Be everywhere, do everything, and never fail to astonish the customer. – Macy’s Motto and Raspberry Whipped Cream

They’re taking my computer away for a while so it can be relocated along with myself. As our laptop met a sticky end not too long ago and the new one on order but not due to arrive for several weeks I will once again say goodbye for a bit to move. I was hoping to beat the hot weather, but I lost the coin toss. Sweltering or not, the time for rehearsals has passed so it’s time for the big performance.

People are suffering severely from the weather all over the map so I won’t complain. Last week was gorgeous and cooler than normal which allowed for the bulk of the small things to disappear from here and reappear there. I do find myself peeking over the railing at our ailing pea green pool with some longing but it is what it is and I haven’t had enough shots in my lifetime to convince me it would be safe to submerge myself in that water. Also, I believe the frogs have left their offspring to guard the homestead and who am I to argue with them for frontage rights.

Since reading Chicago John’s post on won ton ravioli, I’ve been searching for won ton wrappers to give them a try. At last the other day I found the elusive wrappers hiding in the produce section. I’m sure there’s a logical reason why they were in the produce section I’m overlooking, but for the life of me what that would be totally escapes me. This is not the first time I’ve found things in the market in odd places. Once while living in in a southern state I was directed to the tortillas also housed in the produce section next to fresh corn. Being made of corn this made some convoluted sense, but since I didn’t find the flour tortillas in the baking department I found myself once again confused.

While in a large department store a few years back I searched in vain for candles. A young kid wearing a vest with a name tag pinned to the front walked by. Assuming he was either an employee of the store or someone enamored with the store’s choice in blue vests and name tags, I inquired as to where I might find candles. “In the candle department” came the incredibly insightful reply. “Really?” Thank God the man was there. Imagining finding them in such an obscure location surely would never have occurred to me on my own. Another marriage ago, after traveling some miles looking for a crossing point along a long stretch of river we pulled into a small gas station and corner store in the middle of absolutely nowhere to seek guidance. My mother-in-law hailed a wizened gentleman standing out front and asked how we would go about getting across the river to the other side. Scanning her from stem to stern as though a bug he’d scraped from his shoe, he shook his head and responded. “You go on down to the river and head on acrost it.” I believe I heard him say “sheet”, as he turned around and I do not believe he was referring to changing the linens on his bed. The voice of reason. We thanked him and went on our way. Surely he told his family later how truly stupid tourists were. Probably he was right. Why we had not seen this solution with his vision, definitely had to be viewed as a shortcoming on our part.

Needing shelf paper once again (I have now purchased Walmart’s entire stock through 2014) I headed into the store yesterday. Not the same Walmart where I purchased the first batch, I asked an employee for directions. A diminutive little lady looking to be at least ninety wearing a blue vest with Hazel printed on the tag offered to guide me to my destination. My other half was parked out front. We were running late and the parking lot looked like they were having a free money giveaway inside the store. Hazel, the dearest woman on earth, moved so slowly it was hard to determine if one foot was actually moving in front of the other or if we were still standing in our original location. What she lacked in speed she made up for in words. Traveling from aisle to aisle we discussed everything from her ex-husband, Marshall, a real loser (Hazel’s words, I didn’t feel I knew him well enough at that point to draw any solid conclusions), to her recent struggles with her upper plate and her ten-year old poodle’s battle with incontinence.

Arriving finally at our destination I selected my items, thanked Hazel, and hurried up to the check stand to fall in line behind ten other happy Walmart shoppers waiting to pay for their purchases. Why is it when you’re in the hurry the cashier has to change a tape, the shopper in front of you can’t get their card to work in the machine, or you get behind someone who waits for everything to be rung up and bagged before thinking about removing their wallet or checkbook from the bottom of their cavernous handbag and engaging in a lengthy discussion about the weather? Knowing my other half was out front looking at his watch and reminding himself to remind me of how right he was saying we should wait to go to Walmart until a later time when there were fewer people, my toe began to tap.

Lately I always seem to be in a hurry. Standing there in line watching a huge man dressed in colorful running shorts and a half tee-shirt exposing a considerable amount of flesh beneath the hem pile cases of beer and soda and copious bags of potato chips and cookies onto the conveyor belt, I promised myself several things. First, I promised to ease off on the hurrying a bit and slow the throttle down. Life is passing by quickly enough without me stepping on the gas to hurry it along. Secondly, I decided to cross potato chips off my grocery list. Lastly, I promised myself never to wear black socks with orange flip-flops like the gentlemen in front of me, because it makes one look like a poorly accessorized Geisha.

At any rate, my meanderings for a Monday. I will see you sometime next week.  Keep cool.  This will help and it is good on a spoon and just about everything else it falls on.  It does fall apart after a while, however, so although tasty the following day, not as pretty.

Raspberry Whipped Cream

1 pint fresh raspberries
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. sugar (I used Splenda)
1 tub whipped topping
Raw sugar for garnish (optional)

Place raspberries in food processor and pulse until smooth. Place pureed berries in fine strainer and press with spoon, discarding seeds.

Place berries in mixing bowl. Add vanilla, lemon juice, and sugar. Fold in whipped topping.

Serve over your favorite fruit, bowl of berries or ice cream. Yummy.

