Figs Again

This past week has been all about figs here in the 'burbs.

Fresh figs have a very short shelf life. Once plucked from the tree, they cease ripening; daily harvesting is desirable to capture them at prime goodness. The luscious fruits maintain freshness for but a few days, even refrigerated. Timing is everything with fresh figs.

My mind always turns to my grandparents during fig season. From my grandfather, I learned how to determine ripeness, pick them gently, and appreciate the delight of eating them right off the tree. And while I never saw my grandmother "put up" figs, I devoured my fair share of her output. My sister preferred the squished variety while I was drawn to the whole fig preserves.

Whole figs. Preserved in sweet, sweet syrup. Smashed on buttered toast. Or, omg, on a soft biscuit! Or gripped by the hint of stem and dangled right from the jar over my mouth, the sweet syrup dripping on my tongue (and sometimes my chin and, yeah okay, my shirt) just before my teeth sank into the plump rich figgy goodness.

Such are my thoughts during fig season. This year, however, those thoughts were accompanied by an irresistible wild hair to "put up" some figs of my own, Grandmommy style.

Yeah, I know. WTF?

A problem immediately arose. I had never "put up" anything. Sure I understand the basic premise, but canning is serious business. Do it wrong and people get sick. Plus it requires implements. I didn't know exactly what implements, but I was pretty sure I didn't own them. More urgently, it requires knowledge and experience. Knowledge I can get from the OGAPI but experience requires doing. I needed a teacher!

Fortunately I knew just the person. An old friend, a woman who knows about many things I don't, such as the ins and outs of the art of canning. An email exchange later, enthusiasm abounded. While having never canned figs, plenty of other fruits and vegetables met their fate in jars by her hand. She was willing to try something new and had the tools. A date was made, details discussed, duties assigned. Bonus? Canning takes time. Extended boiling is involved, followed by more boiling. We would be hanging out for hours. The perfect script wrote itself. The performance brought a standing ovation.
























I did it just now. Dangled a juicy, dripping preserved fig over my mouth and devoured it. Memory Lane is an awesome road to wander.

Thanks, Kerry!

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My Afternoon Snack

My grandfather on my mother's side introduced me on to eating fresh figs this way. They had several trees in their yard and I used to help him pick the fruit. Breakfast during those visits often included this very dish in this very dish. Yup, we still use my grandparent's everyday dishes.

In a rare stroke of good fortune, we learned after buying this house that our neighbor has a large fig tree. We neighbors step up each year to help her devour the bountiful crop. Such a sacrifice. Today she even hooked me up with some half-n-half. Hence my trip down memory lane. Good times. Great neighbor.

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He Did Eat It

The food pictured in the previous post was my very first attempt at making chicken and dumplings. We ate it, a bit hesitantly at first then with greater gusto. Kudos to those who guessed correctly! The mushrooms were an afterthought and I'll probably leave them out next time. Yes, there will be a next time. The dumplings were just as delicious as the ones my mother used to make. Yummy.

The Boy is having decidedly different culinary experiences on his travels:

This proves to me once again that The Boy will try anything. Even the foot of a chicken.

I think I'll stick with my ugly dumplings.

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Did We Eat It?

I spent some creative time in the kitchen this afternoon. Imagine my dismay alarm horror surprise when it manifested this way:



So give me your best guess, folks.
What is it?

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Time Passages

I've only attended one RenFaire and it was when The Boy was this size:

Recognize him? Of course you do. Yes, it's been awhile. Wendy and I are going to another one this weekend. In North Carolina. With people we've not yet met but already know. Sans youngsters, it's bound to be a different experience on a number of levels. I shall swill beer and call it mead. I shall resist the temptation of cheesecake-on-a-stick. There will be jousting. And cleavage. Huzzah? Huzzah!

Carolina is gorgeous this time of year. I sort-of-but-not- really-because-time-passes-for-a-reason miss our periodic travels there while The Boy was in college. This trip is something else altogether.

But some things shouldn't change.
Here's to North Carolina barbeque.
And getting while the getting's good.

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I Ate My Weight in Asparagus

It all started with a note left on our door last Thursday. A bright yellow 3x3 Post-It at eye-level on the carport door greeted me when I arrived home: "Would you like some fresh asparagus?"

I perked. Why yes, yes I would love some fresh asparagus! I did a little happy dance right there in the carport. Our benefactor arrived with the bounty, at least as excited as I was. I perked again. She gently handed over a large bundle; the stalks firm and fresh and thin, just the way we like them. She had found a great sale and purchased a ton (her unit of measure). I understood the impulse.

