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 found 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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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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Every habit he’s ever had is still there in his body, lying dormant like flowers in the desert. Given the right conditions, all his old addictions would burst into full and luxuriant bloom. ― Margaret Atwood and Herb and Sun Dried Tomato Muffins

Today is my anniversary. Two years, nicotine free. Yes! Addiction is a strange phenomenon. A person can become addicted to just about anything from on-line shopping to the Vicodin their dentist prescribed for a toothache. Some addictions, such as food, are more visible than others to the naked eye. Some such as prescription drugs or gambling might go virtually undetected until the addicted party begins spiraling out of control or outside influences, such as a random drug test at work or unexplained money issues, begin to leak the secret.

To the person standing outside of the addiction, it might seem much like watching a man continuously beating his head against a brick wall, screaming after each blow. The obvious solution to the observer would be for the man to simply stop hitting his head against the wall to stop the pain. However, when held in the firm grip of addiction, stopping is at the same time the problem and the solution, or at least in part the solution. Even when an alcoholic becomes “dry”, the problems urging him to drink in the first place linger beneath the surface needing to be addressed. Oddly enough, or perhaps not so much, often when an individual gives up drinking, for example, not long after they might begin to overeat or turn to another source of addictive behavior to bury whatever issues are left behind.

I know from where I speak on this subject to some extent. My second stepfather was a functioning alcoholic. During the day he held down a responsible position as a middle school principal, but once home with a little help from “Old Grandad” and his predominantly Irish genes, like Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde a different person emerged to greet the world. As a disclaimer, I am certainly not saying all men of Irish decent are drunks, I am simply pointing out along with Native Americans and several other ethnicities, the Irish are known to have a slightly higher predisposition for alcohol abuse.

Perhaps this goes back to the old adage “all things in moderation”. I have a friend who cannot control her credit cards. Those playful little plastic buggers jump into her fingers at will insisting on sliding through the machine at the cash register. No, is not a word she often uses when having a conversation with herself once eying something pretty on a shelf or a spotting a new pair of shoes to add to a closet already overflowing with shoe boxes.

The dictionary describes as one definition of the word addiction, “The condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something.”  In the past I have known people addicted to love, addicted to drama, addicted to purchasing new cars, gambling, sports, you name it.  So many things fall under the umbrella of that description.  Our society is a consumer based entity and too much is never enough.

Somewhere I read that gambling is a tough one to kick.  The lure of winning the next roll, the big spin, buying the winning lottery ticket to propel you to where you think you want to be.  I’m constantly saying I’m going to win the lottery, and my other half keeps reminding me I have to enter the game in order to win the prize.  For me the odds are a little lopsided.  Intrinsically I know somebody has to win, but when I see odds like 120 million to 1 and look at my luck in the past, I am not fully convinced I’m going to see myself on TV holding a big check and flashing every tooth in my mouth.  Not fully convinced.  What’s up with those people who win multiple times?  I want to sit next to them on the plane.  I believe I read recently that a man won a huge amount of money and was murdered the following day. Talk about incredibly bad luck. I do not want to sit next to him on the plane.

Life seems to be based in part on a combination of your good judgement, your lineage (although looking at the Kennedy’s, and other families fraught with tragedy in their peer group you wonder about this one), your belief systems, and the universe’s dice toss of luck for good measure.

Pleased I am with myself I have put cigarettes behind me.  Like a siren combing her hair on a far off rock her song rising above the crashing surf, I still feel the pull of a craving from time to time. Intrinsically I know if I give into temptation it wouldn’t be long before that familiar monkey would be perched once again on my shoulder. Why are things put on the earth to tempt we human beings, I wonder?  Perhaps they are there to test our character, or possibly just a whim of creation.  No answers from this writer.  For my friend, friends actually, fighting with their food cravings the question must arise every time a bony friend stuffs another spoonful of chocolate cream pie in her mouth.  Why do some of us lean in to hear the siren songs while others resist?