The road to success is always under construction. – Lily Tomlin and Very Berry and Mandarin Cole Slaw with Raspberry Vinaigrette

The days are flying past me like the brass ring on a carousel.  Yesterday I unloaded fifteen boxes which provided me with enough bending and standing exercises to compete in the next Olympics should box emptying get the recognition it deserves.  My stomach muscles are as tight as a bow string and the back of my legs feel like I’ve been mauled by a mule.  I am, however, smiling as I can begin to see how nice our new home will look once unearthed from all our belongings.  Where did I get all this stuff?  I’m sure it’s not all mine.  Some of these things I haven’t seen in so long it’s as though I’m seeing them for the first time………and wondering where on earth they’re going to go.  I can see a garage sale in my future.

I’ve been dealing with the process of trying to hire contractors to help with some of the immediate projects needing to be done before the furniture actually arrives in the van.  Three rooms need to be painted.  The master bedroom, a lovely, airy room with three large windows has one wall painted an unfortunate burgundy color that as far as I can tell doesn’t represent any known hue existing in the present color spectrum.  Bright colors are the current designing palate I understand, but grapele or whatever this color might be, cannot be found in my bedroom or I will not be.  My dreams are already vivid enough. Many houses we looked at had vivid color schemes. One house had an entire bedroom painted in vibrant turquoise with a purple ceiling.  This, I guarantee, would never in my wildest imagination work as a place for me to find myself if in search of a peaceful night’s sleep.

Contractors, I find, are an elusive group of beings.  They make appointments which they often never arrive at, promise estimates which never appear, and generally seem to have so much business they don’t need any new jobs so arent’ sweating yours.  I’m not saying there aren’t excellent contractors out there.  I’m simply saying that every time I need one I seem to have to tap dance across the moon to get one to show up.  As a female I have also taken note that whether it’s the work they do or the type of men the work attracts, on the whole they are very pleasant to look at when they do show up, and that at least is a bonus whether or not they decide to do the job.

When living in Southern California I hired a contractor to put in a koi pond in my back yard.  The house sat in the middle of a large block with houses on either side and behind. It was fenced with chain link allowing neighbors access to the goings on outside our back door.  Plans were in the works to install fencing to provide more privacy but at the time the koi pond was going in everyone in the neighboring houses was privy to its construction phases.  The contractor, Pasquale, was a man so perfectly chiseled as to be decorating the pages of GQ.  His creator had taken extra time with him. Thick luxurious hair with enviable soft curls was kept in check with a rubber band cascading in a pony tail down his beautifully muscled back.  Eyes like chocolate pools and a smile generously adorned with straight white teeth, although truly I barely noticed the man, completed the package. In the heat of the afternoon his tank top often laid on the ground by the hole he was digging. Laboring, his tanned upper body flexed and pulsed as he dug out the hole. As I said, I hardly noticed, but to my recollection this was what transpired. Before long it became patently obvious my female neighbors also appreciated his workmanship.  Women sunbathing in chaise lounges or watering their plants materialized in the connecting yards shortly after Pasquale’s truck pulled up in our driveway.  First there were only one or two but before long it became so blatant I considered setting up a hot dog and lemonade stand and selling tickets.  Truly I have never seen women behave in such a way.   Shameful.

Another contractor I had when I lived in the Bay Area we called “2 weeks”.  This because no matter what you asked him, two weeks was his standard response.  The job in question was renovating a guest bathroom.  New fixtures, flooring, wall covers and shower were part of the original job description.  He was licensed and his quote within the reasonable range so we awarded him the job.  Initially it was to take eight weeks but once the eight weeks past and we were still living with a toilet in the corner of our bedroom and no shower in the hole in the bathroom, two weeks became the pat answer to every question we asked him as to when the work was done.  Finally, one day we couldn’t get hold of him at all. After tracking him down via his family we found out he had fled the state with our money and several other people whose toilets also resided in the same room they slept in never to be seen again.

Finally I have solved my painting dilemma and the painters start tomorrow.  According to them the job should be finished in two weeks. Now it’s on to the garden which, though beautifully landscaped, is in need of drip systems, etc.  When you first get the house the thrill is simply that you’ve got it.  Once you begin the business of settling in what it takes to maintain your new living quarters kinds of sneaks in the back door and back out with your ready cash.

As you might imagine I’m not equipped to be doing anything extraordinary in the kitchen for a few weeks but this salad was a keeper so I thought I’d share.  Have a great weekend!

Very Berry and Mandarin Cole Slaw with Raspberry Viaigrette

Cole Slaw

1 pkg. tri-color cole slaw mix
1/3 cup blueberries
1/2 cup strawberries, sliced
1 small can mandarin oranges, drained
5 thin slices red onion, quartered
1 container raspberries, cleaned
Salt and pepper to taste

Raspberry Vinaigrette

1/2 cup prepared lite raspberry vinaigrette
1/4 cup mayonnaise
2 tsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp. poppy seeds
1 tsp. granulated sugar

Whisk together all ingredients and refrigerate for 30 mins.

Toss together all cole slaw ingredients. 1 hour before serving add dressing and toss well. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Just before serving gently toss with fresh raspberries.

