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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things: of shoes and ships – and sealing wax – of cabbages and kings. – Lewis Carroll and Zucchini Hummus

Today I went shopping for groceries and came home with five bags of groceries and a new pair of sandals.  When I am stressed or feeling uneasy about something two things help to make it better, chocolate and shoes.  Mind you I did not need a new pair of shoes.  In actual fact, like others of my kind I only have two feet. Try as I might these two feet alone, no matter how adept at keeping me erect, could never accommodate the shoes already residing on the floor of my closet waiting to be filled.  However, I’m feeling much better about my world knowing these little bejeweled sandals are mine. They were on sale, so as I explained to my other half, practically free.

My other half does not seem to comprehend fully the “on sale” hypothesis, nor does he view this as a viable reason for purchasing something you do not need.  Several times I have endeavored to explain the concept to him complete with reviewing store brochures, explanation of savings margins, and even factoring in the “fad quotient”,  which in layman’s terms means, “if you bought it twenty minutes ago, it is now outdated”.  Still, he seems to hold to the premise if you already have twenty pairs of shoes and only two feet, this should keep your feet covered for some years to come, unless, naturally, new feet begin to grow then he promised to revisit the discussion along with explore getting me a spot on Letterman.  Try as I might he refuses to see a clear picture when it comes to this subject. So, my work here is done. Even at my most persuasive, I cannot move a rock with an ice cream stick.  I’m just sayin.

For the most part I am a fairly thrifty being.   Several months after I first met Rick he and I went shopping to fill a grocery list for a party he was planning.  Somewhat of a high roller I thought when it came to his choice in foods. As we walked the aisles the cart was filled with expensive cheeses and high-end olives and appetizers.  By the time we arrived at the check stand he looked down to find several baguettes, a flat of steaks, two boxes of mushrooms, a bunch of fresh asparagus and a bag of red potatoes.  Without even realizing it, used to several years of stringent budgeting, I had unconsciously put all the unnecessary items back on the shelves.  That, he said, was the deciding moment for him.  I was definitely the woman of his dreams. When things were tight for me financially in the years when my children and I were on our own, I had a system which worked beautifully for cutting spending.  If I saw something my heart really desired, I would load it in the cart to enjoy while I did the rest of my shopping.  Before paying for my items I would return the object of my affection to its rightful spot in the store, say my goodbyes, and purchase the things I actually needed.  I guess some of that frugality lingers beneath the surface in my makeup because even now I think a while before tossing something frivolous in the cart.  Rick will report to you, however, under his tutelage I have made great progress in overcoming this handicap over the years, as would be reflected in our monthly grocery bills.

Growing up I can remember my mother being a bit of a spendthrift.  Not entirely her fault really, for she was raised in an affluent household with little denied her.  As she will recall, even during the war years in the 1940′s when luxuries were hard to come by, she felt little in the way of deprivation other than perhaps suffering a shortage of nylons or chocolate.  Although many foodstuffs were rationed, my grandfather was a physician with many farmers listed as patients on his accounts receivable list, so spring lamb, newly butchered poulets, fresh eggs and seasonal vegetables arrived at the doorstep even in the leanest of times.

Born with an innate sense of good taste, Mother really should have pursued a career as an interior designer or personal shopper so she could spend other people’s money.  On our shopping expeditions together these days, I am the one holding up the white flag on behalf of my feet, long before she’s ready to quit and go home. In high school, bags from the mall were smuggled in while my stepfather tended his beloved rose bushes in the back yard. Stashed in the closet or attic crawl space they were reintroduced later as “this old thing” or “that, I bought it last summer”.  Drawn into the subterfuge by blood ties, I remained mum hoping no questions came my direction.  A terrible liar, I literally lose a dress size in perspiration when interrogated, making detection inevitable. Although my parents earning scale would have been considered upper middle class for the time, we lived on the teetering edge of disaster most days, each paycheck accounted for before the ink was dry on the signature.

Mother compensated for her joy of spending by working hard, bringing home a tidy paycheck.  Rarely do I remember her taking a day off, and our house, in her defense, was always beautifully appointed and a pleasure to walk into, our food beautifully prepared and presented, and my closet was never lacking for something to make the hangers feel they still had a job to do.  For my stepfather, keeping up with the expenses meant scrambling every summer, as his principle job was, well, principal. He could choose to have his salary distributed equally over twelve months at a lessor amount each month or get paid more for nine months with no paycheck during the summer. With the spending on full throttle, the latter became the necessary option. The man sold Kirby vacuum cleaners door to door, extension courses, worked in a gas station pumping gas, redeemed tickets at the movie theater, and scanned the papers and magazines every weekend in search of every get rich quick scheme out there or any contest requiring no purchase to enter.