My mind immediately began listing things to make with that asparagus. Shall I just steam them? I pondered. Asparagus quiche is delicious. How about a bisque, a la that zucchini soup Wendy adored? Or maybe an asparagus and feta frittata for Sunday brunch! Or my grandmother's asparagus and cheddar casserole.... oh nom nom nom!

Friday afternoon I tripped down to Sam's Club to stock up on a few staples. I pushed my cart past the produce section and lo! There I came upon large quantities of asparagus bundled into humongous Sam's Club-sized portions! Oh yes, they were as lovely and fresh and thin as the stalks our neighbor had gifted us! And cheap! Resistance was futile and a mega-bundle soon topped my cart, my culinary imagination joyously on overload.

It became our asparagus challenge. Fortunately I had hungry stomachs to help me out. It took company over the three-day weekend and leftovers for dinner tonight, but every stalk has been devoured.

Asparagus.
It's the reason for the season.

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Impromptu Poll

Say you stumble across a pan of brownies.
Which do you covet more: a center cut or an edge piece?



Mmmmmmmm. Brownies.

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Baking with The Boy

Guess what? It's peach season again!

The church in our neighborhood holds an annual Peach Festival. We've never attended because, frankly, church people can be scary we are homebodies. Saturday morning as I sipped coffee on the porch, I could hear the strains of musical entertainment waft through our suburban neighborhood. It was the festival! I started thinking about peaches and couldn't stop.

My mother periodically shares with me her copies of Cook's Illustrated magazine. I adore that magazine. Not only does it offer tantalizing recipes, but in the process of crafting the recipes, the writers document the methods they tried that didn't work and why they didn't work. The most recent issue contains an article entitled "Improving Peach Crumble."

Peach Crumble? I'd never made it before, had never even heard of it. Yet the thought of delicious warm Peach Crumble topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream haunted me throughout the day. After dinner, I could no longer restrain myself. A late evening trip to the grocery yielded a sack of ripe peaches and a carton of vanilla ice cream. "Peach Crumble, you will be mine!" I chuckled madly as I drove home.

Often the joy of preparing a dish is equal to the joy of eating it. Such was the case with our Improved Peach Crumble. The Boy, no slouch in the kitchen, joined me in this culinary endeavor. The sheer delight of working with him lightened my heart and brought a silly smile to my face. Soon the house was filled with rich scents as the topping baked while the peaches macerated. The finished creation exceeded my expectations.

Tomorrow we'll celebrate The Boy's 22nd birthday. Sunday he'll be leaving on a jet plane and we don't know when he'll be back again. Instead of getting all maudlin, however, I will choose to focus on the sweetness of the times we do have together. And just like peach season, I know he'll be back.

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Taking Odds

I haven't been inside a grocery store in nigh on two weeks.

Our freezer is almost empty. Our stash of canned goods and dry staples is depleted. Fresh vegetables? Fruit? Milk? Eggs? Opening our refrigerator I see only beer and water. And the door full of condiments with nothing to put them on.

The cupboards are bare. We haven't prepared anything close to a meal since we had muffins (made with our last two eggs and water instead of milk) and bacon (from the freezer) for breakfast two Sundays ago. I'm sick of carryout. We need a personal shopper for times like these.

The other night we eagerly snacked on stale Goldfish crackers, cheddar cheese flavor. I felt like I'd struck gold when I found that package buried in the cabinet behind the dog treats.

Yet is the project done? No, but it's goddamn close. How can one little room be so time consuming? It just is. Then there's Spring, which has completely sprung. It's full of distractions.

Pictures Sunday, or I'll eat my hat followed by a home-cooked meal for dessert. I miss my kitchen.

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Suburban Lesbian Bakes a Pie

Joanne's Pecan Pie to be exact.

My office holiday party is tomorrow. We'll have lunch at one of Old Town Alexandria's plethora of fine restaurants then return to the office for dessert and a gift exchange.

We do one of those roundtable gift exchanges. Everyone gets a number and presents are opened and traded around. (Is it rude to vie for the gift oneself brings to such an exchange? I must mull that over. I'd really like to have what I'm giving away.)

So back to the pie. It's a simple recipe and makes a damn fine dessert if you enjoy such things. Let's create one, shall we?

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Gather the ingredients:

One 9" frozen deep dish pie crust
2 cups pecan halves
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs, beaten
36 Kraft caramels (unwrapped)

It is interesting that the recipe specifies the 36 Kraft caramels are to be unwrapped. Some details are best not left to intuition.

Into the saucepan go the caramels, the butter and the water. Over very low heat, allow it all to melt. Stir frequently. Watch it happen here through the miracle of timelapse photography!

