ways: either a friend is ill and we then think we're ill, or there is an outbreak of some disease in any part of the world (usually a developing country) and we think we've got it. The symptoms of the illness aren't important because we have the rare ability to adopt to any number of strange or ordinary conditions. Dry eyes? = rheumatoid arthritis or any other type of autoimmune disease. Throat swollen or closing up? = anaphylactic shock (translation: anxiety caused by a crowded room, a small elevator, or clothing that generally binds the neck and throat area). Numbness? = depends on where, but it's always bad...could be a slipped disk, a stroke, the beginning of a heart attack, etc. = death is inevitable. Random shooting pains? These plague us all the time; I have them in my head (translation: aneurysm inevitable) and my father has them everywhere else (translation: ready for the box). Stiffness doesn't bother us much because we're always stiff, and my father seems to be fine with the idea that eventually all of his bones will just fuse together and he won't be able to move at all. Lump? This is very bad, especially if it doesn't hurt = cancer (translation: usually a bug bite, ingrown hair, zit, etc.). Solution? Take a z-pac (concentrated dose of antibiotics). It doesn't matter if we have cancer, flu, aches, a rare disease, or numbness; no matter what we have, a z-pac will knock it out (translation: it will knock the absurd notion out of our heads that we are sick to begin with). We have had many miraculous recoveries thanks to the z-pac, and we have also had many miraculous recoveries as a result of forgetting our illness. The other option is drinking a bottle of wine. That seems to work almost as well as the z-pac, and even better when the two remedies are combined.
Of course, now that I'm passed my quarter-life crisis period, I have grown an immunity to most life-threatening diseases and rarely become ill (don't act like you didn't have one too: you graduated from college and...and...AND?! "Oh my god, I have no idea what to do with my life, and I have a useless degree...what was I thinking when I was at school?" Umm, you weren't...you were having the time of your life and taking courses based on what time of day they were taught, and now you're working as a server at a dive bar and every time that song "glory days" comes on, you finally understand what all those drunk old people are talking about). Or in my case, flee to hawaii where everyone is always semi-retired and only work so they have enough cash for beer, spam, and sunscreen...mahalo.
For my father and I, the illness may start from one of two ways: either a friend is ill and we then think we're ill, or there is an outbreak of some disease in any part of the world (usually a developing country) and we think we've got it. The symptoms of the illness aren't important because we have the rare ability to adopt to any number of strange or ordinary conditions. Dry eyes? = rheumatoid arthritis or any other type of autoimmune disease. Throat swollen or closing up? = anaphylactic shock (translation: anxiety caused by a crowded room, a small elevator, or clothing that generally binds the neck and throat area). Numbness? = depends on where, but it's always bad...could be a slipped disk, a stroke, the beginning of a heart attack, etc. = death is inevitable. Random shooting pains? These plague us all the time; I have them in my head (translation: aneurysm inevitable) and my father has them everywhere else (translation: ready for the box). Stiffness doesn't bother us much because we're always stiff, and my father seems to be fine with the idea that eventually all of his bones will just fuse together and he won't be able to move at all. Lump? This is very bad, especially if it doesn't hurt = cancer (translation: usually a bug bite, ingrown hair, zit, etc.). Solution? Take a z-pac (concentrated dose of antibiotics). It doesn't matter if we have cancer, flu, aches, a rare disease, or numbness; no matter what we have, a z-pac will knock it out (translation: it will knock the absurd notion out of our heads that we are sick to begin with). We have had many miraculous recoveries thanks to the z-pac, and we have also had many miraculous recoveries as a result of forgetting our illness. The other option is drinking a bottle of wine. That seems to work almost as well as the z-pac, and even better when the two remedies are combined.
Of course, now that I'm passed my quarter-life crisis period, I have grown an immunity to most life-threatening diseases and rarely become ill (don't act like you didn't have one too: you graduated from college and...and...AND?! "Oh my god, I have no idea what to do with my life, and I have a useless degree...what was I thinking when I was at school?" Umm, you weren't...you were having the time of your life and taking courses based on what time of day they were taught, and now you're working as a server at a dive bar and every time that song "glory days" comes on, you finally understand what all those drunk old people are talking about). Or in my case, flee to hawaii where everyone is always semi-retired and only work so they have enough cash for beer, spam, and sunscreen...mahalo.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
sentimental pillows / cozy butternut squash soup
Why is it that people feel the need to write sayings on clothing, pillows, wallpaper, plates, absurdly small dog collars, cat food bowls, and generally every object found in a child's room? My husband and I used to live next to a family with a stencil above the doorway that read: "have I told you lately that I love you?". Oh, crap- no you haven't, but now that it's permanently written above the doorway, I'll always remember that you do love me! I'm sorry, but there's no way that this kind of blatant gesture of paint on a wall can be interpreted as genuine (at least to me). And why is it necessary to begin with? Do we really need to be reminded of these things so that we don't forget to "live, love, laugh"? I can't even imagine living in a house like our neighbors...