At any rate, those are my lofty thoughts for this spring day.  Tomorrow the rain returns but for today my garden sings its song in my ear and I cannot resist.

These muffins are totally yummy. We had them with tomato soup and they were the perfect accompaniment.

Herb and Sun Dried Tomato Muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. dried thyme
1/4 tsp. dill weed
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1 egg
1 1/4 cups low-fat milk
1 Tbsp. heavy cream
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese
1 Tbsp. finely chopped green onion
1/2 cup sun dried tomatoes packed in oil, chopped

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Spray large muffin tin (8 hole) with cooking spray.

Mix the first seven ingredients together in large mixing bowl.

Whisk together egg, milk, and olive oil. Stir into flour mixture until just moistened.

Fold in cheese, green onions and sun-dried tomatoes.

Fill muffin cups 3/4 of the way. Bake for 30 mins. or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool for 5 mins. and remove from pan. Allow to cool on wire rack.

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I couldn’t wait for success, so I went ahead without it. – Jonathan Winters and Reuben Sandwiches with Tangy Russian Dressing

Big doings across the pond these days. A new Pope in Vatican City and a bun in the royal oven. It must be peculiar to be in the public eye in such a manner. People pushing and shoving to touch you or to snap your picture. I would hate it. I can’t imagine having to pull myself fully together, make-up, hair, and designer clothes to run out to the store for a pint of buttermilk. No matter what the lifestyle offered in exchange for entering into such a contract with the world, I would never be willing to pay the price of my privacy in order to obtain it.

Looking back, I’m not sure I ever satisfied my alloted fifteen minutes of fame. I did write a newspaper column for nearly two years on cooking. Not sure that counts. The closest I came to stardom was at the ripe old age of five. I was an invited guest on a local children’s television show in Halifax. The show involved a clown as it often did in those days, and several puppets, none of which I recall by name. A new dress with embroidered duckies was purchased for my screen debut. The only recollection (naturally) I have of the experience is an Eskimo Pie handed to me by a crew member. Between the hot lights and my natural grace under fire, when the camera panned to my chubby cheeks I was nearly unrecognizable (perhaps a plus). According to my mother’s oft told version of the events, the lovely embroidered yellow ducklings were totally obscured by the mess of melting chocolate and sea of vanilla ice cream moving down the front of my small person. Wouldn’t you know my only brush with fame would somehow involve food and a hot mess? My mother, always the fashionista, was suitably horrified. I guarantee she was not wearing her party smile when she claimed me immediately following. I’ve always harbored the secret notion at such times in my young life she would gladly have left me by the side of the road with a sign around my neck reading simply “take me”.

This got me to thinking who I know personally who had captured their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. My other half was featured on the front page of the San Jose Mercury News when he obtained his U.S. citizenship. Back in her twenties my mother was a model and regaled the pages of a number of Canadian fashion publications.

A dear friend of mine, Carol also had her day in the sun. She appeared on a morning talk show in San Francisco a number of years ago. Unbeknownst to Carol, her daughter entered in a contest to receive a complete makeover on the air. Along with four other entrants her daughter’s letter won. Although a lovely looking woman, Carol was holding firmly to the Cleopatra hairstyle worn since her eighth grade graduation. Her daughter believed it was time for a change. Carol, a feisty Italian girl, not the least shy of the camera nor hesitant about speaking her mind, agreed to appear. After a briefing from the production manager, the winners were herded on stage in their “before” visages. The show’s host solicited a brief bio from each participant. Introductions made, the participants were then ushered back stage to let the magic begin.