Meanwhile, between stirs of the caramel mixture, blend together the eggs, sugar, vanilla and salt. Ummm ummmm good?

Gradually add the melty mess to the eggy mess.
Stir in the pecans.
Voila! Ready for the pie shell!

Bake in a 350 degree oven for 45-50 minutes.

We haven't heard from Joanne in years, but I think of her every time I bake her pie.

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Comfort Food

Sometimes one must perform icky tasks in pursuit of culinary delight. The results are usually worth the effort. My labor Friday paid off all weekend.

Picking chicken off the bone is not my favorite cooking chore. I try hard not to envision the chicken clucking happily around the barnyard or, worse, stifled in a chicken factory. You know what I mean. Yet the chicken must be off the bone when one is crafting chicken stew. I put some happy tunes on the CD player and sang along as I separated the meat from the carcass. The bare bones joined their vegetable counterparts in the stockpot where they simmered with spices for a few hours, melding into my version of homemade stock as it filled the house with a luscious scent. The shredded meat waited patiently in the refrigerator for the next step.

That's another joy of making chicken stew: no part of the chicken gets wasted. It greatly appeals to my sense of efficiency.

I make chicken soup and call it stew because it's thick and chunky. It's also an excuse to cook with farfalle, or bowtie pasta as it is commonly known. Bowties are a favored shape running neck and neck with acini di pepe as my all time favorite pastas. It's rugged and holds up well in soup. I also get weak for rigatoni, but that's a tale for another day.

This weekend was filled with outdoor labor enjoying glorious blue skies and crisp fall air. During the day, Wendy and I channeled weese as we busted ass to get our yard in a semblance of order for the impending winter season. Evenings found our appetites sated with hot chicken stew and cuddles in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Does it get any better than that? Not often methinks, but then we are simple folk.

The touch of green is fresh spinach from a bag, the first I've purchased since the e. coli debacle. Living on the edge, oh yeah baby. That's how we do it here in the 'burbs.

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I Craved, Therefore I Created

It had been months since I made a batch of spaghetti sauce. Spaghetti just doesn't fit my image of an appropriate summer meal. Who wants to eat a heavy pile of pasta drowning in deliciously divine meat sauce on a hot summer evening? Not I.

But I craved, therefore I created. Perhaps it is a sign of autumn impending. Where the hell did the summer go anyway?

I've been making spaghetti sauce the same way ever since my mother first taught me how. I think I was around 12 years old. It's not a recipe I've adapted or changed in any way.

Well. Except for that one unfortunate era. A certain someone, a certain woman, concocted her spaghetti sauce using tofu and carrots. Therefore, obviously, it was imperative to craft my own in a similar fashion.

Carrots I knew about. But tofu? New to me. This was long before one could Google their way to expertise on a topic. Could I ask the woman I was gaga over to teach me? Oh hell no, that would never do. Then she'd know I was a tofu novice! How uncool! I was such a dork. I vaguely remember a trip to the library to read up on the every nuance of tofu.

Somehow I must have figured it out because I do recall batches of spaghetti sauce bastardized with diced carrots and blobs of bean curd. I even convinced myself it tasted good. What was I thinking? Who the hell was I back then?

Mercifully I eventually got dumped regained my senses and returned to formulating my sauce as it was intended: the way my mother taught me.

Good stuff, my spaghetti sauce.
It always brings me home.

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Tis the Season!

Biting into a peach can be such a crap shoot. Oh sure, it may appear to the quasi-educated eye to be a fine specimen. Yet the first bite reveals it to be but a fake, a fraud, a horrible pithy parody of what had been so eagerly anticipated.

But during the height of peach season, every one is a winner! Still, I select carefully. I give the fruit a quick once-over. Is the surface relatively unblemished? Check. Color? Looks good. I squeeze it carefully, gently gently. Does it give ever-so-slightly to the light pressure of my thumb? Good, good. Is the scent delicate yet fragrant and distinctively peachy? Excellent.

The reward is sweet juice flooding my mouth as my teeth rip through the delicate skin of the Perfect Peach. The texture is soft, gently yielding to my bite yet possessing a fleshy firmness that nonetheless melts in my mouth as the rich succulent flavor indulges my every sense.

The prepared partaker of the Perfect Peach always secures a napkin before indulging. Even so, one can be hard-pressed to avoid juice running down one's chin and over one's hand, making fingers ill-suited for anything except holding a peach. Somehow I never mind the mess. It's part of the Perfect Peach Experience.

Few things in life are as sweet as eating a peach in the height of peach season. That time is now, my fellow Earthlings. The season is upon us. Go forth and be fruitful. Eat a peach!

Don't forget a napkin.