You wake up to the sound of the alarm and slowly open your eyes, but then the bronze letters above your bed reading "dream a little dream" lull you back to sleep. Twenty minutes later, your dog licks your face and you grab a decorative pillow to protect your face, but then you notice the writing embedded in the needlepoint "cold nose, warm heart" and you suddenly feel guilty. You slide into a pair of slippers that say "pink isn't just a color, it's an attitude" and walk into the kitchen, feeling sassy. Your cats are already standing impatiently beside their bowl "cats make everything purr-fect" so you pour them some food, then heat up some water for tea. The backsplash behind the stove say's "the queen doesn't cook" so you fix your tea and decide to wait for your husband to make breakfast while you sit in the den. Then you notice a plaque above the television that says "king of the remote" and you're suddenly annoyed with him for waking up later than you. Feeling lonely, you wrap yourself in a blanket that says "mother is another word for love" and the next thing you know, you're crying on the couch and have forgotten all about your tea, which is in a mug decorated with the phrase "instant human: just add coffee". It somehow seems like a lie to have tea in such a mug, so you waddle back to the kitchen in your blanket and dump the tea out in the sink and put the coffee pot on. Next to the bread basket is a cake stand painted with the words "life is short, eat dessert first", and it suddenly occurs to you that you no longer care about your diet anymore, and besides, "well behaved women rarely make history" stares back at you from the plate in your hand (you know this doesn't mean "stuff your face you rebellious woman" but you're feeling emotional and need some sugary support). Third cupcake in hand, you sit at your computer and smile at a framed picture of your best friend with sparkly letters that reads "if friends were flowers, I'd pick you" and you decide to write her an email, explaining how you have inexplicably eaten three cupcakes, cried, and felt both guilty and empowered all in the course of the last hour. Solution? I think you already know...
In the spirit of sentimentality, let's make some cozy, sit-by-the-fire and watch The Sound of Music (you know you want to!) butternut squash soup. Butternut squash is my favorite winter squash variety, and with it's natural sweetness and velvety texture, it's just perfect for a yummy soup.
Cozy Butternut Squash Soup
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 large butternut squash, peeled, seeded and chopped into 3 inch cubes
2 stalks of celery, chopped
1 large yellow onion, chopped
1 bay leaf
1 T dried parsley
4 cups stock (Imagine No-Chicken stock or homemade)
1-2 T apple cider vinegar (I use Bragg's Organic)
sea salt & black pepper to taste
In a heavy bottomed stock pot (I use an all-clad copper core pot and I love it!), heat oil on medium flame and add squash, onions, celery, parsley and the bay leaf. Add a sprinkle of salt and pepper and saute for a few minutes, then add the stock and bring to a boil. Once boiling, cover with lid, reduce flame to low, and simmer for 20 minutes, or until vegetables are very soft. Remove from heat and allow to cool for a few minutes. Using a blender or food processor, puree the soup (remove the bay leaf first!) in batches, and return to pot. Gently reheat if needed and add the apple cider vinegar and more salt and pepper to taste. If you prefer a sweeter soup, you may add 1-2 T maple syrup instead of the apple cider vinegar. Serve with a crusty loaf of sourdough bread to 4 chilly unicorns as starters or 2 chilly unicorns as a main.