Each winner was assigned a stylist, makeup artist, and hairdresser to aid in effecting their amazing transformations. As Carol tells it, the outfit chosen for her got a thumbs up, the makeup artist did an outstanding job, but the poor bugger from Vidal Sassoon assigned to update her “Cleo-do” had bitten off far more than he could chew. Every time the man approached Carol’s head with a comb and scissors she deflected his hands like a judo master after a double espresso. A half an hour into it and no progress noted, the frustrated stylist stormed out of the studio vowing never to return again. On cue, the revamped participants returned to the stage. Carol entered at the end of the line. “Before” pictures were posted on the screen next to images of the “after” live shots of the now transformed participants. The first four reflected dramatic changes in each person’s look. Arriving at Carol, other than the outfit and a little mascara, she appeared to look exactly the same in the first picture as she did after the makeover. Undaunted, she happily waved at the camera.

Fame perhaps is not for everybody. Look at the headlines over the years following the downfall of rock stars, athletes, and movie stars once they grabbed the gold ring. Again it goes back to the premise, it’s not what happens to you in life, but how you handle what happens to you.

I often think of J.K. Rowling, down on her luck, a small daughter to raise. Out of money and nobody to help her she sat in a coffee shop every day and penned her first Harry Potter book. Out of the ashes rises the Phoenix, I would suppose. What an amazing rise that must have been for her, going from relative obscurity to having the public spotlight shining directly on her. It seems, outwardly at least, she has managed the transformation and all it embodies with grace and style.

Lately I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to be when I grow up. Most of my adult life I’ve worked, taken care of my children, been a wife or a girlfriend, but now, with retirement looming somewhere down the road I turn my thoughts to what I would like to do for the rest of my life. Truly I am thankful because I am rarely bored. Most days I find life offers up new things to think about or to explore and my mind still eagerly looks forward to doing exactly that. My rock stars days are behind me now so loftier thoughts are in order for the future. It’s kind of exciting to contemplate. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

This Russian dressing is my absolute favorite.  What I have left over I drizzle on a wedge of iceberg lettuce and garnish with some grape tomatoes and cucumber slices.  Yum.

Reuben Sandwiches with Tangy Russian Dressing

8 slices rye bread
1/2 lb. corned beef, very thinly sliced
1 cup sauerkraut, wrung dry of liquid
8 Swiss cheese slices, thinly sliced
1/4 cup butter, softened
Russian dressing (recipe below)

Butter one side of four slices of rye bread. Place buttered side down on a griddle or large frying pan. Slather top of each slice with about 1 Tbsp. of Russian dressing. Distribute the sauerkraut evenly among the sandwich bottoms. Top the with corned beef and then Swiss cheese.

Butter one side of the tops of the four remaining slices. Turn over and slather another 1 Tbsp. of Russian dressing on the inside. This step is a bit messy. Place dressing side down on top of sandwiches in pan.

Heat over med-high heat until bottom is golden brown. Gently turn over and continue cooking until the other side is golden brown. Turn heat down to med-low and continue cooking until cheese is melted and gooey. Serves 4.

Tangy Russian Dressing

1 cup mayonnaise
2 1/2 Tbsp. catsup
1 Tbsp. minced yellow onion
1 tsp. prepared horseradish
1/2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 Tbsp. parsley flakes
1 Tbsp. sweet pickle relish

Combine all ingredients. Refrigerate for 1 hr. to marry flavors.

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Too much work, too much vacation, too much of any one thing is unsound. – Walter Annenberg and Mozzarella Asparagus Wraps

When my mind is concentrating on relocating it often rests on getting an RV.  Spending our days behind the wheel of the big bus, winding the back roads of the U.S. and Canada seeing new sights and exploring the world around us.  Those of you who have read my blogs from time to time might remember I did just that in my twenties.  My husband at the time and I lived like gypsies with two small children, camping out when and where we felt like it or stopping at country hotels and inns for a night of pampering and a shower.  It was a glorious year for me, and though my children were two young to retain their experience, they thrived having their parents with them every day (most of the time) and experiencing whatever new adventures a turn in the next bend might bring.