I love the smell of Lysol in the morning and Fattoush (Mediterranean) Salad

Men, although in many cases physically stronger than ourselves, do not seem to manage as well as we do when ill. This is not just one writers opinion, on researching the subject I find there have been actual studies conducted on the subject. Even as a child, my son would take to his bed over a hangnail and moan and groan as if I’d covered him in honey and set him on a nest of fire ants. Perhaps this is why we ladies were chosen to bear children. From what I’ve seen that first strong labor pain shuddering through a man’s body might have signaled the extinction of the human race.

At around twelve, my son and his best friend, Rob, apparently lacking in anything of consequence to do on a beautiful summer afternoon, came to the bright idea of playing what they referred to later as “roof football”. Do not try this at home. The rules, it seemed, involved one ball and two players. One player positioned himself on a roof and the other on the ground. The player on the ground threw the ball upward with the other player attempting to catch it and visa versa. Pretty basic. Certainly no urgent need to patent this idea before someone snapped it up and ran with it. Having had his turn on the ground, my son climbed the ladder set out for such a purpose and took his place on the roof. Ball into play, he ran back for the pass. Unfortunately, he did not take into account the restrictions of his playing field. Although completing the pass, he sailed off the edge of the roof landing spread eagle in a bed of rose bushes. The good news was the bushes broke his fall, resulting in only a sprained ankle. The bad news was they were, in fact, rose bushes, and he was completely covered with scratches and thorns.

An eight-hour emergency room visit and a down payment on a Maserati later, I took my wounded player home to recover. On the drive home we had a brief discussion on the soundness of playing football on a surface with a two-story drop on all sides. Obviously I did not have his full attention, as several months later he had sixteen stitches in the front of his head after diving in the shallow end of the pool with both hands behind his back. In case you are wondering, the answer is no. No, I did not drop him on his head as an infant. We choose rather to think of him as having an adventurous spirit. Instructions from the doctor involved rest, medication, regular icing, and an ace bandage to keep the swelling down. Working full-time, this necessitated my taking a few days vacation to nurse him back to health. Lying prone on the couch his young face was contorted in a constant grimace of pain. I waited on him hand and, well, foot. A bell was provided for my patient’s use to summon his nursing staff. Put into use so frequently, it’s clanger blessedly finally fell off in protest. “Mom”, became the dreaded word of the day, it was spoken so often.

Too weak apparently to use his words, but strong enough to push the numbers on the remote, we passed the days together. Getting him settled in the morning on the couch I would inquire as to his breakfast order. With a look as though his last breath was surely lurking around the next corner, “I’m not hungry”, came the whispered answer.

“Not even a piece of toast?”, says I.

“Well, maybe I could eat a bite of toast…. with a little butter and jelly. Oh…. and could I have a couple of poached eggs on top of the the toast to keep up my strength?” Sigh and muffled cough.

Sigh, again (that would be me).

“Bacon or sausage?”

“Could I have both?”

To this day my son still calls when down with the flu or ill, and I can almost hear that little bell clanging away in the background.

The men I married were worse. A cold required full bed rest, treats from the store, heating pads, and possibly traction. My second husband suffered from hypochondria. If someone at work got sick, by the time he got home he could be found shoving vitamin tablets in his mouth with the same enthusiasm a chubby theatergoer might approach a tub of double buttered popcorn. Reviews of his throat via flashlight were conducted at regular intervals to ensure nothing had grown there since the last look a half an hour before. God forbid I got sick. Conversations were engaged from behind a handkerchief held over his mouth. I was repeatedly bombarded with a heavy mist of disinfectant spray and food was shoved along the floor from across the room as though I was under the protection of Father Damien. Once he had minor surgery to remove a small growth on his knee, totally benign. The doctor instructed him to watch for infection and apply salve and he would be back at work the following week. So intense were the precautions put in place to protect against germs once he was home, I could have been asked to gown up and report to surgery without having to wash up.

The funny part about this phenomenon is that when I was sick, even after major surgery, somebody was still needed to man the pots in the kitchen. The general assumption, if I remember correctly, was that it would be me . While I was up why not toss in a load of whites and clean the toilet?  After all, once the anesthesia wore off what was I going to do with all that spare time?

This comes up because I have a friend nursing her husband back from recent surgery. It was not a fun surgery, but as yet I haven’t heard of one where people are fighting for position in line to have the procedure. Apparently he has been such a bad patient she is considering performing a follow-up procedure of her own to suture his lips together. Bringing him home after a three day stint in the hospital, his moaning became so pronounced the neighbors dog commenced howling to commiserate and his owner stopped by to make sure they weren’t being attacked by a band of mutant marauders.

Fortunately all is well in our house today as the move progresses. It has been nice to have taken a few days off for the holiday weekend as my body was giving me a harsh talking to for asking it to do things normally not required of it.

This salad is simply yummy. I could make a meal of it.

Fattoush (Mediterranean) Salad

Salad Ingredients

2 cups romaine lettuce, torn
2 tomatoes, seeded and chopped
1 large English cucumber, peeled and diced
1/4 large red onion, sliced thin and quartered
1/2 large green pepper, sliced thin and quartered
1 small jar of artichoke hearts packed in oil, quartered
1/4 cup garbonzo beans, drained and rinsed
Pita chips (recipe below)

Mix together all salad ingredients in large bowl. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Pita Chips

2 pita bread rounds, cut into 1″ squares
olive oil for frying
Salt

Heat 1/2″ of oil in large skillet over med-high heat. Cook squares in batches avoiding overcrowding until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Sprinkle with salt.