In the end they taught me well with regard to money, in a backwards kind of way.  I learned to respect money, enjoy it, and most certainly learned the work ethic to earn it. I also learned not to keep too tight of an eye on it while at the same time not letting control of it get out of my sight completely. All in all I am certainly not rolling around in bills tossed in the center of my king sized mattress but I’ve formed a friendship with my finances and found I can live well with quite a bit in the bank and equally as well with just enough.

This hummus came to me via a friend’s pool party recently. It is so quick to put together and a lighter touch served with vegetables rather than pita chips or pita pockets, although good with both. When I make tahini for falafels, I freeze the extra tahini in small bags to be used down the road for hummus. Lovely on the patio in the summertime.  Happy Mother’s Day!

Zucchini Hummus

1 1/2 medium zucchini, sliced thin lengthwise
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 can garbonzo beans (chickpeas) rinsed and drained
3 cloves garlic, quartered
3 Tbsp. tahini
3 Tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste
Sliced vegetables or pita chips for dipping

Heat 1 Tbsp. olive oil over med-high heat. Add sliced zucchini to pan. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Brown on one side for about 3 mins. Turn over and repeat. Cook until fork tender watching not to burn. Remove from heat and let cool slightly.

Coarsely chop zucchini. Add chickpeas, garlic, tahini, lemon juice and zucchini to food processor. Puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper.

Serve with pita chips or sliced vegetables.

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In search of my mother’s garden, I found my own. Alice Walker and A Dilly of a Potato Salad

Photos by Susie Nelson

My mother is a rock in my garden.  Always has been.  At the age of one when my father died, she took my small hand in hers and since that time we have faced the good and bad in our lives, the birth of my children, her grandchildren, the marriages left behind and those coming up, together. 2013 did not start out well for our small band with the passing of my stepfather.  Will, a decorated World War II pilot, commercial pilot, jazz pianist, tennis player extraordinaire, and father of three is much missed in our circles.  For my mother, this was the end of yet another chapter in her life, and the opening of a new one.  Encircled by a ring of friends and loved ones she struggled with her loss after the activities involved in saying goodbye to one who has passed are over, and the business of getting on with living without them must be faced.  It is a lonely place to find yourself.

As is often said about aging parents, the rolls can subtlety shift between parent and child as the years progress. At some point adult children may be required to take the baton from their parents and find themselves in the position of caretaker rather than visa versa.  It has been a difficult time this transition.  Mother, fiercely independent, while at the same time fearful in some ways, wants to maintain her life in the home she shared with Will.  Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is although the house is the same, and she the same in it, the fact that Will is not there makes everything vastly different.  Grief is something none of us can escape. If we exist for any amount of time on this earth, no matter how much wealth we have amassed, our standing in the community, or how good or giving a person we are, we cannot avoid facing loss at one point or another. No aide, friend, family member, or paid associate can assume this burden for us. It is a personal journey.

Usually I am the one in the family carrying the solution book. This time I have to admit I don’t have all the answers. We speak four times a day. I visit as often as possible, as there are four hours driving distance between us.  I encourage outside activities, having friends over, getting a roommate (already tried unsuccessfully), moving in with us, and taking up a hobby.  The truth is, for the last ten years my mother focused on taking care of her husband and now he is gone she is trying to figure out where her piece fits in the puzzle without connecting to his piece. Each day, however, things seem a little brighter for her.  Time, as it will, has a way of taking the edge off of memories, allowing us to view them with less pain, even embrace them with joy.

As the Baby Boomer generation moves up in the ranks this conundrum is going to become a familiar one.  Living longer as a rule, the scenario I’m describing above will repeat itself over and again.  Unless by an act of God, one parent is going to leave before another and some parents either by choice, or providence will have no partners entering their golden years.  I feel extremely fortunate my mother is here with us in all ways, her batteries fully charged. I learn from her every day about how I want to be when I reach her age and what I want to do now to plan ahead.  Hopefully I inherited some of her strengths, undoubtedly some of her weaknesses, nearly all of her stubbornness (and I passed that on in spades), as well as undeniably bearing witness to the fact every time I see my reflection in the mirror I am carrying her genes forward as will my offspring and theirs.

One thing I have noted, it is important to create your own happiness.  The world will not stop to dry your tears and the harsh reality is that once the dust has cleared after someone has passed on, others return to their lives, which is as it should be.  Attitude and willingness to continue learning and exploring have a great deal to do with, I believe, the success of full life once you have reached the golden years.  Waking up each day with a positive outlook and making use of the time allotted you constructively and with enthusiasm rather than sitting on the couch waiting for your arteries to harden or living in a past which is exactly as described, passed. Not simply filling time, but actually living.