About five years ago my son’s in-laws sold their home, stored most of their belongings and bought a large motor home.  For four years they traveled, staying at K.O.A.’s and other R.V. parks along the way.  Like anything, I suppose if you do it every day the originality eventually wears off as it did in their case.  Last I heard they’d settled in a small home in Utah and use the RV for vacations or weekend trips these days.

I have rented RV’s from time to time, but must admit never desired ownership of one.  Now, of course, the price of gas leaves that pleasure to those who can afford to fill up the tank.  On one such trip we rented one of such size I half expected Willie Nelson to step out the front door.  It was spring break, which allowed for the children to be absent from school.  There were three couples and eight children.  Thinking back we should have hired a driver for the kids and rented a second van to house them.

Our destination was Lake Havasu that trip. One of the wives parents had retired on the lake several years prior and extended an invitation for us to hook up outside their trailer and use their facilities if needed.  My brother-in-law followed behind the RV in his truck, our boat in tow, so we’d be able to water ski and enjoy the amenities Lake Havasu had to offer.

It was hot the day we left.  Hot, hot.  I can remember the soles of my flip-flops sticking to the asphalt leaving patterned impressions where I walked.  My husband was first man at the wheel. Men, it’s been said, revere their machinery.  Seated high above the asphalt manning the wheel of this behemoth he transformed into Road Commando, Master of the Road and all who go there, issuing orders to his lessor beings as though storming the beach at Normandy.

About two and a half hours into a five-hour trip, we crossed the Mojave desert floor.  Traffic slowed to a snail’s pace on an upgrade due to rubberneckers checking out several overheated cars by the side of the road.  About half way up the grade our giant beast began to cough and wheeze.  Then it jerked a few times and stopped entirely.  Oh-oh.  Now, need I say the ideal sightseeing spot on a brutally hot day might not be the Mojave desert.  Traffic was stopped behind us and backing up.  When traffic coming the opposite direction permitted they wove around us, some offering us a friendly hand gesture as they passed.  Nice to find new friends when you’re in trouble.

My brother-in-law pulled over to help. The steaming engine was examined and much murmuring occurred.  Vapor lock, it seemed, was the villain of the piece. Fortunately my brother-in-law had an excellent working knowledge of engines, or we’d probably still be standing there like pillars of salt our feet permanently glued to the roadway.

We cooled off while waiting for the engine to do the same by pouring water over our heads and putting bags of ice under our ball caps.  Finally, the engine turned over again and somehow we coughed and spewed the rest of the way to our destination.  Havasu itself was a zoo, with every kind of inmate imaginable.  Young people ranging from pre-teens to college age monopolized the floating rafts and speeding boats passing by were packed like sardine cans with bikini clad or partially clad revelers. It became quickly obvious that water skiing would be at your own risk and blinders were going to be needed for our young men. On the beaches the over fifty crowd, the Speedo set, sat beneath colorful umbrellas and sipped iced drinks or a cool beer.  Children laughed and played in the water close to shore and several lively games of volleyball were underway.  If one was looking for a restful escape, Lake Havasu at spring break needs to entered at the bottom of your list of choices.

The first order of business was to hook up the RV.  Coolers and the provided refrigerator were packed with five days worth of food that would spoil quickly in the 100+ heat.  Sweating profusely the men struggled to get everything going outside while we went into the air-conditioned trailer and met our hosts and enjoyed an ice-cold glass of lemonade.  Can’t remember when I enjoyed a lemonade more.  Besides ourselves another sister and her family were staying in the trailer so with one bathroom in the trailer and one in the RV one was ill-advised to consume too much liquid at any given time.  We were told that there were community toilets and showers a half a mile away but the thought of hiking in the heat made that sound less than desirable.

After about forty minutes the men came in ball caps turned to the back and exhausted.  It seemed the hook up wouldn’t work with our RV.  It was too old.  To top that they couldn’t find a way to drain the toilet so in the heat the RV was beginning to get a bit ripe.  All the food stored in the refrigerator would need to be removed and brought in the trailer.  On opening their refrigerator we found room for one caper and possibly an olive, but not much else.  The men were dispatched to get more coolers and the women emptied the RV and piled our gear on the floor.