Dressing

1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/4 cup lemon juice
2 tsp. white wine vinegar
2 tsp. dried mint
1/2 tsp. lemon pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
3/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup parsley, chopped

Mix all ingredients together in food processor. Process until smooth. Refrigerate at least 1 hr. before serving.

To assemble salad, just prior to serving toss mixed greens with pita chips and dressing.

Even if you fall on your face you are moving forward. – Victor Kiam and Fruit Salad with Greek Yogurt Dressing

Photo by Susie Nelson

After two years of dragging that old elephant uphill, this past Saturday we picked up the keys to our new house.  Getting the news and signing the papers was like feeling our way through thick fog and seeing sunlight up ahead.  It was commented by those in attendance both Rick and I seemed unnaturally quiet about the whole thing.  Looking back over the past year and all it took to get this house, I think numb would have been the more appropriate adjective.  It took soooo long and happened so quickly we had no chance to absorb it all before the deal was sealed and done.  Saturday, however, I set off the cannons (you may have heard them).  Our real estate agent met us at the house with the keys, followed by mimosas and bowls of huge strawberries and cut tropical fruit.  On the kitchen counter was a gorgeous terrarium filled with delicate ferns and surrounded with stone birds. With all the time it took us to achieve our goal I was looking for at least a brass band and the key to the city.  The Obama’s didn’t call to offer their congratulations, but in all fairness the phones haven’t been turned on yet.

It is both daunting and exhilarating to sign one’s life away for thirty years.  Now begins the task of getting it move in ready, painting, and getting the yard in tow. This followed by moving the mountains of boxes and household goods sitting around me in boxes from here to there.  Boo, the Queen of Cats, will be most disconcerted, I am sure, as this is the only home she has known for the last seven years, and she is not one to have her life unsettled in any manner.  Once there, we will hope she will settle in after investigating every nook and cranny as she is prone to do, and discover new hiding spots and places to rest her furry head.

Moving from a space 4,500 square feet in dimension to one 1,600 square feet presents some obvious logistic problems.  Since one luxury we have had while waiting was time, many items deemed superfluous have been either sold or donated. Only those we felt might fit are waiting to be moved. This is a bonus for me, being chief cook and bottle water at our present residence and I’m sure the one following unless Rick replaces me in the upcoming week, having fewer items needing dusting or a place located for them is a definite bonus in my book.  Looking around our new house on Saturday, it is basically a “mini me” version of this one. Pine trees stand outside the window replacing our current view of the foothills and lake.   Squirrels run hither and yon across the wires overhead at our new location like a high wire troupe rehearsing for an upcoming performance. Slither and Slink, the reptiles I wrote about several blogs back, were not in evidence. Expecting them to appear any moment, my search didn’t extend much farther than peeking over the rail on the deck, for fear one or the other might sidle by to say hello.  Garter and gopher snakes are purportedly good to have in a yard as they keep the rodents at bay, so I’m told, and I should feel delighted to have them. I’ll leave that excitement to somewhere down the road when I find one sunning itself under a canopy of plants or scurrying over the top of my shoes.  Ach.

It is a bit crazy around here at the moment.  The phone rings more often than the aspirin dispensary in a migraine clinic.  My other half has threatened to grab his fishing pole and make for the hills on several occasions.  My response is to hand him another box or stack of clothes and remind him how much effort it took to get this far and to put a little whistle in his work.  My kitchen is half in and half out of the cupboards with dishes to be packed on counters and the larder revealing little of interest but a crumb of cracker lying here or there and several unopened cans of Chatty Catty Fish flavor suitable for the feline gourmet.

It seems with all this going on around me I have been reduced to writing about larvae and eating bugs, and cooking has taken a back burner, if you will, to others things taking precedence at the moment.  I will sign off for tonight with this lovely light summer salad with a hint of cinnamon.

I’m remembering my father on this Memorial Day as I always do.  He was in the R.C.A.F. when he died and is buried in a military cemetery in Ottawa, Ontario.  Although I never knew him really, as I was one and he twenty-five, I carry his genes, and according to my mother his sense of humor.  The men and women who defend our country are the thin line between us and the freedom and standard of security we continue to enjoy.  Have a wonderful and safe holiday weekend!

Fruit Salad with Greek Yogurt Dressing

1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted
Salt
1 graham cracker, crushed
1 1/2 cups red grapes, halved
1 1/2 cups green grapes, halved
1 cup raspberries
1/2 cup blackberries
1/2 cup blueberries
1 cup plain Greek yogurt
2 Tbsp. honey
1/2 tsp. lemon zest
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/8 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 pinch nutmeg

Toast nuts in skillet over med. heat until golden brown. Watch carefully as they will burn. Remove from heat and lightly sprinkle with salt.

Combine fruit in bowl. Distribute evenly in eight serving bowls.

Mix together yogurt, honey, lemon zest, vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg. Spoon 1/8 over top of fruit in each bowl. Dust with graham cracker crumbs and top with toasted almonds.