People are remaining in the work force longer than before.  Work, as I continually remind my grandchildren, will not kill you.  Perhaps in the case of older citizens if can even be a catalyst for keeping a person involved and vital. This is not a credo I have been able to successfully drum into my grandchildren’s heads as yet, but then if you can’t get them to look up from their iPad, what really is the point of wasting the air?  One granddaughter recently took an after school job at a dollar store.  Her work schedule requires her to be on site three days a week for four hours.  After the first day she informed her mother the work was excruciatingly hard, she was misunderstood, totally stressed, and took to her bed.  Further, she described the position as practically slave labor where employees weren’t permitted to receive or send phone calls or texts, and there was no lunch break, only a ten minute break mid-shift.  This made me smile.  Perhaps I need to ship her over to India or China to work alongside children far younger than herself who toil in the sweat shops for pennies a day. Stooped over for a  twelve-hour day in a hot warehouse, often without benefit of a chair to sit in, the cell phone issue may take on far less importance.

All generations have their issues.  It has been said of the younger generation since the first group of elders they would amount to nothing, and yet we continue to progress.  So, this Mother’s Day, I am saluting my Mom the best Mom/Dad combination going, all the mom’s to be, and those already signed up.  Take the time to remember Mom, it is always appreciated. Mom’s come in all shapes and sizes, their loves transcends one species to another, and is endless and unconditional. Hope your day is special and the love abundant.

This potato salad is creamy and delicious. Do not undercook potatoes as they will be like pellets, and overcooked like mush. Keep an eye on them. A fork should be easily inserted.

 

A Dilly of a Potato Salad

15 medium russet potatoes
1 red onion, chopped
3/4 cup celery, chopped
4 dill pickle spears, seeded and diced
2/3 cup mayonnaise
1/3 cup sour cream
1/4 cup milk
1 tsp. lemon juice
2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
2 Tbsp. whole-grain mustard
2 Tbsp. dill
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper

Place the potatoes in jackets in large pot. Cover amply with water. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and cook on high simmer for 20 mins. or until potatoes are fork tender. Remove with slotted spoon and allow to cool.

In small bowl mix together milk and 1 tsp. lemon juice. Allow to sit for 10 mins.

In small mixing bowl whisk together mayonnaise, sour cream, milk/lemon juice, Dijon mustard, whole-grain mustard,dill, salt and pepper. Refrigerate until ready to use.

When potatoes are cool, peel and dice into large bowl. Add onion, celery and pickles. Incorporate dressing into vegetables until well mixed and desired consistency. You may have some dressing left over. (I used extra dressing for dipping slices of cucumber.) Season to taste.

Spoon into serving bowl and sprinkle with paprika or decorate with a slice of red onion and thin slices of dill pickle spears as shown above.

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Some men like to make a little garden out of life and walk down a path. – Jean Anouilh and Spicy Crockpot White Bean Chicken Chili

Photo by Susie Nelson

Our neighbors to the right suffered the loss of their patriach over the holidays, leaving his elderly wife and son living in the house.  Noticing the always beautiful garden lying fallow made me sad, so I was delighted to see a gardening service truck pull up to their curb.  In the vernacular of Two Men and a Truck or Three Men and a Baby, these guys had the name “Three Men and a Blower” pasted on the side of their vehicle.  I have been around a few years and never have I seen a crew of landscapers this long in the tooth.  It took them fifteen minutes to shuffle along from the curb to the front door.  I had to give them an “A” for azalea, however, for still being employed at their age, and moreover at a labor intense job such as gardening. The shortest of the trio, also appearing to be the oldest, wore a sweat stained straw hat. The man was locked  in a permanent stoop forcing his head down toward his shoes. Where his arms were exposed beneath his short sleeved shirt the skin seemed almost shiny in appearance like well tanned leather. Either the years of constant sun exposure, or perhaps life in general, had forged deep furrows along his cheeks leaving him with the appearance of a dried apple head doll a tourist might purchase in a Mazatlan tienda (store).

As I passed the window the next several hours busying myself with clearing the dishwasher and folding laundry, the three men continued to toil in the garden at a pace giving even the snails most likely hiding in the ivy beneath their feet an opportunity for escape before being crushed by their heavy work boots. If paid by the hour this was shaping up to be a real pruning, if you know what I mean.