You wake up to the sound of the alarm and slowly open your eyes, but then the bronze letters above your bed reading "dream a little dream" lull you back to sleep. Twenty minutes later, your dog licks your face and you grab a decorative pillow to protect your face, but then you notice the writing embedded in the needlepoint "cold nose, warm heart" and you suddenly feel guilty. You slide into a pair of slippers that say "pink isn't just a color, it's an attitude" and walk into the kitchen, feeling sassy. Your cats are already standing impatiently beside their bowl "cats make everything purr-fect" so you pour them some food, then heat up some water for tea. The backsplash behind the stove say's "the queen doesn't cook" so you fix your tea and decide to wait for your husband to make breakfast while you sit in the den. Then you notice a plaque above the television that says "king of the remote" and you're suddenly annoyed with him for waking up later than you. Feeling lonely, you wrap yourself in a blanket that says "mother is another word for love" and the next thing you know, you're crying on the couch and have forgotten all about your tea, which is in a mug decorated with the phrase "instant human: just add coffee". It somehow seems like a lie to have tea in such a mug, so you waddle back to the kitchen in your blanket and dump the tea out in the sink and put the coffee pot on. Next to the bread basket is a cake stand painted with the words "life is short, eat dessert first", and it suddenly occurs to you that you no longer care about your diet anymore, and besides, "well behaved women rarely make history" stares back at you from the plate in your hand (you know this doesn't mean "stuff your face you rebellious woman" but you're feeling emotional and need some sugary support). Third cupcake in hand, you sit at your computer and smile at a framed picture of your best friend with sparkly letters that reads "if friends were flowers, I'd pick you" and you decide to write her an email, explaining how you have inexplicably eaten three cupcakes, cried, and felt both guilty and empowered all in the course of the last hour. Solution? I think you already know...
In the spirit of sentimentality, let's make some cozy, sit-by-the-fire and watch The Sound of Music (you know you want to!) butternut squash soup. Butternut squash is my favorite winter squash variety, and with it's natural sweetness and velvety texture, it's just perfect for a yummy soup.
Cozy Butternut Squash Soup
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 large butternut squash, peeled, seeded and chopped into 3 inch cubes
2 stalks of celery, chopped
1 large yellow onion, chopped
1 bay leaf
1 T dried parsley
4 cups stock (Imagine No-Chicken stock or homemade)
1-2 T apple cider vinegar (I use Bragg's Organic)
sea salt & black pepper to taste
In a heavy bottomed stock pot (I use an all-clad copper core pot and I love it!), heat oil on medium flame and add squash, onions, celery, parsley and the bay leaf. Add a sprinkle of salt and pepper and saute for a few minutes, then add the stock and bring to a boil. Once boiling, cover with lid, reduce flame to low, and simmer for 20 minutes, or until vegetables are very soft. Remove from heat and allow to cool for a few minutes. Using a blender or food processor, puree the soup (remove the bay leaf first!) in batches, and return to pot. Gently reheat if needed and add the apple cider vinegar and more salt and pepper to taste. If you prefer a sweeter soup, you may add 1-2 T maple syrup instead of the apple cider vinegar. Serve with a crusty loaf of sourdough bread to 4 chilly unicorns as starters or 2 chilly unicorns as a main.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
passport renewal / penne perfection
Whenever I have to do something that involves a visit to a government run agency, I realize that those cocktail parties aren't so bad after all...
I needed to renew my passport. I'm an american citizen and I already have a passport...shouldn't be too complicated, right? Wrong. I brought my passport to the post office along with my marriage license, driver's license, american flag, soul, and cross. This didn't change anything. I might as well have arrived on a donkey wearing a sign that said I don't speak english, I have no identification, and I don't pay taxes. The woman at the desk looked at me as if I was some sort of criminal, handed me a form, and told me that I had to go somewhere else to have my photo taken. "Why can't I do it here?" I asked. "Cannot do it here," was her reply in broken english. Fine. I went to AAA and got my photo taken...and you know what? They're really nice there and didn't charge me anything for my photos (translation: not run by the government). I started to feel better about the whole process, and brought my filled out form and photos back to the evil post office woman. No good. She said that because I had gotten married, I needed to make a notarized copy of my marriage license. "I have it right here...can't you just make a copy or sign off that I showed it to you?" She shook her head, and I felt the distinct urge to scream. Why hadn't she told me this before? In a nutshell...a little power is a dangerous thing. I was at her mercy and as far as passport renewal went, she was essentially the freaking queen of the passport. I gave her a fake smile and said "thanks for your help" as sarcastically as I knew how...and off I went to town hall. The office was in the basement, at the end of a long corridor. I was feeling sorry for myself until I saw how bad the town hall people had it. They were all "big-boned" to say the least, with the same kind of crap that you usually find on a sad office workers desk: glass jar of jelly beans or hershey's kisses for everyone to enjoy (translation: just for them because it's the only thing that can momentarily distract them from the monotonous drone of the fluorescent lighting), a plaque that says something along the lines of "Live, Love, Laugh", a framed picture of their pet, and seasonal decorations that try to evoke the feeling of celebrating the season, but somehow just end up looking cheap. Their windows looked out on a slope of dirt with a few gangly bushes. Solution? Stick scarecrows and dried corn stalks into the ground and hang black spiders and cats above the windows so that you're instantly transported to a scarier version of The Wizard of Oz. $25 dollars later, I was given a copy of my marriage license from a woman wearing earrings that said "Boo!", and drove back to the post office. I wrote a check for $110 (they need to pay all these people after all), then paid a few more dollars to mail everything out to the passport processing center, and then...I was done. Hooray! It only took me three hours, four stops, four different people, and $140 dollars to renew my passport! What an efficient system!
