I am so lucky. Today we are snowed in on our mountain, and everything we needed to do (individually and collectively) has been cancelled: no school for C, no rehearsal for me, no flight in for M. I check in with my city friends, and they are all fussing about snow plows and icy roads and closed highways. The folks at East Mountain Library are Shoveling. The. Parking. Lot. I don't have to worry about any of it.
That's one of the perks of being a 24/7 caregiver. I don't have to go anywhere if I don't want to, and the only thing I have to do is keep the house warm and the food cooked. Granted, it's a little problematic right now in the house, since we only have radiant floor heat. The wood-burning stove is still an unfinished project, and somehow the solar heat doesn't work when there's no sun.
However, there is the casita next door, complete with full kitchen and wood stove. So, I shovel the walks (which promptly needs re-shoveling), bundle up my friend, and install her with her book by the stove.
Then, I settle into some solid baking. I start out with gingersnaps. I find an Alton Brown recipe online, and recall that S swears by AB. So, I give it a shot.
All I can say is, AB must be cooking at sea level.
However, messy and gooey as the cookies are (before I add more flour), they are quite tasty. I approve of the addition of cardamom to the spices. And, I have to confess that, not having a kitchen scale, I have to use the conversion formulas and cup measurements. AB is into ounces, not cups. I don't know why it would matter, but Gluten-Free Girl is also adamant that weight is the way to go, so there's probably some science behind it. I don't want to blame AB and the altitude too much.
Once I am in the rhythm of cookie baking, I put together the fixings for granola, courtesy of the Tassajara Bread Book. Since I am going to be using the cookie sheet (we only have one) for the granola, it gets set aside, once mixed.
Then, the lentil stew. That recipe is in the Moosewood Cookbook. Simmer rinsed lentils in stock for 4 hours. Then saute garlic, onion, celery, carrots in butter. Add to the lentils and simmer for another hour or so.
All I can say is, Moosewood cooks must ALSO have been working at sea level.
The 3 cups of lentils soak up the 7 cups of stock in one hour flat, and I'm adding liquid every half hour after that. I add the saute mix after 2 hours, and turn the whole darn thing off after another hour. A half hour before dinner I'll turn it back on and add the tomatoes and wine and spices.
Time to add another log to the fire and re-shovel the walk. Now what? Hmm, maybe I should rearrange the spices. Sheesh, we have 5 containers of cumin. Cinnamon sticks, whole cardamom and cloves....Ah, mulled wine.
We don't have apple cider to sweeten the pot, but, for future reference, Triple Sec does just fine.
And now the sun has come out, so I may try for a little sunset walk. Forget practising, it's a snow day!
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Popcorn for dinner
Last night I had popcorn for dinner. For me, it's the ultimate comfort food, better than garlic mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese. For one thing, it has the crunch factor. For another, you can eat a lot of it without filling up. And, it has the salt component, which means that after I've had several bowls of popcorn, I can turn to the other comfort food: chocolate. And then when I'm sated with sweetness, I can go back to the popcorn. And again. And again.
When I was in college, my room-mate would come home and find me gorging on cashews and M&Ms, alternately. She'd sigh and say, "What's wrong now?" The salt-sweet combo was my antidote to a bad day. As a grown (one might say overgrown) woman, I should be past such binges. One would think I could handle setbacks or exhausting days in a more mature or productive manner.
But, I actually look forward to a dinner of popcorn. I plan it out, as I am driving home, preparing my response to D's contempt (a meal is supposed to have meat and veggies.) In point of fact, I am convinced that it is a viable alternative to cooking a "real" meal. I start with a large kettle and begin heating the canola oil. The garlic (yes, garlic) comes next. A few years ago I, or rather Santa, gave D the ultimate garlic peeler: a square of nubbly white rubber. You put the clove on the square, fold the rubber over the clove, and rub vigorously. The white papery skin is rubbed loose, and you can pull it off the clove. So, it's a quick process to get 8-10 cloves into the canola oil. Then, you pour in the popcorn, put on the lid, and shake the kettle so the popcorn is well coated with oil.