Around mid afternoon I was expected downtown for a doctor’s appointment.  Quickly showering, I hopped in my car and backed out of the garage.  In the rear view mirror the three men were still visible.  To explain the configuration of our yard, the road is up a flight of stairs from the level of our house.  Besides ourselves, three other houses share a common driveway, the only egress to the road.  The house where the men were working is the last one in our group before reaching road level.  In the middle of the driveway blocking my exit stood the bent gentlemen precariously balancing an armful of yard clippings.  Never in my life have I seen a human being move more slowly.  His movements so imperceptible I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t frozen in the spot where he stood never to move again.  Not wanting to startle him, I leaned out the window and yelled “excuse me”.  Nothing.  Hmmmm.  One of the other two workers fired up a blower making repeating myself seem an unlikely resolution to the problem.  Getting out, I approached him from the back and gently tapped him on the shoulder.  Like someone had released his arms from being constricted by a rubber band his hands flew up in the air releasing the lawn cuttings once again on the driveway and in the cup of his hat.  Not looking up, well, because he could not, and though I couldn’t see his expression, I had a feeling this didn’t sit well with him.  He muttered something in Spanish. Fortunately, my four years in Spanish class hadn’t, I am sure, taught me this particular phrase. Waving his hat to shake out the grass, he began to walk toward one side so I could pass.  Ten minutes later he reached it. I waved an apology as I passed. I can’t say for sure but I believe he offered me the international signal of good will as I drove by.

Thinking of the three gentlemen as I drove, my mind wandered to Mexico. How long it has been since I’ve crossed the border for a visit.  As a teen going to Tijuana, T.J., as we called it, was an activity saved for warm summer days, and convertibles. At the border clad in shorts and huaraches we flowed along  with the river of tourists heading through the gates at the border and into the dusty downtown area. Touristy shops were everywhere, sustaining the lifestyle of those making their homes in the surrounding area. Before long shopping bags were filled with colorful velvet bulls, leather wallets, and huge paper flowers to take home as souvenirs. Being young and incredibly stupid, we ate juicy slices of fresh watermelon from the stands on the streets never giving a second thought to the flies landing and taking off the pieces of fruit as like planes on an aircraft carrier might be adding to our systems. Walking along the seemier side streets, smoke wafted out from beneath swinging doors and behind those doors music and laughter from bar patrons whiling away their troubles over a cool cerveza on a hot afternoon. Rumors of what went on beyond those doors remained rumors to us because no one dared venture behind the doors to confirm or deny them.

Once shopping was done and if a piece of the day was still ours, we would sometimes turn south to drive down the coast to catch a swim at one of the beautiful beaches.  It was an interesting area to visit.  Such sharp angular contrasts between the beauty of the shoreline and the evidence of extreme poverty everywhere you rested your eyes.  Rosarita Beach was one of my favorite rest stops, popular with American ex-patriots and tourists alike.  Street merchants dogged your steps while you walked through the shopping areas.  Beautiful linen tablecloths, mirrors of pounded tin, watches, and warm blankets were offered for a bit of bargaining, flung over arms or showcased on the backs of the chairs as you sat and enjoyed a bottled water or lemonade.

For me the colors were vibrant there, and the people despite their challenges, easy to smile, sing and dance.  I’ve taken two cruises to Mexico and would like to go again some day.  Another notch on my bucket list.

This chili was great.  I did it in the crockpot because it doesn’t heat up the house and it’s hands free easy.  Enjoy.  I’m taking a break for a week or two, Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Spicy Crockpot White Bean Chicken Chili

3 large boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 1/2 cups onion, chopped
1 1/2 green pepper, chopped
2 cloves garlic
1 7 oz. can pickled jalapeno slices, drained
1 4 oz. can chopped green chiles
3 16 oz. jars salsa verde
1 cup chicken broth
2 tsp. ground cumin
2 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1 15 1/2 oz. can white beans, rinsed and drained
1 15 1/2 oz. can canneloni beans, rinsed and drained
1 1/2 cups sour cream
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, minced
2 cups white rice (optional)

Garnish

Green onions
Avocados
Monterey Jack cheese
Tortillas chips, crushed

Spray 6 quart crockpot with cooking spray. Place vegetables on bottom of pot. Top with chicken breasts. Sprinkle jalapenos and chiles over top. Mix together chicken, cumin, chili powder, salt and black pepper. Pour over top. Cook on low for 8 hrs. Remove chicken from pot and shred with a fork. Return to pot.

Add beans, sour cream and cilantro to crockpot. Cover and cook on high for 1 hr. until all ingredients are heated. Serve as is with garnish or over cooked white rice.

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I used to believe in reincarnation, but that was long ago, in another life. – David Schinbeckler and Cinco de Mayo Omelet with Two-Tone Chunky Salsa

Photo by Susie Nelson

Life  is chocked full of lessons.  From our first breath the learning begins, a pattern which is to continue until we breath our last, or for all we know beyond time as we understand it.   By the time the candles are smoking on our first birthday cake , we are probably aware touching something hot burns, biting does not make our mother giggle, and when shrouded in wet pants if you yell loud enough someone will shortly arrive on the scene to provide you with dry ones. Lessons.