I’ve had so much plastic surgery, when I die they will donate my body to Tupperware. – Joan Rivers and Chicken Taco Salad

It seems lately every time I turn on the TV I see an over forty star with enough Botox pumping up her lips to provide buoyancy for a crew of sailors lost at sea.  Either that or their skin is pulled back so tightly it gives the impression they’ve recently stepped out of a centrifuge.  Truthfully, there is no way to stop the hands of time from moving in a forward direction.  After seeing what happens when plastic surgery turns ugly, I think I’ll let nature have her way with me.   Proper exercise, healthy eating (with a little chocolate, and a glass of wine thrown in to keep the balance) and laughter and love are how I’m going to approach the aging process.  If a few wrinkles or sags are thrown in for good measure, then so be it, I say.

We have become a nation obsessed with youth. Even men are jumping on the bandwagon.  Brows are smoothed, eyelids lifted, and adipose tissue siphoned out of overripe stomachs. Behinds are realigned, tans spray painted on, cheeks enhanced (both north and south), and eyebrows and eyeliner permanently applied.  Personally, I’m still holding out for Plan 2.  I say we begin old and as we gain wisdom progressively appear younger.  I like that scenario.  By the time we are imbued with enough intelligence to appreciate our world and be comfortable in our own skins, they’ll fit tightly around our bodies. It may be a write in, but it has my vote.

Last night I was watching a program on the history channel about composers.  It struck me how young many were when they died.  Mozart, Chopin, Bellini, Schubert, Mendelssohn plus others I’m sure, were all under forty, several just past thirty.  People today are living longer and longer, with a proposed age down the road of one hundred and fifty.  Now, if I can be vital and moving around without having to be oiled regularly like the Tin Man I’m all for it.  Food could become a serious concern if more of us were hanging around longer I would think.  Eventually, world watchers are saying, we will turn to insects for sustenance. Many cultures already have.  Perhaps my posts will include delicious recipes for earthworm quiche, or la cucaracha linguine. Ewwww. The thought of eating something I would normally squish if I spied it crawling up my leg, I don’t find palatable in any way.  Once I did try an offered chocolate covered ant.  There was no ant after taste, if you will, but not being an ant gourmand, I might not have recognized if there was.

In many areas of the world foods appear at the table we would not dream of eating in the States.  In Cambodia I understand fried tarantulas are quite the delicacy. Tourists travel there specifically to sample the hairy arachnids, served complete with fangs.  Yum.  What do you serve as a side with tarantula, fried lice (sorry sometimes I can’t help myself)?  Not of the insect family, but in Sweden (Viveka will speak to this I bet) they eat surstomminghe, or fermented Baltic herring. It is sold in cans in the markets there. Often once canned, the cans  swell as the fermentation process continues on the shelf. In Russia they have a traditional soup called Okroshka. The base of the soup is a carbonated wheat soft drink called “Kvas” which is incorporated with potatoes, cucumbers, milk sausage and eggs.  I had a friend from the Philipines when I lived in the Bay Area who told me his family ate Balot. Balot is a fertilized duck egg with a nearly developed embryo inside.  The embryo is boiled alive and eaten in the shell.  Hungry yet?

Grasshoppers are not uncommon in Japan.  Stewed, I believe is the preferred cooking method. It is also the condition I would need to be in to indulge in a meal with grasshoppers as the featured entrée.  It must take some effort to corral a group of grasshoppers.  From my observation getting just one under control takes the cat some time out in the yard.  Grasshoppers not your thing? You could increase your protein intake with some maggoty bee larvae.  Yum.

South Africa offers up Mopani worms, actually the are caterpillars.  Three times the protein value of beef, they are thankfully served buried in a mixture of onions and tomatoes.  I would prefer them simply buried. Scorpions are eaten in some regions of the globe, grubs and larvae common in others.  I even found recipes for banana worm bread and chocolate cricket chip cookies.  Delish.  So, if you’re sitting by the hearth and hear the familiar sound of a cricket rubbing its legs together don’t reach for the fly swatter or newspaper to toss him outside. Grab that mason jar, preheat the oven to 375 degrees, break out the chocolate chips and pour yourself a tall glass of cold milk.

As our population grows, the need for creative food resources will grow with it.  Boo the Cat is sitting on the chair behind me as I type this. I’ve noticed her looking over her shoulder uneasily on several occasions.  No doubt somebody has put cat in the pot with a couple of carrots out of necessity somewhere down the line. Whoops, Boo has left the building.

On my journey through the odd and mysterious foods currently popular, guinea pigs appeared unexpectedly.  Middle class foodies are apparently developing a taste for the endearing little squealers.  I’m sorry, but I used to own a guinea pig, Tilly.  I also had a hamster, Henrietta by name.  Henrietta suffered from an eating disorder, mainly she never stopped. Actually once she became wedged upside down in her Habitrail. We had to break the tube and remove her with pliers to set her free.  Very plump, she would have provided a serving for two. This brings to mind the movie “Never Cry Wolf” , one of my favorites.  A true story, based on the experiences of Farley Mowat, a government researcher sent to the Canadian tundra area to study effect of wolves in the region on the caribou population.  In his efforts to understand the thinking of the wolves, he decided to subsist on their diet, mainly field mice.  The wee rodents appeared on his plate cooked in every manner but “Mouse Wellington”.  Truly disgusting.