Soon, the popcorn starts hailing against the lid, with a tinny percussive pop, pop, popopopopopop. I shake it occasionally to keep it from burning, but during these few minutes I'm prepping for the next step, grating parmesan cheese. The popping dies down from a furious charivari to a slow pop.......poppop.........pop. I turn off the gas and take off the lid. When the cooler air hits the mass of kernels, it responds with a last crackle. I shake the watery oil from the lid onto the kernels and add a layer of grated cheese. Then I shake on a half cup of yellow large flake nutritional yeast and a tsp or so of salt. Using a spatula, I toss the corn, mixing in the toppings, scraping the bottom of the pan, making sure the kernels, cloves, and toppings are evenly dispersed. Then, I add another layer of cheese, yeast, salt. If D is around, I will occasionally add some melted butter, but it's a wasted effort: he doesn't like the nutritional yeast. And, while I appreciate the butter's ability to coat the corn, and to help disperse the toppings throughout the mass of kernels, I don't particularly like the resulting greasy fingers.
Dinner is served: I scoop it out of the kettle into a large bowl, making sure to scrape up the crumbly ochre-colored yeast/parm mix and catching as many garlic cloves as possible. Some are crunchy and black, but most are a delectably soft tart-sweet-pungent mouthful that contrasts wonderfully with the browned-butter taste of the yeast and parm. Some of the cheese has clumped from the heat of the popcorn, but there is always a loose powder of cheese and yeast at the bottom of the bowl. I slide my index finger along the bowl, picking up the yeast and licking it off.
Last night I had the multiple bonuses of bad tv, knitting, and a snoozing dog sharing the couch with me. It was a truly lovely evening.
Tonight, D and I went to St. Jack's. It was a belated Valentine's Day dinner. I've been meaning to give it a trial for over a year, and it did not disappoint. We ate off the happy hour menu, which had commendable variety of pate, salad, mussels, hamburgers. The cocktails were inventive, and the pommes frites were the perfect mix of crunchy salty parsley-flaked outside and soft potato-y inside. The aioli dip consoled me for the lack of my traditional ketchup.
However, it was not the perfect dining experience. The music was a dissonant mix of old French jazz standards and modern techno. The tables were small and too close together, and the chairs seemed flimsy and unable to support a hanging coat or purse. At first we were seated next to a younger couple. Six inches separated our small rectangular tables-for-two. She leaned forward tensely, talking in a very public voice about very private matters. I asked to be moved, and we were, into the hidden back room, up a step from the main dining room. While the bar had a warm wooden floor, the restaurant floor was a checkerboard of tiny black and white octagonal tiles. The high ceilings sported hanging Schoolhouse lamps. The Victorian moldings and woodwork were left intact, but the bar area was modern steel and glass, lined with enormous white wax mountains supporting tall candles. The ambiance was that of cold coziness. Schizoid, in fact.
However our waiter was delightful, displaying the unobtrusive attentiveness that is so rare and so wonderful when encountered. He even brought me a taste of the Horse Heaven Hills Cinsaut as we were leaving, just because I was curious. (I liked it a lot: a sort of musky pinot noir.)
All things considered, however, I think I preferred the popcorn dinner.
When I was in college, my room-mate would come home and find me gorging on cashews and M&Ms, alternately. She'd sigh and say, "What's wrong now?" The salt-sweet combo was my antidote to a bad day. As a grown (one might say overgrown) woman, I should be past such binges. One would think I could handle setbacks or exhausting days in a more mature or productive manner.
But, I actually look forward to a dinner of popcorn. I plan it out, as I am driving home, preparing my response to D's contempt (a meal is supposed to have meat and veggies.) In point of fact, I am convinced that it is a viable alternative to cooking a "real" meal. I start with a large kettle and begin heating the canola oil. The garlic (yes, garlic) comes next. A few years ago I, or rather Santa, gave D the ultimate garlic peeler: a square of nubbly white rubber. You put the clove on the square, fold the rubber over the clove, and rub vigorously. The white papery skin is rubbed loose, and you can pull it off the clove. So, it's a quick process to get 8-10 cloves into the canola oil. Then, you pour in the popcorn, put on the lid, and shake the kettle so the popcorn is well coated with oil.