It was a crazy week.  We slept on the floor and took numbers for the bathroom. Everyone wore various shades of red by the second day in the sun.  The road warrior sprained a groin muscle showing off on his ski and spent three days in bed. I nearly walked into a recently pregnant rattle snake and all her squirming offspring who are actually more lethal than their mother.

It was a beautiful spot flawed only by way too many people per square foot.  In the end we were all happy to get out of the huffing RV and into our own beds and bathtubs.  It was fun though and always an adventure to try something new.  I do think of that experience every time I get a yearning for the open road.  Keeps my thinking level.

These were surprisingly good.  A bit hard to eat, but we managed nicely.  My pic has more asparagus in it than you need to use, but it was for me and I love asparagus, so too much is perfect in my case.  Got this recipe from my mother and slightly refined it so can’t take credit for it.

Mozzarella Asparagus Wraps

2/3 cup Italian salad dressing, divided
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
8 oz. fresh mozzarella sliced in 1/4″ slices
1 lb. fresh asparagus, trimmed
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
12 thin slices prosciutto (6 oz.)
1/2 jar sun dried tomatoes in oil
salt and pepper
lemon pepper
4 8″ flour tortillas

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Parbroil asparagus spears covered in water splashed with lemon under bright green. Remove from water with slotted spoon and toss lightly with 2 Tbsp. olive oil and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and lemon pepper as desired. Cover cookie sheet with tin foil and spray with cooking spray. Roast 8 mins. or until crisp and tender. Remove from oven.

Meanwhile marinate mozzarella in 1/3 cup of Italian dressing. Allow to sit on counter until ready to use.

Brush the top of each flour tortilla with remaining 1/4 cup Italian dressing. Place 3 slices of marinated mozzarella in the center of each tortilla. Top with three slices of prosciutto for each tortilla. Place 1/4 of the asparagus slightly off center on top of prosciutto. Top with 1/4 of the sun dried tomatoes on each wrap. Roll like a cigar. Using the remaining dressing/mustard mixture as a substitute for butter or oil lightly brown wraps in hot skillet until golden brown and cheese slightly melts. Slice in half and serve hot.

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I learned more from the one restaurant that didn’t work than from all the ones that were successes. – Wolfgang Puck and Chile Rellenos

Last weekend was a busy one. Not much time to put my feet up and enjoy the Sunday paper.  Saturday night Rick and I took ourselves out to dinner, something we haven’t done in a while.  January hit the ground running this year. Fully charged with kinetic energy it seemed to pick up speed with each succeeding day.  Feel like I’ve been run over by a riding lawn mower, pieces of me scattered all over the state.  I’m hoping February will be featuring a bit tamer fare on its schedule of events.

It was the perfect night for date night.  Nothing was defrosted for dinner as I spent most of the day cooking for Super Bowl the following day. Hungry, going out seemed like the perfect plan. As beautiful an area as we live in, the downside of living here is all the excellent restaurants in the area are at least 45 minutes from home.  Now, I understand this is not a trip requiring hotel reservations or luggage, but when you’re of a mood to run out and grab a quick bite, the drive can be enough of a buzz kill to encourage you to take something out of the freezer, put your feet up, and forget the whole thing.  On Saturday, however, we were determined.

Our restaurant of choice doesn’t take reservations.  Located in the midst of a college town, it is mostly staffed with college students, as well as largely populated with same.  Knowing there would be a wait on a Saturday we drove in early. Even at that, we found ourselves waiting outside with a pager placated by the usual promise from the perky hostess of a “15 minute wait”. Not being our first rodeo we knew this meant our table would be ready closer to 40, which it was.