So, I guess we may face a change in our dietary habits somewhere in the future.  Most likely I will not be here to document it by the time you’re ready to pull those cricket chip cookies out of the oven.   Ah well.  Being a vegetarian is always a possibility, although the other day I read somewhere trees scream and plants make sounds when cut.  What’s left??

How I began with plastic surgery and ended with barbecued piggy I have no idea but here we are.

Chicken Taco Salad
4 large flour tortillas
1/4 cup water
1/8 cup of olive oil
2 cups cooked chicken, shredded
1 4 oz. can green chiles with juice
1/2 tsp. chili powder
1/4 tsp. ground cumin
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/4 tsp. garlic powder
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
2 Tbsp. chunky salsa, drained
1 head of lettuce, shredded
1 16 oz. can pinquitos or pinto beans, drained
1 cup Mexican cheese blend
4 campari tomatoes, diced
1/4 cup red onion, chopped
1/2 English cucumber, peeled, seeded and diced
1/4 cup ripe olives
2 avocados, peeled, halved lengthwise and sliced
Squeeze of fresh lime
Salt and pepper

Dressing

1/2 cup Pace Picante Sauce
1/2 cup low-fat sour cream
1 Tbsp. chunky salsa (med or hot)
1 Tbsp. ranch dressing
1-5 drops of hot sauce depending on heat desired or omit

Whisk together all ingredients and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

In large mixing bowl combine cooked chicken, chilies with juice, chili powder, cumin, salt, pepper, garlic powder, cayenne pepper and chunky salsa. Mix well. Salt and pepper to taste and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Take large sheet of heavy-duty tin foil and form over the bottom of a bowl. Remove from bowl and shape as desired. Place mold on cookie sheet open side down.

Mix water and oil together in large bowl. Quickly dip one tortilla in oil/water mixture. Allow excess liquid to drain. Fold tortilla over mold. Place in oven and allow to get golden brown, about 6-8 mins. Repeat with other three tortillas. You can make two molds and do these two at a time if desired.

Heat beans in small saucepan over med. heat. Keep warm. Slice avocados and squeeze lime juice over top. Set aside.

Place 1/4 chopped lettuce in the bottom of each bowl. Top with 1/4 of the beans. Follow with 1/2 cup of chicken mixture. Layer on top of chicken as follows in each bowl: cheese, cucumber, tomatoes, red onions, and black olives. Garnish with avocado slices. Serve with dressing.

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch – we are going back from whence we came. – John F. Kennedy and Hot Pastrami Sandwiches with Tarragon Mustard

Photo by Susie Nelson

Today I am missing the ocean.  Always I feel tied to it, gulls circling and the mingling smells of salt and seaweed. Waves sang me my first lullaby. Windswept east coach coastlines imprinted my memory before I left my last deposit in a diaper.  I’ve told you before, or not,  if new to my writing, when I find a stretch of beach I sit where the moist sand lies just beyond the greedy fingers of the incoming waves. Using the sand for a medium, and a stick for a sculpting tool, I create a line of sea turtles to mark my passing there.  Beachcombers often stop to comment on my artwork.  Perhaps a grown woman making turtles in the sand might seem a curiosity. Some sit in the warm sand next to me and strike up a conversation discussing their lives or commenting on the weather.  My turtles leave a part of me to be swept up with the incoming tide and incorporated into the vastness of the sea to share space with the other strange inhabitants.

If it wasn’t for the mystifying fact I’ve been accused of “over loving” my fish by a pet store employee following the untimely demise of my second beta, I would own an aquarium.  That and Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats, finds fish her favorite in her assortment of treats. There is something soothing and incredibly soul calming about watching fish swim back and forth gracefully behind their glass walls. To observe them peering out from time to time to inspect those peering in at them.  “What big eyes you have Grandma”, they must be thinking, for to them we must look the oddity with our distorted features and huge heads.  As a youngster I owned several aquariums.  My only pets, as I was an apartment dweller, I took their care seriously. Diligently I cleaned their tank and fed them without any coaxing.  A melange of guppies, black mollys, angel fish, neon tetras, a couple of snails and a frog existed in my murky depths . A classmate visiting after school, far more world wise then myself at ten, informed me one of my guppys appeared to be expecting.  Not fully sure as yet what precipitated such an event, I watched in fascination as her lower abdomen distended, anxiously awaiting delivery of my new charges. Unfortunately, nobody forewarned me the male of the species view their offspring as a light lunch. I was suitably horrified when the big day came to find the father sucking up the newborns like a floating vacuum as fast as they emerged.  My first experience with the harsh realities of the animal kingdom.

In pursuit of ocean centered vacations, I’ve had the pleasure of finding myself in Hawaii four times.  On my third trip, the longest, I visited four islands in the same number of weeks.  Other than a three day layover in Hilo, where it poured buckets with no rental cars to be had, it was a glorious trip.  Our stay began in Oahu. Once we’d satisfied our yen for touristy attractions and nightlife, we boarded a small island hopper to Maui.  While in Maui, we stayed in the Napili Kai Beach club.  Built in the 1950′s by a Canadian, the resort is situated on the west side of the island, somewhat more secluded than the more mainstream resorts. During our stay, we visited Lahaina often, leaving some money behind in their eclectic art galleries and languishing over lunch watching artists painting in the marina.  On our second day, we swam with the whales breeching and playing just beyond the break line.  If you would have asked me at that moment to pack my bags and move to a hut on the beach, I would have signed over my house on the mainland without hesitation and taken up residence.