Soon, the popcorn starts hailing against the lid, with a tinny percussive pop, pop, popopopopopop. I shake it occasionally to keep it from burning, but during these few minutes I'm prepping for the next step, grating parmesan cheese. The popping dies down from a furious charivari to a slow pop.......poppop.........pop. I turn off the gas and take off the lid. When the cooler air hits the mass of kernels, it responds with a last crackle. I shake the watery oil from the lid onto the kernels and add a layer of grated cheese. Then I shake on a half cup of yellow large flake nutritional yeast and a tsp or so of salt. Using a spatula, I toss the corn, mixing in the toppings, scraping the bottom of the pan, making sure the kernels, cloves, and toppings are evenly dispersed. Then, I add another layer of cheese, yeast, salt. If D is around, I will occasionally add some melted butter, but it's a wasted effort: he doesn't like the nutritional yeast. And, while I appreciate the butter's ability to coat the corn, and to help disperse the toppings throughout the mass of kernels, I don't particularly like the resulting greasy fingers.
Dinner is served: I scoop it out of the kettle into a large bowl, making sure to scrape up the crumbly ochre-colored yeast/parm mix and catching as many garlic cloves as possible. Some are crunchy and black, but most are a delectably soft tart-sweet-pungent mouthful that contrasts wonderfully with the browned-butter taste of the yeast and parm. Some of the cheese has clumped from the heat of the popcorn, but there is always a loose powder of cheese and yeast at the bottom of the bowl. I slide my index finger along the bowl, picking up the yeast and licking it off.
Last night I had the multiple bonuses of bad tv, knitting, and a snoozing dog sharing the couch with me. It was a truly lovely evening.
Tonight, D and I went to St. Jack's. It was a belated Valentine's Day dinner. I've been meaning to give it a trial for over a year, and it did not disappoint. We ate off the happy hour menu, which had commendable variety of pate, salad, mussels, hamburgers. The cocktails were inventive, and the pommes frites were the perfect mix of crunchy salty parsley-flaked outside and soft potato-y inside. The aioli dip consoled me for the lack of my traditional ketchup.
However, it was not the perfect dining experience. The music was a dissonant mix of old French jazz standards and modern techno. The tables were small and too close together, and the chairs seemed flimsy and unable to support a hanging coat or purse. At first we were seated next to a younger couple. Six inches separated our small rectangular tables-for-two. She leaned forward tensely, talking in a very public voice about very private matters. I asked to be moved, and we were, into the hidden back room, up a step from the main dining room. While the bar had a warm wooden floor, the restaurant floor was a checkerboard of tiny black and white octagonal tiles. The high ceilings sported hanging Schoolhouse lamps. The Victorian moldings and woodwork were left intact, but the bar area was modern steel and glass, lined with enormous white wax mountains supporting tall candles. The ambiance was that of cold coziness. Schizoid, in fact.
However our waiter was delightful, displaying the unobtrusive attentiveness that is so rare and so wonderful when encountered. He even brought me a taste of the Horse Heaven Hills Cinsaut as we were leaving, just because I was curious. (I liked it a lot: a sort of musky pinot noir.)
All things considered, however, I think I preferred the popcorn dinner.
Friday, November 25, 2011
A perfect autumn day
After several days of horizontal rain, Black Friday produced blue skies, fluffy clouds, and cool autumnal sunshine. We started the day with a dog walk around the block. The fallen leaves glowed in the early morning light, dotted with jewel-like drops. It was clearly going to be a gorgeous day, and we had wine waiting for us at Torii Mor and David Hill wineries. It took awhile to get our show on the road, but by 2 pm we were Yamhill County-bound to pick up our wine.We decided to take the route via Champoeg, and we missed our turnoff. So, we found ourselves in Salem, looking for 221 northbound. Fortunately, it was still a lovely drive, with an empty winding road, pumpkin-filled fields, hazy multicolored hillsides, and reflective waters.