As we progress through school we are instructed to be quiet in class. If we don’t heed that lesson, we are taught quickly what the inside of the dean’s office looks like. Not handing in our homework gives us the inside skinny on what our father’s face might look like all scrinched up and purpley when report cards are sent home.  Earning our driver’s license makes it quickly apparent police officers have a number of lessons to teach us. Parking in the loading and unloading zone at the airport, driving after that third margarita, and texting your best friend when your hands are on the wheel all come with a lesson. If we continue to ignore the lessons posed for us, the consequences can become somewhat greater and the risks gain more magnitude.

Lessons always bring me to ponder reincarnation. As you climb over the hump of mid-life you become more curious about what lies on the other side of the hill.  When you are young, you exist with the fallacy you always will be so, but as you age you find you want to examine all options available to you. If I were to wholly embrace the philosophy of reincarnation, I might perceive it as a concept for repeat offenders. Those of us who have not graduated as yet, if you will.  Maybe the lessons we have already learned are not to be repeated, only those we’ve failed to conquer.  It is an interesting can of worms, this line of thinking.  If we do come back, am I to assume we do so as different people? Logic says we cannot be the same, but is this an issue of logic? Yet another question. Would our personalities be different or only our outward persona?  Do we return in human form, or possibly find ourselves hopping across a field two yards ahead of a fox, ducking under the fence at Mr. McGregor’s vegetable patch?  If one allows themselves to follow this trail it is best to leave breadcrumbs in your wake because it can wind and twist in so many different directions you might never find your way back to where you began.

Curious beings by nature, we humans struggle  for answers to the world’s oldest unanswered questions.  We search in the stars, books of religion, within our own minds, and in the minds of others. Books on the subject are consumed voraciously creating more books with possible conclusions or answers to those posed in the first group. Compared to what we do know, what we do not is uncomprehensively vast and shrouded in conjecture and hypotheses.  Sometimes I get on the following train, a destination generally leading to a migrane.   Humans live on earth.  Earth exists within a plantetary system.  The planetary system exists within a universe.  The universe exists within …………uh?   I prefer to cook.  The eggs exist in the refrigerator.  When I remove them and crack them they exist in the bowl.  Once mixed I pour them into a skillet where they exist in the pan.  Once cooked I eat them and they exist in my digestive system.  Where they go from there is a thought I don’t care to ponder, unless naturally they don’t reappear which is always cause for concern.

If, by some miracle, a messenger came to you offering you the unique opportunity to open the book of life as it was truly written, and turn the pages, would you accept?  Would it take the mystique out of existence to be armed with all the answers to it’s source?  Perhaps it would be like going on a first date in your underwear and old tee shirt and falling asleep after dessert.  Too much information before you are ready to digest it may make the journey forward more difficult.  As for me, I’m not sure what I’d do.  My innate curiosity might compel me to open the cover, but my fear of being the only one to possess such weighty knowledge might dissuade me before I read the first line.

If we are the reigning monarchs of the animal kingdom, are we also the only members who suffer from the ills of the seven deadly sins?  Are starlings, in fact envious or rattlesnakes avaricious?  Do you ever wonder if the monkeys at the zoo find us more amusing then we find them?  Looking through the bars presents the same effect regardless of which side you happen to be standing on.  Perhaps it is they who are examining us?  Do fish think?  If so, what about?  Are some wart hogs cuter than others, or are they all equally as sexy to another of their kind?   Why do elephants gestate for 22 months, only three times the amount of time necessary to create a human baby?  It would seem if it takes nine months to build a human weighing, say, nine pounds, shouldn’t it take about thirty years to produce a baby elephant weighing in at around 260? There’s no logic to the world, or perhaps the perfect logic.  You must have questions.  If not, I have many you may borrow.

In my mind we were assigned these amazing thinking devices implanted between our ears tucked beneath their protective shells precisely to be used for questioning.  If we did not do just that, I would be writing this with a stick in the stand, and the air conditioning wouldn’t be humming along in the background.

I would be most interested in hearing your views on this.  Certainly I am not eschewing any particular brand of thinking, more doing a little exploring outside of the box.

Oh, as an update on the frog situation, peace at last has come to our backyard, and I haven’t sighted one locust on the horizon.  However, I did receive an email from the seller’s real estate agent today of the house we are hoping to buy.  It seems the former owner thought I should know when gardening to be on the look out for Slither and Slink, apparently a gopher and garter snake who are co-inhabitants of the property.  She went on to say they are very fond of winding in and out of your legs while you’re pruning and often sit and sun themselves to offer company.  Are you kidding me!  OMG.