Kauai was listed next on our ticket.   You could feel the pace slow when you stepped off the plane.  If relaxing is what you’re into to, Kauai is the place to be.  At the concierge desk we purchased tickets for the Wailua River Boat Cruise which winds through what is touted as the “Grand Canyon of the Pacific”. Besides the natural beauty all around, the trip makes memorable stops as at the Fern Grotto where couples may exchange vows in the huge cave beneath a canopy of lush ferns, if matrimonally inclined. Looking back I can remember being fascinated by an elderly lady sitting directly across from me in the boat.  A lovely woman with a broad cockney accent, who chatted me up often during the trip.  Dressed in a muumuu splashed with bright tropical blooms made with enough material to substitute for a bed sheet, she accessorized her outfit with thick support hose rolled just above the knees. Even in the most intense blizzard, it would have been impossible to overlook  her. Whether due to her generously cut body, the humidity, or her lack of inhibition, she insisted on sitting knees far apart making it necessary to maintain eye contact at all times while sharing a conversation.  Most memorable, however, were the mutton-chop whiskers growing out of both sides of her lower jowls.  It is a sad statement I recall this as a highlight of my trip, but then, she did have a wicked sense of humor and she was my first and only, at least as of this writing, encounter with a bearded lady.

Fully relaxed after Kauai, our final days were to be spent on the big island of Hawaii. Landing first in Kona and then on to Hilo.  Our hotel perched on a cliff high above the surf . Snorkeling classes and a catamaran ride to a state park to swim with the fishes was advertised on a sign in the massive lobby.  Before I’d unpacked my bag, I’d signed us up for snorkeling lessons the following day.

We met by the pool after breakfast had settled.  Assigned the appropriate gear, a young islander spent several hours patiently teaching us novices how to breathe properly and purge the air out of the snorkel shaft to remain under the surface.  Regardless of spending half my life in the water it took me a while and several good aspirations of pool water to get the hang of it. By the time we’d boarded our cat with its vividly colored sails swelling in the wind, I felt confident I had conquered the basics and was eager to begin.

Reaching our destination, the skipper dropped anchor in a glorious bay.  Water there was so clear fish could be seen swimming below where the sun cut through the surface.  Life jackets secured, and fins and snorkel in place we dropped into the water like raindrops into a bucket.  Below the surface was like slipping into another dimension.  Seahorses swam up to investigate the new visitors and fish so vivid in color as to not seem real peered at us through eyes rotating on the sides of their heads.  At one point a huge school of fish swam past me. For a moment I became part of them before they veered as if one unit to the side and disappeared out of eyesight.  What seemed like seconds rather than hours later, we returned to the catamaran for roast pig and tropical drinks.  Definitely do it if you’re there and are offered the chance.  It’s a memory I highly recommend.

I’ve added a new header for a change of pace.  Better or did you prefer the original??  This mustard goes on many things at our house, but particularly like it on these hearty sandwiches.

Hot Pastrami Sandwiches with Tarragon Mustard

1 lb. pastrami heated
4 hard sandwich rolls
2 Tbsp. butter, softened
Pickles
4 slices horseradish cheese

Tarragon Mustard

1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/8 cup sour cream
2 tsp. tarragon
1 tsp. fresh thyme (or 1/2 tsp. dried thyme)
1 tsp. chopped fresh parsley (or 1/2 tsp. parsley flakes)
4 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper to taste

Whisk all ingredients together and refrigerate 1 hour before serving.

Heat oven to broil. Cut rolls in half lengthwise and spread butter over cut halves. Place on cooking sheet cut halves up and heat until golden brown. Remove from oven and place horseradish cheese on top half of browned buns. Return only the top halves to the oven and cook until cheese is bubbly.

Slather tarragon mustard on bottom half of buns. Top with hot pastrami. Serve with dill pickle spears.

Don’t underestimate the value of doing nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering. – A. A. Milne and Spinach Pesto Chicken Roll-Ups

Summer is threatening to be hot this year, not that last year was mild.  High temperatures above normal this early in the game do not bode well for what June and July have tucked away in their bag of tricks.  Perhaps it’s hailing from Nova Scotia, or just a personal fetish, but the full heat of summer is not my favorite time of year.  Fire danger living up in the mountains is always a concern, and with blackouts not uncommon on peak usage days, if you don’t have a pool to cool off in the only choice available for respite is often marinating in your own juices.

As a teen, summer was the best.  School out for three months, nothing but time on my hands. Fortunate enough to have a pool in my backyard, and the glorious span of Southern California beaches lying but an hour’s drive from my house, advertisements for heaven couldn’t have offered much more.  Tanning solutions were concocted in baby oil bottles doctored with a few shots of iodine for color.  Pool chairs appeared from sheds, and umbrellas were erected in the center of patio tables.  I loved it all.  Back then we ran our lives by the motto “ignorance is bliss”.  Nobody worried about skin cancer, because we didn’t have enough knowledge about the subject to strike fear in our hearts.  Tan faces and bodies were expected during the summer months, extolled.  Girls compared tan lines seeing who was the brownest and if you were losing the race, another layer of baby oil and another three hours uninterrupted sun exposure quickly remedied the situation.