Torii Mor was having a Thanksgiving Weekend party, and they had erected a large tent behind the tasting room, complete with space heaters, music, tables, and cheese and crackers. The wines were the usual high quality, and I had a fun conversation with the field enologist, a retired French military man in his late 40s. He was born in the western Languedoc area, so we spent a lot of time comparing our impressions of French wines. The wine-maker was also French, but they were very different. He was short and grey, with male pattern baldness, while the enologist was taller than D, with a thick head of hair and a gift of gab. But the wine-maker talked D into buying a discounted case of wine, so we have spent our food budget for next month.
Fortunately, we have plenty of food in the freezer.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Fusing glass
Two years ago, right before I left MCL to join PSU, a work colleague organized a party at Jennifer Wells glass studio. We made ear-rings and pendants and sun-catchers out of leftover glass pieces and frit and stringer. It was one of the most delightful times I'd spent with those people, and I kept it in the back of my mind. I kept getting e-mail notifications of classes and events, and I kept thinking, "maybe later."
This week, later finally arrived. Five friends agreed to meet me at the studio, and I promised to bring wine and munchies. As usual, there were a few glitches. AK sprained her ankle and was a no-show, and I hit rush hour traffic en route to OHSU to pick up W. But we got there.
"Oh look, there's Collage!" Yes, I knew W would appreciate this place. We walked up the driveway to the small, brightly-lit cottage, hidden from the street by a large Victorian house. It's a utilitarian room, with bright overhead lights and long plastic-covered tables in the middle. Plastic chairs surround the tables; rectangular tubs of glass shards of varying shapes and sizes are lined up the middle, sorted by color; round plastic dishes of frit are lined up on each side of the tubs.
Becca has set up our workspaces. We each get a pair of goggles to protect our eyes from flying glass. However, since we all wear glasses, those are set aside. We also get a bottle of glass cleanser, a towel, a piece of paper, a bottle of Elmer's glue, a sharpened pencil, a Sharpie pen, a glass cutter and two mysterious implements with long handles.
As we wait for K and MC, we set up the munchies (wine, pita chips, hummus, veggies, cheese, bread, home-made chocolate chip cookies with walnuts.) M has brought an amazing bar cookie, filled with her fabulous plum jelly and flavored with almond. It's still warm. Becca makes some "stale tea" for W and me and fusses about with space heaters. The room is cold at first, because November has caught her off-guard. I can't blame her, and it soon becomes comfortable.
We explore the walls, which are lined with projects, some before-and-after displays, tables and shelves filled with glass, tubes with stringer, special glass cutting areas, a sink, file cabinets, some moveable shelves with lunch trays (brings me right back to junior high.) The place is jam-packed, but there is sufficient walk space and we start getting ideas for our own projects. M finds the stars ornaments and suggests she just purchase them and pretend she made them. W finds an owl stamp and is very pleased.
K and MC arrive at the same time, and after some milling about, we settle in our places for a lesson. The safety lecture is full of DUHs: "don't brush glass off the table like crumbs," "keep your wine glass covered," "don't rummage in the glass bins with your fingers, use your pencil." (However, later on I find myself starting to brush the frit away. Oy.) The mysterious implements turn out to be the nippers (used to snip small pieces and create curves and circles) and the runners (which are used to cleanly break a piece of glass along a scored line.) We practice scoring and breaking the glass and then we are ready to start our projects.
Since I made earrings last time, I decide to make one big piece. I opt for a 14" round bowl. I chose a lovely iridescent green glass, and Becca cuts the circle for me. Although I had planned on a mosaic effect, I find myself starting on my favorite design, a half-Chartres labyrinth. You begin with 6 concentric circles and then create the winding pathways. I draw the circles with the sharpie, knowing that any mistakes will be fired out. I start running glue along the lines, and Becca thoughtfully brings me a glue brush. She suggests fine black frit for my lines, and I go slowly: glue a little, sprinkle a little, tap the excess off onto the paper, pour it back into the dish, repeat. At one point I realize that I forgot to clean the glass, and I have to start over. Apparently glue and sharpie ink will fire out, but finger oils will not. While I believe in organic art, I don't want random fingerprints on my bowl.