Super Bowl pre-partiers in the bar swelled the noise decibels to a notch above the sound barrier.  Seated by the kitchen, servers behind our booth carrying empty trays into the kitchen screamed “corner” at the top of their lungs as they passed by to avoid a mid-air collision with those coming the opposite way trays loaded with food.  Needing libation at this point, I signaled for a vodka and tonic with a twist and one was provided.

Two waitresses approached our table, one a trainee it was explained, the second the trainer. Having owned a restaurant I have infinite patience with new employees, knowing first hand how difficult those first days can be. New hires must memorize the menu offerings and prices, make themselves knowledgeable about the ingredients in each dish, all the while becoming familiar with the kitchen and staff dynamics and whatever restaurant geared computer system is in place. Stir this in a pot with first day jitters and missteps are generally unavoidable. Rick ordered the huge steak topped off with an equally large marinated mushroom depicted in the cardboard ad on the table. I ordered the steak and seafood special. Yum.  A teetotaler, Rick ordered a soda plus several appetizers to share.

After about ten minutes, our appetizers arrived.  Across the aisle from us was a family with three children. No food evident yet to distract them, all three apprentice monsters were actively engaged in sending their parents to an early grave.  The youngest disappeared and reappeared beneath the table every minute or two like a Jack-in-the-Box on steroids while the two older ones were fully immersed in seeing how many pieces of bread could be lobbed at one another before their father flicked them on the head.  Seated in the middle was an older woman who I assumed to be the grandmother guzzling a beer as if she had five minutes to live and this would be the last malt liquor she’d ever taste.  “Corner”, I heard as another waiter passed, immediately followed by a deafening crash.  Hmmm, a glitch in their highly sophisticated system.

Thankfully, Rick and I are rarely short of conversation because I believe I celebrated a birthday before dinner arrived.  In the meantime our trainee stopped by to refill Rick’s soda, unfortunately with the water pitcher, and clear our dishes. Fighting over scraps of bread on the table, our eagerly awaited meals were placed before us.  Mine appeared exactly as shown on the menu. A skewer of perfectly cooked scallops and seasoned shrimp nestled in a bed of seasonal veggies seated next to a juicy steak with a fully dressed baked potato.  Rick’s dinner was also the same as pictured, except for the steak.  The steak in the photo was thick, plump and juicy. The one resting on his plate looked more like the sole of a well used all-weather boot. It was about 1 1/2″ thick and was oddly corrugated.  Cutting into it, the reportedly medium rare meat didn’t show a hint of pink.  A crook of Rick’s finger in the server’s direction signalled this wasn’t going to work, wasn’t going to work at all.

After being inspected by our ladies in waiting, it was determined this was not as ordered. Apologies were issued and the plate was dispatched to the kitchen for rework.  Moments later the restaurant manager, John, a young nervous looking type already combing over his rapidly dwindling hairline, arrived at our table.  After profusely apologizing he assured Rick his reworked meal would be out in two shakes of lamb’s tail (in this case cow’s tail) and insisted on providing a dish of clam chowder compliments of the house.  Yea.

Insisting I eat before mine got cold, I dug into my dinner. I didn’t enjoy it as much knowing Rick didn’t have his, so offered him bites along the way.  The soup long eaten, and what remained of the oyster crackers having disappeared, no new steak had arrived.  Finally, the trainee came by to box up my dinner and Rick’s dinner was at last served.  Really?  This steak looked beautiful, plump and juicy as promised.  Cutting into it, unfortunately it was raw.  This was not going to end well. 

John arrived with a new apology at the tardiness of the recook, and the unfortunate fact that they hadn’t, in fact, cooked it at all and offered to comp Rick’s meal.  Rick thanked the man and explained we had owned a restaurant. As an FYI, he thought John should know the first steak served was not anything like the one now sitting on the table, but looked more like one you might pound, bread and cover with gravy. Rick was not slated to work for the diplomatic corp.  After some deliberation John, obviously having nothing else to bring to the table, came up with the explanation all cows are not constructed equally so it is this lack of continuity that probably led to the problem.  This, of all things during the evening besides the company, made the dinner worth the drive.  I must remember that the next time I get an odd-looking hamburger.  Perhaps the meat came from one of those dreaded non-uniform bovines.  Words to live by.