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Abracadabra! Open Sesame!

I recently visited Trader Joe's for humanitarian reasons. I was on a mission of mercy. Or something like that.

The Boy likes Clif Bars. Since we were going for a visit, I thought I'd bring him some. (Will I ever tire of feeding The Boy? I think not.) The cheapest place I know to procure them is Trader Joe's where they sell for 99¢ apiece. Of course while I was there, I took time to wander the aisles.

Remember this snack binge? I know I do. Ever so fondly. But I had moved past those particular delights eons ago. My binges change target. There are long periods of time, days months years, when I don't snack-obsess. But I've felt it for weeks now. The time was nigh. The need for a new snack discovery worthy of obsession has been burning hot in my blood.

Sometimes the packaging describes the food product within by pumping it up with all sorts of colorful tasty adjectives, making such sincere claims about how delicious the contents are that there is no way in hell to resist purchasing it. At least a minor affinity for one or more ingredients has already primed the pump, so to speak. Otherwise why would one even bother reading the package? I can't be the only one susceptible. Aren't you?

No? Well okay. It wasn't the package that caught my eye this time anyway. It was the seeds.

All hail the Sesame Seed, tasty little morsels of crunchy goodness! And the best part? The seeds are adhered to cashew nuts by a delicate honey glaze.

The first nibble sealed the deal. And so a binge is born. Yet it's controlled bingeing with nary a purge in sight. Behold. Heaven in a bowl, a reasonable portion doled out, each bite savored as no refills are allowed. Not until the next day. And only then if I'm good. Whatever that means.

They're even better with beer.
Try it. You can thank me later.

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Thwarted

A fresh bagel purchased just a few days ago should not grow mold before I get the chance to eat it. Finding mold is especially heinous when it's on a big, fat, picture-perfect bagel covered with a generous layer of delicious sesame seeds that I started thinking about feasting on the moment I awoke. In fact, that bagel is one of the only reasons I bothered getting out of bed. I was gonna slice it, toast it, and slather it liberally with soft cream cheese. Oh for the love of all that is tasty in this world, that bagel was gonna rock!

Mold.
It's what's not for breakfast.

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It Happened on a Monday

I accidently ate a lima bean today.

Yes, yes. It was a horrific experience, as awful as you may imagine. I'm happy to report I have fully recovered and no long lasting detrimental effects are anticipated.

My friend Lisa and I were lunching at Los Tios. I ordered the chicken enchiladas, which are served, typical of many restaurants of Mexican ilk, with sides of refried beans and rice. I said "No beans, please!" because I don't like refried beans. I don't like them here, I don't like them there, I don't like them anywhere. It's a texture thing.

The rice at Los Tios is dotted liberally with vegetables: little chunks of carrots, bright green peas, pieces of green beans, and, I quickly noted, a smattering of lima beans. Lima beans fall into the same category as refried beans in my world. Yet despite my lack of appreciation for such things, the existence of those lima beans on my plate was not a cause for consternation as they are easily pushed aside.

Except for that one rogue lima bean, the insidious little bastard who hid beneath the cheese and salsa verde liberally smothering my enchiladas. There it lay, snickering quietly, awaiting the perfect moment to slip unnoticed onto my fork and from there into my unsuspecting mouth.

I cringed as I bit into it, immediately aware of my mistake; the soft smooshy texture did not blend well with the other more pleasing soft smooshy textures mingling in my mouth. My mind raced frantically, considering the options available to rectify the situation.

In the end, I, being the mature adult that I am, did the only thing a mature adult could do. I chewed it thoroughly and calmly, albeit quickly, then washed it down with a large gulp of ice water, making no mention of it to my luncheon companion.

My mother would be so proud.

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Suburban Sammich

1. Two slices of fresh oatmeal bread carefully arranged so that the edges will match when sandwiched.


2. A thick layer of mayonnaise spread evenly across both slices.


3. Bright leaves of crispy iceberg lettuce.


4. Vine-ripened tomatoes purchased at a roadside stand in rural Virginia, sliced semi-thick with a very sharp knife.


5. Salt and pepper generously sprinkled on said tomato slices.


6. Six pieces of pepper bacon cooked just right, not too limp, not too crispy.

Put it together and what do you get?
A sammich to die for.

I should have taken a picture.
It was a work of art.

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Hank Hill Adores Propane

I was still stumbling around in my early morning haze when the phone rang. It was Wendy in the midst of her morning commute. She suggested, since the weather was so gorgeous, that I defrost something for us to grill for dinner.

That well-timed thought spawned a fabulous evening feast.

We've always been a charcoal-grilling household but we recently absorbed a gas grill when my mother downsized.