In light of the time I wasted for passport renewal, I will share a lovely pasta recipe of mine that takes 30 minutes or less to make, and tastes so delicious that you'll instantly feel transported to an Italian countryside...with or without your passport! I use tempeh for an added boost of protein and to give the dish a meatier texture. If you don't like capers and olives, then I don't know what to say except: I'm sorry. Capers and olives make pasta extraordinary so if you've never tried this combination out before, now is the perfect time!
Penne Perfection with Tempeh, Capers, and Olives
1/2 bag or 3 cups whole wheat penne (I use Bionaturae brand)
1 jar marinara sauce (if you're not using homemade, splurge a little on the good stuff...Rao's marinara sauce = amazing)
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, sliced
1 package tempeh, crumbled (I use SoyBoy soy or five grain tempeh)
generous splash of white wine or stock to deglaze the pan
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 container or 2 cups button mushrooms, sliced
1 bunch kale, stems removed and roughly chopped
1/2 jar capers + brine (I use Mediterranean Organics capers)
generous handful of kalamata olives, pitted (buy them pitted, otherwise make a unicorn work on pitting them while you do the rest of the cooking)
sea salt & black pepper to taste
Fill a large pot halfway with water, add a small handful of salt (yup, handful. Water for pasta should almost taste like teardrops), and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, in a large saute pan, heat oil on medium flame and add onions, cooking for a few minutes until soft and starting to brown. Add crumbled tempeh and stir occasionally, until cooked through, about five minutes (the tempeh will stick, and that's okay!). Deglaze the pan with wine or stock, using a wooden spoon to loosen the crispy bits from the bottom of the pan. Now add garlic and mushrooms. Once the water is boiling in your pot, use a colander, chinois, or strainer to briefly submerge kale in water. Press out excess water with spoon, then add to saute pan. Turn down flame to low and add capers, olives and marinara sauce. allow to simmer for a few minutes while you cook the pasta according to package instructions (usually about 10 minutes for whole wheat). Once the pasta is al dente, drain in colander and place back in pot with a little olive oil. Now add the entire mixture in your saute pan to the pot and mix everything together with a little salt and pepper. Serve to four italian-wannabe unicorns.
I needed to renew my passport. I'm an american citizen and I already have a passport...shouldn't be too complicated, right? Wrong. I brought my passport to the post office along with my marriage license, driver's license, american flag, soul, and cross. This didn't change anything. I might as well have arrived on a donkey wearing a sign that said I don't speak english, I have no identification, and I don't pay taxes. The woman at the desk looked at me as if I was some sort of criminal, handed me a form, and told me that I had to go somewhere else to have my photo taken. "Why can't I do it here?" I asked. "Cannot do it here," was her reply in broken english. Fine. I went to AAA and got my photo taken...and you know what? They're really nice there and didn't charge me anything for my photos (translation: not run by the government). I started to feel better about the whole process, and brought my filled out form and photos back to the evil post office woman. No good. She said that because I had gotten married, I needed to make a notarized copy of my marriage license. "I have it right here...can't you just make a copy or sign off that I showed it to you?" She shook her head, and I felt the distinct urge to scream. Why hadn't she told me this before? In a nutshell...a little power is a dangerous thing. I was at her mercy and as far as passport renewal went, she was essentially the freaking queen of the passport. I gave her a fake smile and said "thanks for your help" as sarcastically as I knew how...and off I went to town hall. The office was in the basement, at the end of a long corridor. I was feeling sorry for myself until I saw how bad the town hall people had it. They were all "big-boned" to say the least, with the same kind of crap that you usually find on a sad office workers desk: glass jar of jelly beans or hershey's kisses for everyone to enjoy (translation: just for them because it's the only thing that can momentarily distract them from the monotonous drone of the fluorescent lighting), a plaque that says something along the lines of "Live, Love, Laugh", a framed picture of their pet, and seasonal decorations that try to evoke the feeling of celebrating the season, but somehow just end up looking cheap. Their windows looked out on a slope of dirt with a few gangly bushes. Solution? Stick scarecrows and dried corn stalks into the ground and hang black spiders and cats above the windows so that you're instantly transported to a scarier version of The Wizard of Oz. $25 dollars later, I was given a copy of my marriage license from a woman wearing earrings that said "Boo!", and drove back to the post office. I wrote a check for $110 (they need to pay all these people after all), then paid a few more dollars to mail everything out to the passport processing center, and then...I was done. Hooray! It only took me three hours, four stops, four different people, and $140 dollars to renew my passport! What an efficient system!
