It’s Warm by the Stove

The high temperature in Minneapolis yesterday, according to a popular Facebook meme, was lower than that of Antarctica; and so I did what every ounce of my being said I should do.

I stayed in and cooked.

On the menu?

Spaghetti sauce and my father’s homemade meatballs.

“You gotta get in there, really squish it up good,” my dad would say.  “Take them rings off.”

“Should I wash my hands?”

“Nah,” he’d say.  “That’s where the flavor lies.”

He was joking, my dad; and the recipes from him are marked with his comments.  “Add 13 peas”, says one recipe.  “Add one mouthful of warm water.”  “Simmer until Mumma wants to know just what you think you’re doing in there.”

Like father, like daughter, and I add my own comments to new recipes.  “Feeds six adults or one teenager.”  “One of The Boy’s favorites!” 

I copied my cookbook – a large three-ring binder full of recipes, notes, and stains – for my son a couple years ago.  “For My Son,” says the spine.  “On the occasion of his 28^th birthday.”

“You’re weird,” he’d said, smiling.

“Yes,” I said.

I send a picture of the finished sauce to him now.

“Looks yum,” he writes. 

“It IS yum,” I write.  “There’s a jar for you. Come by tomorrow.”

“Yes,” he says.

It’s terribly cold outside.  But inside, it’s a kitchen.

If You Look at it Sideways, It’s a Diet

I’m on a new diet.

It’s called “There’s leftover food in the break room!” 

All the kids are doing it.

Left wallet-battered and now the proud owner of plumbing that works and shiny fixtures extolling my dedication to beauty and cleanliness, I’ve turned a cynical eye toward my expenses.

In other words, I am broke until payday. 

And this is how I came to eat a sandwich I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen had I paid for it, a bag of gratis chips, and two freakishly large cookies on Tuesday.

How could the execs not have wanted these cookies?  Huddled at my desk, cheeks bulging, eyes furtively glancing right, left, right, left, I give myself a pat on the back.

Saved a couple bucks there.

Fast-forward to Tuesday night, when I discover both tuna and Tuna Helper in my pantry.  Heaven help us, who bought this, and why do they hate me?  What could I have possibly done...

But that’s the price you pay when you want a flushing toilet and dripless spigots.

It’s at this point I’d like to say that I have been pleasantly surprised, that Tuna Helper is rather tasty.

But that would be lying.  It’s dreadful. 

Luckily, there are only two more big bowls of it to eat before I can move on to fried potatoes.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining, not really.  After all, I paid cash for them thar plumbin’s.

And with Tuna Helper as leftovers, I won’t be tempted to raid the fridge later this evening. 

See? 

Diet. 

I'll Be Over Here, Eating Over a Sink

We need to do something about lunch, people.

I sat in the Skyroom on the top floor of Macy’s the other day in a rare out-for-lunch moment with friends. We sat kittycorner from a mother and son. The woman appeared to be in her early 30s, the boy maybe 9, 10.

He was eating quite enthusiastically.

“Slow down,” his mother admonished, “no one's going to take it from you.”

He tried to slow down, taking a couple of careful bites, but moments later he was back at his previous pace. Quickly, efficiently, he smiled between bites at his mother as he made short work of his sandwich. She smiled at him, love in her eyes; and he covered his mouth as they laughed good-naturedly.

That kid was what we call “a good little eater”.

Watching the exchange made me smile, too; but it also got me thinking about the casual nature with which we treat our midday meal.

Let me ask you: Where did you go to school? Did they allow you to eat with utensils? If memory serves me correctly – and I think it does – I’m pretty sure we were forced to eat whilst in line, plastic-kerchiefed women plopping ice-cream scoops of mashed-potato-lime-gelatin-surprise into our outstretched hands.

As an aside, my father swore that, when he was young, lime Jello containing free-floating shredded carrot and celery, the whole thing topped with Miracle Whip – yes, Miracle Whip – was considered a dessert.

It changed how I looked at him.

And how was your lunch hour in your 20s? Did they pay you for that time? I continually managed to find jobs where you had to punch out for lunch.

Hmm. Would I like to clock-out to eat or would I like to have another seven dollars a day on my paycheck?

Even now, I have a hard time stepping away from my desk and often eat my lunch while setting up meetings and prank-calling my friends.

I hear, by the way, that lunch in Europe is different, that it is sometimes accompanied with wine and naps. I refuse to believe that, however, as it interferes with my ability to continue to work in the United States.

Anyway, that couldn’t possibly be true – could it?

And if it is, how do we institute that in Minnesota?

Let me know if you know who I should contact. I’m willing to get the ball rolling on this one.

Seet. I Make You Coffee.

We are standing in the kitchen.

“So this coffee,” I say.  “What makes it Turkish?”

Maryna shakes her pretty little head.  “Watch,” she says.  “Don’t ask questions.”

I raise my hands, one of which is holding a wine glass, and back away silently, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar.

“I am not going to tell you how to make,” she says, “you watch and you see.”

I give her two silent thumbs up.

Maryna moves about the kitchen.  Coffee. Salt.  Pepper.  Honey.  Garlic.

I open my mouth, think twice, and shut it.

“First,” she says, “grind coffee.  You have grinder?”

“I thought we weren’t talking,” I say.

She frowns at me briefly.

“Yes,” I say.  “I have a grinder.”

She bustles, grinding this, squeezing that.  She lays the blade of a large knife against a medium-sized clove of garlic, hits it briskly with her hand.

I am always impressed when people do this.