Chile Rellenos

Salsa

6 plum tomatoes, cored and chopped
1 small white onion, chopped
1 4 oz. can diced green chiles
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. freshly squeezed lime juice
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp. sea salt

Puree 5 of the tomatoes, onion and garlic in food processor. Heat olive oil in a saucepan over med. heat. Add the tomato puree, chopped tomato, and diced chiles and simmer 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add lime juice. Season with salt and pepper and keep warm.

Chiles

6 poblano chiles
3 cups shredded monterey jack cheese
1 tablespoon dried oregano, preferably Mexican
4 large egg whites plus 1 egg yolk, at room temperature
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
Vegetable oil, for frying
All-purpose flour

Place chiles 1/3 of the oven below the broiler on cookie sheet covered with foil and sprayed with cooking spray. Turn frequently until charred on all sides. Place in resealable bag and close. Allow to sit for 10 minutes to steam. Remove the skin.

Make a horizontal slit across the top of chile below the stem (leave stem intact). At middle of slit slice lengthwise down to the tip of the pepper. Splay pepper and remove seeds. Discard.

Place the cheese in a bowl, then add the oregano, crumbling and rubbing it with your fingers to release its flavor. Season the mixture with salt and pepper.

Fill each chile with about 1/4 cup cheese mixture. Fold in the sides to cover the filling, then thread 2 toothpicks across the seam to form an X. You will probably need to make a second toothpick X to secure each chile so the filling doesn’t leak out when you fry.

Beat the egg whites with a mixer on high speed until soft peaks form. Add the egg yolk and beat 3 more mins.

Heat 1″ vegetable oil in a deep skillet over med.-high heat.

Place flour in a shallow dish. Season well with salt and pepper. Dredge peppers in flour.

Holding peppers by the stem dip into egg batter, allowing excess batter to drip off.

Cook in batches of 2, turning once until golden brown, 1-2 mins. per side. Drain on paper towels. Serve with warm sauce.

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Are we at last brought to such humiliating and debasing degradation, that we cannot be trusted with arms for our defense? -Patrick Henry (1788) and Delicious Turkey Tortilla Soup

Photos by Susie Nelson

Lately it seems every newscast includes a story involving a shooting.  Certainly the spotlight is shining brightly on gun control.   Gun regulation is a volatile issue with strong points taken on both sides, making it a difficult issue to regulate fairly.  Stirring the pot when it comes to the right to bear arms is not new, as evidenced with the date of Patrick Henry’s quote in the title of this piece.

Growing up in Nova Scotia, a hunting and fishing paradise, men took to the woods during hunting season in droves. Glassy eyed trophies of successful trips decorated walls of private lodges and country inns, the animals last expressions held fast by a skilled taxidermist’s needle.   In the fall of my eighth year, I asked to accompany my uncle and two male cousins on such an outing.  The women in my household were not firmly in agreement with my going, if not outright against it.  In protest, my grandmother dressed me for protection that blustery fall morning. So many clothes were layered on my body I would have made a suitable understudy for the Pillsbury Doughboy.  My hat, as I remember even had flaps covering both ears giving me the look like a pint-sized Amelia Earhart. Heavy boots were pulled on over woolen socks, and secured with strong metal grips. All were topped with a warm plaid jacket with a hood and gloves. I could barely move.