In honor of Cinco de Mayo thought I’d share this particular omelet recipe.  We discovered this particular omelet when I had leftover hamburger meat after making tacos.  My other half suggested tucking the meat inside some eggs and we’ve been enjoying it regularly since he did.  Sounds strange, tastes delicious.  I bake up some homemade tortilla chips and we’re good to go.

Photos by Susie Nelson

Mexicali Omelets

Taco Meat

Taco Seasoning Mix

1/4 cup chili powder
1/4 – 1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper (depending on level of heat desired)
1/4 cup minced onion
4 tsp. cornstarch
1 Tbsp. garlic powder
1 Tbsp. ground cumin1
1/2 tsp. dried oregano

Mix together all ingredients. Store in airtight container for future use.

Taco Meat

1 ground beef
1 onion, chopped
1 clove garlic
1/2 large green pepper, chopped
2 Tbsp. taco seasoning mix
1/2 cup water

Crumble beef into large skillet over medium heat. Add chopped onion, garlic, and green pepper. Brown meat until fulling cooked, turning often. Drain on paper towels. Return to pan and add water and 2 Tbsp. taco seasoning mix. Stir to combine. Continue cooking 6-7 mins. until most of the liquid is absorbed. Keep warm.

Omelets (l lb. meat makes about 6)

For each omelet:

2 Tbsp. butter
3 eggs
1/4 cup whole milk
1 Tbsp. chunky salsa
1/8 tsp. black pepper
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 cup meat mixture (eye this – more or less)
2/3 cup pepper Jack cheese, shredded, divided

Garnishes

Sliced jalapeno peppers
Salsa (recipe follows)
Avocado
Sour cream
Green onions

Melt butter in large non-stick skillet until just foaming. Beat eggs well with milk, 1 Tbsp. salsa, pepper and salt. Pour into pan. Reduce heat slightly.

Lift sides of eggs to allow uncooked eggs to slide under. Cook until almost set on top. Sprinkle meat mixture down center of eggs leaving 1/2″ on either end uncovered. Repeat with 1/3 cup cheese. Fold over one side and then the other. Reduce heat and continue cooking about 4 mins. turning once. Immediately after turning sprinkle with remaining 1/3 cup cheese and cook until cheese is melted, about 1 min. Serve topped with garnishes of your choice.

Two-Tone Chunky Salsa

5 Roma tomatoes, diced
1/2 cup yellow heirloom tomatoes, diced
1/2 large red onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
2 jalapeno peppers, seeded and finely diced
1/4 cup cilantro, finely chopped
Juice of 2 limes
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper or to taste

Mix all ingredients together and refrigerate for at least 3 hrs. or preferably overnight.

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Frogs have it easy, they can eat what bugs them. Anon and Fried Pineapple

Photos by Susie Nelson

Last Friday I got my weekly update from our mortgage broker. Not bothering to include the usual wool for me to pull over my eyes the message read simply, “we should know something by next Friday”. I am going to have a tee-shirt made.

Another weird week at our house. Our laptop went south several weeks ago. Fortunately, Rick purchased a three-year warranty package which still has some miles on it, so it can be replaced. Unfortunately, all data stored on it crossed the border with the machine. I contacted the warranty holders and placed a claim. First I was asked to produce the receipt. Normally, this would not be a difficult request to fill. In our present state of flux living half in/half out of boxes, it would be easier to resume the search for Amelia Earhart, and probably equally as successful.

Circumventing this issue of the missing receipt by providing other proof of purchase responses such as where purchased, approximately when, and serial number, my claim was accepted. Replacement monies were to be deposited in my Paypal account in 3-5 days. Yea. Busy with other things I realized 10 days had passed with no notification of remittance. Hmmmm. So, I contacted Rodney, the gentlemen I’d originally dealt with at the warranty company. After some research Rodney confirmed through some snafu on their end my claim had not been processed. We must begin the process once again. Have I sighed lately? Sigh. He asked if I’d shipped the laptop to them. “Well”, I responded, “I would have returned it had I been asked to do so when first we spoke. As the discussion never came up during our initial conversation, I guess you can insert a no here”. I am working on my mind reading skills, however they are still far from perfected. A UPS label for free shipping popped up shortly in my email with instructions on how to crate the laptop. Heading upstairs, I boxed the computer as instructed, handed the box to Rick on his way out the door and shot an email to Rodney notifying him it was on the way. Five minutes later I received another email from the warranty company indicating they had just received my laptop and were in the process of reviewing my claim. Kudos to UPS, I have to say, considering Rick hadn’t even backed out of the garage as yet. My confidence in seeing that money appear in my account anytime soon is dwindling, but as far as UPS goes why would you use another carrier?