In light of the time I wasted for passport renewal, I will share a lovely pasta recipe of mine that takes 30 minutes or less to make, and tastes so delicious that you'll instantly feel transported to an Italian countryside...with or without your passport! I use tempeh for an added boost of protein and to give the dish a meatier texture. If you don't like capers and olives, then I don't know what to say except: I'm sorry. Capers and olives make pasta extraordinary so if you've never tried this combination out before, now is the perfect time!
Penne Perfection with Tempeh, Capers, and Olives
1/2 bag or 3 cups whole wheat penne (I use Bionaturae brand)
1 jar marinara sauce (if you're not using homemade, splurge a little on the good stuff...Rao's marinara sauce = amazing)
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, sliced
1 package tempeh, crumbled (I use SoyBoy soy or five grain tempeh)
generous splash of white wine or stock to deglaze the pan
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 container or 2 cups button mushrooms, sliced
1 bunch kale, stems removed and roughly chopped
1/2 jar capers + brine (I use Mediterranean Organics capers)
generous handful of kalamata olives, pitted (buy them pitted, otherwise make a unicorn work on pitting them while you do the rest of the cooking)
sea salt & black pepper to taste
Fill a large pot halfway with water, add a small handful of salt (yup, handful. Water for pasta should almost taste like teardrops), and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, in a large saute pan, heat oil on medium flame and add onions, cooking for a few minutes until soft and starting to brown. Add crumbled tempeh and stir occasionally, until cooked through, about five minutes (the tempeh will stick, and that's okay!). Deglaze the pan with wine or stock, using a wooden spoon to loosen the crispy bits from the bottom of the pan. Now add garlic and mushrooms. Once the water is boiling in your pot, use a colander, chinois, or strainer to briefly submerge kale in water. Press out excess water with spoon, then add to saute pan. Turn down flame to low and add capers, olives and marinara sauce. allow to simmer for a few minutes while you cook the pasta according to package instructions (usually about 10 minutes for whole wheat). Once the pasta is al dente, drain in colander and place back in pot with a little olive oil. Now add the entire mixture in your saute pan to the pot and mix everything together with a little salt and pepper. Serve to four italian-wannabe unicorns.
Monday, October 3, 2011
unicorns & cocktail parties...
Sometimes people ask me why I wrote a fantasy novel (translation: they're concerned about my unicorn obsession). My response? The mainstream fictional world has been mapped out to such exactitude that every scenario of every character seems to have already been written before, whereas in the world of make-believe...nothing is ever certain. My characters include faeries, elves, dragons, unicorns and even some creatures entirely of my own creation, such as the dragonime. Together they create a world rich with unique perspective and summon the childlike wonder, the infinite realm of imagination, to burst open and celebrate the bizarre, magical and oftentimes delightfully nonsensical genre of fantasy. The best part about it? You can easily relate to these creatures and places even though they are so far removed from our own existence: an elven girl with a broken heart, a deformed boy with a huge secret, an evil dark lord with a tragic past; all manner of creatures in the fantasy world endure the same trials and tribulations of the real world. Fantasy simply brings to life that joy and tragedy through a much more colorful lens...because let's be honest, sometimes the real world is rather dull...