As I work, I think about how I can make it more interesting. My final choice is to use various colored blobs (pre-fired scraps.) I create an outer circle of blob stones, and then set up more stones at key points of the labyrinth. I can't wait to see how it turns out. Becca will fire it partway and then set it in the mold to finish firing.
The others work diligently, their projects as individual as they are themselves. K is making mosaic tiles. M is using copper foil to stamp out minute dragonflies. She is making an ornament for her friends who just moved into their own communal house (the Dragonfly House.) MC and W are also using the foil. MC is making earrings, I think. W is using stringer and blobs (and the owl stamp, of course.) I decide to try one pair of earrings and unconsciously imitate W's design. What I love about craft is how differently everyone approaches the activity. Yet all the choices are valid, and these bits of glass will be fused into things of beauty, rounded, flattened, melded. We are none of us able to predict the finished product, which adds mystery to the process.
In all, it's a hopeful sort of activity. You work, you experiment, and you see what happens. Usually, you are surprised, but usually you are happy with the result. And you can't ask for much better from a few hours of work.
This week, later finally arrived. Five friends agreed to meet me at the studio, and I promised to bring wine and munchies. As usual, there were a few glitches. AK sprained her ankle and was a no-show, and I hit rush hour traffic en route to OHSU to pick up W. But we got there.
"Oh look, there's Collage!" Yes, I knew W would appreciate this place. We walked up the driveway to the small, brightly-lit cottage, hidden from the street by a large Victorian house. It's a utilitarian room, with bright overhead lights and long plastic-covered tables in the middle. Plastic chairs surround the tables; rectangular tubs of glass shards of varying shapes and sizes are lined up the middle, sorted by color; round plastic dishes of frit are lined up on each side of the tubs.
Becca has set up our workspaces. We each get a pair of goggles to protect our eyes from flying glass. However, since we all wear glasses, those are set aside. We also get a bottle of glass cleanser, a towel, a piece of paper, a bottle of Elmer's glue, a sharpened pencil, a Sharpie pen, a glass cutter and two mysterious implements with long handles.
As we wait for K and MC, we set up the munchies (wine, pita chips, hummus, veggies, cheese, bread, home-made chocolate chip cookies with walnuts.) M has brought an amazing bar cookie, filled with her fabulous plum jelly and flavored with almond. It's still warm. Becca makes some "stale tea" for W and me and fusses about with space heaters. The room is cold at first, because November has caught her off-guard. I can't blame her, and it soon becomes comfortable.
We explore the walls, which are lined with projects, some before-and-after displays, tables and shelves filled with glass, tubes with stringer, special glass cutting areas, a sink, file cabinets, some moveable shelves with lunch trays (brings me right back to junior high.) The place is jam-packed, but there is sufficient walk space and we start getting ideas for our own projects. M finds the stars ornaments and suggests she just purchase them and pretend she made them. W finds an owl stamp and is very pleased.
K and MC arrive at the same time, and after some milling about, we settle in our places for a lesson. The safety lecture is full of DUHs: "don't brush glass off the table like crumbs," "keep your wine glass covered," "don't rummage in the glass bins with your fingers, use your pencil." (However, later on I find myself starting to brush the frit away. Oy.) The mysterious implements turn out to be the nippers (used to snip small pieces and create curves and circles) and the runners (which are used to cleanly break a piece of glass along a scored line.) We practice scoring and breaking the glass and then we are ready to start our projects.