Medical issues keep arising as well. Two months ago I went to the dentist. My particular insurance requires pre-approval before embarking on expensive dental work. This usually takes about six weeks, as opposed to the quick response they expect on their end when you owe them money. Every two weeks the dental office followed up, asking me if I’d received the approval letter, to which I would reply, “I have not”. Finally, not seeing any movement, I called my insurance directly only to find out no request for approval was ever received by Blue Cross from my dental office. Sooooo, I called the dental office back. Passed from one person to another it was determined, although calling regularly to see if the approval had been granted, their customer service group never submitted it in the first place. Cheerily, I was informed this would take another six weeks.

Now, if you feel the frustration bleeding through this writing you would not find yourself far off the mark. To make things just a smidgen more interesting we have been suddenly inundated with frogs. By this, I do not mean a frog or two croaking in the garden, I mean The Mormon Tabernacle Choir of frogs croaking in the garden. It is so distracting if you looked up cacophony in the dictionary definition 2 would say “Frogs in Susie’s garden”. Our pool now has an eco-system equal to that of the Galapagos Islands. When the sun drops behind the hills the serenade in the yard begins and without missing a croak continues well into the evening. Our pool filter recently stopped working, thus the water became still. Also, a pH balance issue is going on so the water, despite all efforts on our part to correct it, has now turned a lovely shade of pond scum green. Our neighbors below stopped by to politely suggest another scenario might arise,  mosquito infestation. Gee, I hadn’t thought of that.  When do you suppose the locusts might arrive? A temporary solution would be to dump mosquito eating fish in the pool. Frogs most probably would view this as free lunch and possibly invite their friends. So, we have to chlorinate which may kill the frogs. Certainly we could drain the pool, buy a new pool filter, and install a new liner, but since this is about to be someone else’s house and each cure expensive, these fixes do not make me happy. Nope, I’ve looked at myself. Most definitely I am not happy.

With all this swirling around, Freaky Friday as I now I now refer to my Friday’s, was a busy day. Deciding it was too hot, and I was too tired to break out the pans, I picked up crab legs which were an advertised special at the market. I threw them in a bag of olive oil and garlic and served them cold with our artichokes for dinner. Yum. Well, one would think so. Never have I eaten crab legs so salty. Tasted as if I’d brined them rather than marinated them. Too tired to be creative, we had cinnamon French toast and artichokes an unlikely combination that complimented one another like eating calf’s liver topped with strawberry jam. I returned them to the market this morning and exchanged them for a watermelon and assorted fruit. Hopefully, there won’t be any surprises when I cut the melon, like an angry ferret inadvertently trapped inside the seed at planting.

There is a lesson to all this madness, but I’m not sure what it is.  The stars are aligned in the direction of misdirection it appears and delays and mix ups are written in the charts. Hope your weeks begins on a good note. I made a pork roast with a Hawaiian flavor last night and wanted something with pineapple to accompany it. This was easy, sweet and delicious.

Fried Pineapple

1/2 fresh pineapple
3 Tbsp. butter
1/3 cup brown sugar
Sprinkle of nutmeg
1 oz. brandy
1/8 cup chopped pecans

Peel pineapple and cut in quarters lengthwise. Cut half the pineapple into 1″ slices.  Reserve the other two quarters for future use or make two batches of the above.

Melt butter in large skillet over medium heat. Add pineapple to pan and cook for 2 mins.

Sprinkle brown sugar over top and continue cooking 5-6 mins. until sugar is melted and pineapple is translucent.

Add nuts to pan and continue cooking for 2 mins. Add brandy and allow to simmer for 2 mins. longer. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Serve hot next to roast or over vanilla ice cream. Serves 4

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The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires. – William Arthur Ward and Tangy Artichoke Dipping Sauce

Photos by Susie Nelson

Yesterday on the local news they aired a video showing a teacher engaging in a fight with a fifteen year old student.  According to the newscaster, the teacher asked the student to hand over makeup the girl was applying while class was in session. When she declined to do so, and I do not mean by saying “no, thank you” rather by getting in the teacher’s face, the older woman lost it and began punching her.  I cannot help but think we have taken away any recourse teachers have in the classroom for maintaining order or garnering respect. At some point the frustration of being completely impotent with regard to discipline must begin to cause cracks in the structure of hierarchy in our classrooms.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  I do not think that teachers should run about willy nilly plummeting their students, nor do I believe capital punishment such as rulers across palms or swatting should be tolerated, but some power needs to be given to the teacher to reprimand or defend themselves in order to provide an environment where learning can thrive.