She turns on the burner, and a flame rises.  She spoons the ground coffee into a very small copper vessel.  It has a long wooden handle.  She sets it on the stove.  The smell of coffee rises.   She adds salt, does several twists of pepper.  She adds the garlic, squeezes in two streams of honey. 

It makes a hissing sound.

“You see how ees small?  Because make one, maybe two cups.  We don’t stir.  When we make, cup ees for you, just you.”

She pulls a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Water must be cold,” she says.

I leave my stool, walk over to peer into the small pot.  “What do you call this pot?”

She frowns.  “Pot?  Maybe I call eet ‘pot’.  I don’t know.”

Maryna stares into the waters in the small pot.  “Now we stare,” she says.  “We stare at the water.  No bathroom, no cigarette.  Just stare.”

“A watched pot never boils,” I say.

She looks at me briefly.  “You say that?  Ees very good.”

I consider telling her that it’s an old saying, then decide against it.

I have so little. 

The water rises, and she removes it from the stove.

‘That ees one time,” she says.  “We do two more times, like thees.  Water say ‘shhhhhhh’, and we peek it up.  Two times.”

We stand and watch as the water says ‘shhhhhhh’ two more times.

When the water rises for the third time, she removes it quickly from the stove, pours it into a cup the size of an aggressive thimble, then sets it on a saucer.

“Drink,” she says.  “Ees cup only for you.  When you are done, we teep cup on saucer.  Your fortune.”

Fortune?  “I didn’t know you could read fortunes.”

“Me?” She smiles.  “No, but someone else?  Maybe.”

I blow across the top of a tiny little cup.  “I love you, Maryna.”

She smiles.  “I love you, my dear.”

 

And the coffee?  Absolutely delicious.  And of course she sent me home with the pot, six cups and saucers, and a garlic bulb. 

Maryna’s Recipe for Turkish/Ukrainian Coffee

Makes two cups

Two heaping teaspoons of ground medium roast coffee

Half teaspoon salt

Half teaspoon ground pepper

One small clove of garlic, smashed

Heat on stove over medium flame.

Add two long squirts of honey.  It will hiss.

Add cold water with enough room at the top so as not to boil over.  Do not stir.

Stare at it.  Don’t go anywhere.  Don’t go to the bathroom.  Don’t have a cigarette.  Don’t let it boil.

Let it go up.  Shhhhhhh.  Remove from heat.

Let it go up again.  Shhhhhhh.  Remove from heat.

Let it go up one more time.  Shhhhhhh.  Remove from heat.

Pour in cups.  Drink hot.

Don’t drink the grounds.

New Fish on the Block

From 2011, because I, apparently, go to yoga after work, make dinner, then sit down and don't move until bedtime.

/sigh/


After a tragic, tank-wide case of Ich and the subsequent tank-wide deaths of its inhabitants, the 20-gallon aquarium in the living room has stood, bubbling yet empty, for almost two months now.

We’re moments away from that changing.

We felt it important that some time pass between occupants. The tank has, after all, seen its share of tragedy.  Just a month or so before the rest of the tank contracted the disease “Ich” and met its Webby Maker, for example, Yang, orange-headed Oranda and ex-paramour of Ying, had found himself caught in a fishy-love triangle, a dilemma for which he paid the ultimate price.

It was all over the Internet.

That was then, however; and this is now, and Willie, Tank Master and Head of Fish Procurement, is ready to foster-parent a tank full of fish again.

One trip to PetSmart and a ten-dollar bill later, Willie has returned with a bag o’ goldfish; and we have, once again, a full house.

The new residents of the fish tank?

Gilles Meloche
Goldie Spawn
Lady G’agua
And, for course, Blanket.

The faces have changed, but the rocks, the Jethro Tull Aqualung double album spread open as its backdrop: these things have not changed, nor has the fascination that Liza Bean, of the Minneapolis Biteys, feels when presented with the vision of a shimmering, wiggling appetizer. Enraptured, she sits on the arm of the couch, peering intently into the waters, the end of her tail twitching.

Ever the helpful kitty, she has recently added the words “white wine” and “one fresh lemon” to the grocery list.

Such a good girl, that cat. Always looking for ways to be helpful.

No One Here Looks a Day Over 30

As is required, Easter dinner is ham-centric, cheesy potatoes and dinner rolls orbiting the bone-in delight like little side dish satellites.

And there is, of course, wine.

“I don’t know,” my sister says.  “I mean, look at us.  We’re getting old, right?”

As the oldest, I feel it my duty to stare at her.

“Seriously,” she says.  “I’m 50.  Do you know what that means?”

Fully two years older than she is, I reach over, jab a particularly juicy morsel of ham on her plate.

“Pearl,” she says.  “I’m 50.  Is that old?”

I grin at her, push the ham into my mouth.  “Yes.”

My father – salesman, catamaran captain, ex-crop duster and pilot, former drummer for an all-lesbian country-western band, holds a hand up.

“Old,” he says, hazel eyes dancing with barely hidden mischief, “is always 15 years older than you are.”

My mother takes a sip of wine.  “Bear in mind,” she says quietly, “that your father will be 75 in two weeks.”

Karen looks at me, jabs at my plate, liberating me from a spear of asparagus.  “Did ya hear that?  The old guy at the head of the table says that 90-year-olds are elderly.”

She holds her glass up, and I lean forward with my own.  Clink.

“Damn right,” my father says.  He holds his plate up.  “Mumma?” he says.  “We got any more of that delicious ham gravy?”

My mother sighs, rises anyway.  “It’s on the center island, Paul,” she says.  “Right where it was 10 minutes ago.”

My father winks at me.  “She likes to keep busy, your mother.  Keeps her young.”

My mother returns to the table with the gravy boat.

“I heard that,” she says.