Since I made earrings last time, I decide to make one big piece. I opt for a 14" round bowl. I chose a lovely iridescent green glass, and Becca cuts the circle for me. Although I had planned on a mosaic effect, I find myself starting on my favorite design, a half-Chartres labyrinth. You begin with 6 concentric circles and then create the winding pathways. I draw the circles with the sharpie, knowing that any mistakes will be fired out. I start running glue along the lines, and Becca thoughtfully brings me a glue brush. She suggests fine black frit for my lines, and I go slowly: glue a little, sprinkle a little, tap the excess off onto the paper, pour it back into the dish, repeat. At one point I realize that I forgot to clean the glass, and I have to start over. Apparently glue and sharpie ink will fire out, but finger oils will not. While I believe in organic art, I don't want random fingerprints on my bowl.
As I work, I think about how I can make it more interesting. My final choice is to use various colored blobs (pre-fired scraps.) I create an outer circle of blob stones, and then set up more stones at key points of the labyrinth. I can't wait to see how it turns out. Becca will fire it partway and then set it in the mold to finish firing.
The others work diligently, their projects as individual as they are themselves. K is making mosaic tiles. M is using copper foil to stamp out minute dragonflies. She is making an ornament for her friends who just moved into their own communal house (the Dragonfly House.) MC and W are also using the foil. MC is making earrings, I think. W is using stringer and blobs (and the owl stamp, of course.) I decide to try one pair of earrings and unconsciously imitate W's design. What I love about craft is how differently everyone approaches the activity. Yet all the choices are valid, and these bits of glass will be fused into things of beauty, rounded, flattened, melded. We are none of us able to predict the finished product, which adds mystery to the process.
In all, it's a hopeful sort of activity. You work, you experiment, and you see what happens. Usually, you are surprised, but usually you are happy with the result. And you can't ask for much better from a few hours of work.
I know an old lady who swallowed a fly
This is one of those days that gets away from you. I was insomniac last night, so I slept in, then spent some time cleaning up after last night's supper party (D had already run two loads) and after that puttered with various domestic and fiscal tasks. I never got out of my house dress and, other than a few abortive trips looking for the Sunday paper, never got out into the glorious November sunshine.
Around 5 p.m. I decided that it was time to eat some comfort food. The daylight was fading and the cold was increasing, which means it's pasta time! I cooked up some macaroni, grated some cheese (sharp cheddar and parm,) chopped some parsley, peeled some garlic and loaded the press, and pulled out the butter. I tossed the prepped ingredients into the drained macaroni and added salt and pepper. Voila! a feast for the eye and the palate.
I noticed the red blend on the counter: Chateau St. Jean's Cinq Cepages. It was very tasty, but being 75% cab sauv, it was not appropriate for last night's fish. So it was our prep wine, and there was about a half bottle left. I decided to uncork it for tonight's garlicky meal. It was a perfect match, and I alternately sipped wine, ate pasta, and read the Sunday paper (finally delivered.)
I reached the end of my pasta and tossed back the last of the dark red wine.....there on my tongue was something rough and dreg-like. So I spit it back in the glass only to discover that it appeared to have legs and wings. Gaaaack! One of the cluster flies which has been circling around the kitchen for the last week! Braaaack! I ran to the kitchen, and started gargling.
Perhaps I'll die.
Around 5 p.m. I decided that it was time to eat some comfort food. The daylight was fading and the cold was increasing, which means it's pasta time! I cooked up some macaroni, grated some cheese (sharp cheddar and parm,) chopped some parsley, peeled some garlic and loaded the press, and pulled out the butter. I tossed the prepped ingredients into the drained macaroni and added salt and pepper. Voila! a feast for the eye and the palate.
I noticed the red blend on the counter: Chateau St. Jean's Cinq Cepages. It was very tasty, but being 75% cab sauv, it was not appropriate for last night's fish. So it was our prep wine, and there was about a half bottle left. I decided to uncork it for tonight's garlicky meal. It was a perfect match, and I alternately sipped wine, ate pasta, and read the Sunday paper (finally delivered.)
I reached the end of my pasta and tossed back the last of the dark red wine.....there on my tongue was something rough and dreg-like. So I spit it back in the glass only to discover that it appeared to have legs and wings. Gaaaack! One of the cluster flies which has been circling around the kitchen for the last week! Braaaack! I ran to the kitchen, and started gargling.
Perhaps I'll die.
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