I'm a bit leary of switching teams. I've heard grilling with gas is not really grilling at all, that real barbeque flavor comes from the charcoal. Yet the convenience appeals to me.

I mean really. Gas grills require significantly less effort. With a charcoal grill, one must arrange the briquettes, set them ablaze and patiently wait for them to gray to a perfect emberly glow, said perfection dependent on what is being grilled. There is no science to determining when the coals are ready; it's a guessing game with many different answers but only one right one.

But a gas grill? Press the ignition button and bam! Ready to grill. Fire too hot? Turn the knob right. Fire too cool? Turn the knob left. Simple in theory, the same in practice?

It seems appropriate on the eve of this Memorial Day weekend to solicit opinions on advantages and/or disadvantages of grilling with gas. Hints? Tips? Tricks? Traps? Do, don't, must, musn't?

Clue me in, folks.
The perfect burger may be riding on your response.

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Suburban Lesbian Makes Soup

Don't you just hate it when you visit the grocery store for a very specific, very common item and that very specific, very common item is out of stock? Oh yeah, life can be soooooo hard.

I came across a recipe the other day in a magazine I don't normally read but that somehow ended up in my car. Sitting at a traffic light, I flipped through the pages. (As an aside, I'm seriously looking at how multi-tasking is having a negative effect on my life. How's about doing one thing at a time? I'm working on that concept.)

Anyway, the recipe jumped out at me and screamed, "SUZANNE! You must make this soup!" And what better time to experiment in the kitchen than a rainy weekend day with no commitments? Friday I visited the grocery store to procure the ingredients. Except there was not even the shadow of a zucchini to be found at my usual store. Who ever heard of a produce department with no zucchini? Oh the horror.

But this is suburban America. There are at least five other grocery stores within a few mile radius. My quest for zucchini was not thwarted.

The recipe calls for 3 pounds of zucchini and I was making a batch and a half, enough to share. I was surprised at how many individual squash makes up 4.5 pounds. An armload. And I have long arms. I was not daunted by the prospect of, as the recipe dictates, "thinly slicing" an armload of zucchini. My super duper Pampered Chef slicing thing would even make it fun.

The efficient tool diced a large onion then thinly sliced all 4.5 pounds of squash in a jiffy. I was a bit dismayed by the resultant mountain of zucchini slices threatening to overflow the countertop onto the floor. I began to worry it would not all fit in one pot. It didn't. Soon there were two large pots of onion and zucchini sauteing in butter on the stovetop. It was officially declared bisque after the addition of liquid ingredients and assorted spices followed by a wild ride in the blender. It's a fabulous shade of green.

Good thing it's tasty because I made enough to fill a small swimming pool. Soup anyone?

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Edited to share the recipe:

Quick Zucchini Bisque

3 lbs. zucchini, thinly sliced
1 large onion, chopped
4 Tblsp butter
3/4 - 1 tsp curry powder (to taste)
2 (10-3/4 oz) cans chicken broth
1-1/2 cups milk
Salt and pepper (to taste)

Melt butter in a large saucepan. Add onion and zucchini. Simmer until almost tender. Add milk, broth and seasonings. Bring to a boil, and simmer until cooked. Allow to cool slightly before putting in blender. Blend until smooth.

This soup can be served hot or cold, it is delicious either way. If serving cold, allow to chill at least 4 hours in the refrigerator.

(credit to Capt. Jan Robinson in "All At Sea" magazine, November 2005, page 72)

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Original Spam

How is it that Spam is a viable commercial food product?

I remember my mother serving Spam to my sister and I. She sliced the meat product, topped it with brown sugar and broiled it. It usually was accompanied by a bowl of Spaghettios. With that menu, we always got to eat on TV trays in front of the television. My sister and I considered it a special occasion and we looked forward to Spam nights. Kids are easy to please.

I have never, since moving out of my parent's home at age seventeen, ever eaten Spam. Not even during the lean times when my three roommates and I lived mainly on egg sandwiches. (Yeah. Well. Things got better. Obviously.)

So who still eats that stuff? Someone must because it can be found on just about any grocery store shelf. Right next to the Vienna sausages and potted meat. There is even a festival, Spamarama, dedicated to celebrating the diversity of Spam. And someone created those interesting recipes that show up at the top of gmail's spam in-box. People actually eat the stuff voluntarily! And not just children who are just happy to watch TV while eating because it's Spam night.

Why is it that I can devour a hot dog with enthusiasm but cannot imagine enjoying Spam anymore? It's all just parts in a different form. Parts is parts, yes? Don't even get me started on scrapple. I'm a scrapple virgin and intend to stay that way. How about you?

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