I sought out the coast as often as my wallet could front the gas.  My best friend had the use of her brother’s restored 57′ Chevy while he finished his stint in the military. Bikinis and shades in place and friends in tow we packed the car to capacity and headed down Beach Boulevard in the direction of Hungtington, Newport, Laguna, or Seal Beaches many times during the summer break. Our salad days were spent body surfing in the waves of the azure Pacific, playing volley ball in the sand, or giggling on blankets while flirting with the male population who flocked there expressly for the purpose of flirting with us.

In the year of my 16th birthday I got a work permit.  Not one to sit around gathering wool, I quickly accepted a job at a bakery after school.  As an aside here, a perk for hawking donuts was employees were invited to partake of the sticky calorie laden inventory at will.  At first glance to a teen this was tantamount to winning the lottery. Throw in a date with Elvis and I would have been set for life. A smart move by the management, in the end it proved an excellent deterrent.  Once I’d eaten my 100th or so sticky bun, I felt the need to indulge in another most probably would never arise in my life again.  I believe this led to my virtual lack of a sweet tooth to this day and also necessitated some fairly extensive dental work before my 21st birthday.  Just before we said goodbye to school the following June, the bakery experienced a fire. The inventory along with my job went up in a huge poof of black smoke.  One of the fireman interviewed by a local newscaster commented, “although saddened by the loss of one of one of the town’s small businesses, I have to say it was one of the best smelling fires I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting out”. Words to live by.

Inspired by my need for summer funding, I jumped at a chance to work at a Christian summer camp for eight weeks as a kitchen assistant.  The camp itself was located high up in the San Bernardino mountains. Catering to high school students, according to the color brochure, camp personnel were all about the business of building “young people’s minds, bodies, and spirits”.  On the Saturday prior to the opening of the camp gates, employees met at a pre-arranged meeting point. New employees and repeat performers boarded a bus looking to have been constructed prior to Teddy Roosevelt’s storming San Juan Hill and driven by a man quite possibly old enough to have wielded a sword during the battle.  Despite my misgivings about our mode of transportation, it was a heady experience to watch my mother’s face disappear in the plumes of the substantial exhaust fumes. For many staff members, including myself, it was the first time living away from home. My duffel bag stocked with insect repellent, Johnny Mathis records, and an adequate supply of Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies all I could think was, “Free at last! Thank God Almighty we’re free at last”.

Following a brief initiation speech by the camp leaders, the kitchen staff was dispatched to learn the rules of the kitchen and how to prep the food before campers were to arrive . The kitchen was massive in size, with two huge walk in freezers.  Burners and grill were to be manned by two head chefs we nicknamed “Mutt and Jeff” due to their considerable difference in height and personality. Once introductions were completed, the rest of us were assigned stations and familiarized with our duties. Free time was to be after prep and before meal service. Divided into two crews, on alternating days one crew stayed to help clean up the mess left behind by the campers.  This proved to be a daunting task, with food fights the norm, and the camp’s thicker than paste oatmeal being stashed in every available orifice or unsuspecting potted plant.  All in all, it was a fun summer for me.  I fell in love, then out again, and back in again with someone new.  I learned I could stray away from the nest, spread my wings and keep from plummeting to earth without my parents to guide me. I danced under the stars, got some cooking tips, slid down a fire trail with a brown bear snorting not far behind me, and donated enough blood to the local mosquitos for them to start their own blood bank.

So in celebrating summers approach I will slather myself with suntan lotion, put on enough protective gear to ward off a hive of bees and enjoy the sunny days ahead.

This dish looks so pretty on the plate and is crispy and delicious. Another quick meal leaving the impression you spent hours in the kitchen, when in fact you were sitting by the pool drinking Mai Tai’s.

Spinach Pesto Chicken Roll-Ups

2 large boneless
8 slices prosciutto
1 cup packed fresh baby spinach
1/3 cup fresh sage leaves
1/3 cup pecorino cheese, grated
1/4 cup EV olive oil
2 Tbsp. pine nuts, toasted
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Vitamin C tablet (to keep pesto bright green)
Kosher salt
Black pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Heat small skillet over med. heat. Add pine nuts. Stirring or swishing in pan often, cook about 5 mins. or until nicely browned. Watch carefully to prevent burning. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly.

Pound chicken breasts to 1/2″ thickness between two pieces of plastic wrap. Cut each breast in half.

In food processor puree spinach, sage leaves, pecorino cheese, pine nuts, garlic, lemon juice and Vitamin C tablet. Season with Kosher salt and black pepper to taste.

Spray bottom of baking dish with cooking spray.

Spread 1/4 of pesto in down center of each piece of chicken lengthwise.

Fold chicken like a taco. Wrap two pieces of prosciutto around each piece and secure with toothpick.Place in prepared baking dish. Bake for 20 mins. or until meat thermometer registers 165 and procuitto is crisp.