When did we become so afraid of our children?  I wonder that often.  I know as a child my parents were definitely not afraid of me.  In turn I wasn’t afraid of them either (well maybe a little), but I did respect them.  If told to do something I certainly wasn’t allowed to continue what I was doing and ignore them, or worse yet say something sarcastic in response.  My mother’s motto was, “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out”.  There wasn’t one instance growing up I can remember being spanked, still when my mother spoke, it was like “When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen”.

Looking back I had several standout teachers.  Mrs. Potter in the fourth grade.  A serene soul who wore support stockings and sensible shoes, and if you got close enough smelled a bit like mothballs.  I loved her.  Shy at that age, and newly arrived from Canada, Mrs. Potter took me under he ample wing and helped me to acclimate to my new surroundings until I was ready to fly on my own.  As a Canadian dropped into a Southern California society, not only did I look different, not being tan and blonde (at the time naturally), and still saying “serviette” instead of napkin and emphasizing my sentences with “eh”, there was a certain amount of teasing to be endured before I was to be accepted.  To add to the mix I was still wearing my coat of baby fat, and glasses making the target area for wounding me somewhat bigger.  If it hadn’t been for her gentle reassurance, and supportive atta girls probably my first year on American soil might have been much more difficult than it was.

Another teacher worth a mention came along in ninth grade.  A nomad even at that age, this was the sixth school I’d attended since Mrs. Potter’s class.  One thing I’ll say about moving around a lot is that you develop a thicker skin with each relocation. Adapting to new surroundings and situations comes at a much faster pace than in the beginning.  I entered high school at ninety-eight pounds leaving my baby fat behind me in the seventh grade.  Still shy, but cracking through the surface of my shell and taking a look around much more frequently, I was assigned Miss Bailey for English.  English, language and art classes easily held my attention, where with math and science I had to work hard to find my muse.  Miss Bailey, a maiden lady who often said her students were her children, was one of those humans who finds her calling early in life and settles in comfortably on top of it like a hen guarding her eggs.  Not a jocular being by any stretch of the imagination, her humor was more wry leaning on irony.  Less than perfect was an unacceptable standard under her watch and she held no quarter for slackers or “lazy Larry’s” as she referred to those deemed not striving to do their best.  In her classroom I was faced with a school year packed with book reports, to my dismay 50% oral.  For me this held the level of fear of being asked to address the nation on the eve of war.  Standing naked, at least symbolically, before my peers I would stumble over my well rehearsed words as though reading them for the first time.  Fear getting the best of me, even though I’d read the book assigned when my name was called I’d say I hadn’t done my report.  Miss Bailey would look down at me over the glasses perched on the end of her nose as if scanning me to detect a lie and spotting one glowing brightly below the surface of my skin.

Composition was my strong suit in English.  Writing came easier to me than speaking aloud.  My fears, hopes and dreams came alive on paper and Miss Bailey poked and prodded the best out of my attempts to learn that year, telling me I could write, should write, will write.  I remember her for that.

There were the bad seeds as well in high school.  Mr. Braxton, our driver’s ed teacher would wear the crown on this list.  A small man, not short really, but bent over as though he was carrying the weight of mankind on his shoulders. He sported a well sprayed comb over even Donald Trump would applaud and was known to pass gas at regular intervals rendering the classroom nearly inconsolable. Each day he arrived precisely at the sound of the bell.  Dressing was not his strong suit, as I remember.  A white shirt, slightly yellowed, possibly due to the fact he was a single man and owned no bleach or that he chain smoked lighting one butt with another behind the gym.  His collar was held fast by one of a selection of many gaudy bow ties he had a preference for rounded off by a pair of dark pants suitably short enough to prepare him for any rising water situation, and white socks.  When speaking, he pondered his shoes with such rapt attention I wondered if the meaning of life was written on their shiny leather exteriors, clearing his throat from one sentence to the next seemingly to give the words following room to emerge.  While lecturing monotonously on the finer points of drive shafts and pistons, most of the boys in the class occupied their time firing spit wads at his hindquarters while the girls gossiped amongst themselves.  The only thing I took from his class at the end of the semester was compassion.  Teenagers can be incredibly cruel.

So, this is my salute to teachers.  They guide and prod us to achieve and revel in our successes as their own.  Underpaid and overworked, they help us to mold our incorrigible children into viable human beings often without so much as a pat on the back.

They had huge artichokes on sale at the market yesterday so I could not resist.  Rather than have melted butter or mayonnaise, I decided to try something new as well.  This had a bit of a bit and added something special.

Tangy Artichoke Dipping Sauce

1/4 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup sour cream
2 tsp. basil
1 garlic clove, minced
1 1/2 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
4 drops hot sauce
Salt and pepper to taste

Whisk all ingredients together and adjust the seasoning. Refrigerate until ready to use.

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