Take a cocktail party...wonder why there's alcohol at these types of events? Exactly...to endure the small talk. "So, black suit man with gingham tie, what do you do?" This is a required small talk question, and you would think that after saying it over and over again I would remember some of the answers. Nope, not a chance. My husband and I have a code word for all jobs that sound the same: "junior investment banker". This is not because I know a junior investment banker or have any clue as to what one does, but because I find the job answer so boring that it floats through my brain like the whiff of a passing entree. One minute I'm aware of it, the next, it's gone. Job titles with the words: manager, communication, research & development, strategist, planner, marketing, finance, creative, associate, senior, junior, etc., automatically become junior investment banker. This is about the time I start seeing unicorns everywhere: drinking from the punch bowl, nibbling on the crudite (they're crazy about crudite...crabcakes, not so much), and wading into the decorative koi pond for a dip. If one of these suits or pencil skirts said "I'm a circus performer, I drive a garbage truck, I'm a taxidermist, I'm unemployed (period. not "but I'm doing consulting work for ___(some company made of three capitalized letters)"), I'm a graffiti artist, I have a duck farm, I'm a beekeeper, I'm a drug dealer, I sell origami, etc., then I would emerge from my wine-induced fog, rather dumbfounded. This rarely happens. What usually happens is that the alcohol kicks in and all of the sudden everyone seems much more interesting, investment banker or not. The music changes from elevator jazz to top forty, and I realize that I've been talking to that girl I hated in high school for the last thirty minutes about how great those times were together. We exchange numbers and promise to grab a drink. An hour later the suits are asking me if I have a cigarette and I can smell the distinct scent of something burning other than citronella. The wine is long gone and everyone seems more than happy with their bud light cans and the leftover crackers. This is about the time that I find out how much everyone hates their junior investment banker job, and they turn to the guy with the duck farm and tell him that he's the only one who's really got it figured out (meanwhile he's stolen a case of wine from the host and taken the last loaf of french bread for his ducks). A pink-faced investment banker named Grant Dimwit the III invites everyone to his place in manhattan and says he can get everyone free tickets to see the Yankees. Lady Gaga is playing loudly in the background, while the bartenders supply the guests with cigarettes and become their new best friends. And then...everyone drives home.
Okay, so maybe cocktail parties aren't always like that, but if I dared to make a whopping generalization, then yea, that would be a pretty accurate description. Solution? Lace up some boots and go to a hipster party in Brooklyn, drink some Jameson and make fun of all those wealthy, private school kids that only care about themselves! But wait?!?! Isn't that what hipsters are too? Oh, the irony...
The moral to this story? Fantasy is awesome. Unicorns are the best. Go buy some ducks and realize your dream...
Take a cocktail party...wonder why there's alcohol at these types of events? Exactly...to endure the small talk. "So, black suit man with gingham tie, what do you do?" This is a required small talk question, and you would think that after saying it over and over again I would remember some of the answers. Nope, not a chance. My husband and I have a code word for all jobs that sound the same: "junior investment banker". This is not because I know a junior investment banker or have any clue as to what one does, but because I find the job answer so boring that it floats through my brain like the whiff of a passing entree. One minute I'm aware of it, the next, it's gone. Job titles with the words: manager, communication, research & development, strategist, planner, marketing, finance, creative, associate, senior, junior, etc., automatically become junior investment banker. This is about the time I start seeing unicorns everywhere: drinking from the punch bowl, nibbling on the crudite (they're crazy about crudite...crabcakes, not so much), and wading into the decorative koi pond for a dip. If one of these suits or pencil skirts said "I'm a circus performer, I drive a garbage truck, I'm a taxidermist, I'm unemployed (period. not "but I'm doing consulting work for ___(some company made of three capitalized letters)"), I'm a graffiti artist, I have a duck farm, I'm a beekeeper, I'm a drug dealer, I sell origami, etc., then I would emerge from my wine-induced fog, rather dumbfounded. This rarely happens. What usually happens is that the alcohol kicks in and all of the sudden everyone seems much more interesting, investment banker or not. The music changes from elevator jazz to top forty, and I realize that I've been talking to that girl I hated in high school for the last thirty minutes about how great those times were together. We exchange numbers and promise to grab a drink. An hour later the suits are asking me if I have a cigarette and I can smell the distinct scent of something burning other than citronella. The wine is long gone and everyone seems more than happy with their bud light cans and the leftover crackers. This is about the time that I find out how much everyone hates their junior investment banker job, and they turn to the guy with the duck farm and tell him that he's the only one who's really got it figured out (meanwhile he's stolen a case of wine from the host and taken the last loaf of french bread for his ducks). A pink-faced investment banker named Grant Dimwit the III invites everyone to his place in manhattan and says he can get everyone free tickets to see the Yankees. Lady Gaga is playing loudly in the background, while the bartenders supply the guests with cigarettes and become their new best friends. And then...everyone drives home.
Okay, so maybe cocktail parties aren't always like that, but if I dared to make a whopping generalization, then yea, that would be a pretty accurate description. Solution? Lace up some boots and go to a hipster party in Brooklyn, drink some Jameson and make fun of all those wealthy, private school kids that only care about themselves! But wait?!?! Isn't that what hipsters are too? Oh, the irony...
The moral to this story? Fantasy is awesome. Unicorns are the best. Go buy some ducks and realize your dream...
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