Where we were to go was not unfamiliar territory to me. Fred, my grandfather’s younger brother, ran a country store in a small town nearby.  As a child I loved visiting my great-uncle. Summers a double scoop ice cream with my name on was scraped from the sticky tubs in Fred’s cooler into a sugary cone. Winters, Fred’s companion (or “housekeeper”, as my family referred to her as the two never married), Nan, would offer me a cup of steaming chocolate with melting marshmallows. Like a grown-up it was served to me in one of her delicate china cups accompanied by a generous piece of buttery melt in your mouth shortbread.  Huge glass jars on the counters housed all manner of candies and sweets while others displayed boiled eggs in brine and enormous pickles.  It was a junior foodies nirvana.

Standing by the pot belly stove in the cozy store that crisp morning, I waited while the men exchanged stories of the ones that got away and those not so fortunate. A gust of cold wind intruded on the circle of warmth emanating from the stove as the front door swung open.  Standing in front of me was a man who stood as tall as I. Not knowing what to think of a grown man who met me eye to eye, I was struck silent. After a moment the unusual man extended a gloved hand in my direction, and by way of introduction said, “Benny, it is”.  After he’d gone, the men spoke among themselves about the small man. A dwarf in size perhaps, but his prowess with a firearm elevated him to a position head and shoulders above other hunters in the area. Hunting, not a sport in his case but a means of putting meat on his table for his family, was a full-time affair during the high season and it was whispered off-season on occasion as well.  Twice after that visit when in the area I spotted Benny from the Buick’s back window, dressed head to toe in red plaid heading towards the woods. Years later is was rumored a bear prematurely ended his hunting career.

As we entered the thick woods, echoes of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.  “Don’t stand to close to the guns.  Keep your red hat on.  Don’t wander off.”

Being asked to remain quiet for an eight year old, can make one hour pass like three.  Told to sit behind my uncle and be still, I found myself looking up at the high tree branches above me and building a nest on the ground with the leaves around me.  After what seemed like days, in the meadow before us a massive buck strode into view. Shortly, as if by magic two does materialized from the bushes behind him.  Mesmerized, I watched the beautiful creatures sniff at the air then bend to nibble at the ground.  Although having been told what to expect, when the shot rang out and the buck dropped to his knees I did what little girls do in such situations, I began to cry.  Panicked, both does disappeared as quickly as they came.  Men, their breath hanging suspended in the cold air, surrounded the dead animal.  Knives were removed from their sheaths and expertly they field dressed their kill.  It felt very primal to me, and I suddenly had to tinkle, as my grandmother would have put it.  Sniffling and shuffling about, I was directed to a tree with cover and relieved myself.

Quiet without being asked to be I sat in the back seat on the ride home. On the roof the buck’s hooves tapped occasionally beneath the straps that held it. Never again did I ask to join a hunting expedition, and I didn’t have any experience with guns again until I was in my thirties.

Once home, my grandmother sensing my distress ran me a bath and dressed me in warm pajamas. Sitting on the side of my bed, she spoke to me of her childhood. Brought up on a farm as she had been, she explained, killing animals for food was a part of every day life.  Farm children, at least in rural Ontario, weren’t encouraged to make “pets” of farm animals lest Miss Piggy or Nanny the goat be found starring in Sunday supper served nestled atop a savory dressing or alongside spiced crab apples. Life, as they say, does not always serve up easy lessons growing up.

Since then I’ve only shot a weapon once, a rifle. Being lightweight in frame, the moment I fired the recoil knocked me flat on the ground leaving a huge bruise where it was cupped in my shoulder.  It was at that point I gave up all thoughts of a second career as a commando.

The problem is we can regulate the honest citizen in our country, but who’s going to regulate those with other than hunting a deer or a rabbit in mind?  Our government has it nose firmly stuck in so many areas of our life sometimes it feels like nothing is sacred anymore, but I sit on the fence on this one.  As usual only questions but no answers.

This is the best soup ever.

Turkey Tortilla Soup

2 Tbsp. plus 2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 1/4 lbs. ground turkey
1 large yellow onion, chopped
2 carrots sliced thin
1/4 cup green bell pepper, chopped
2 stalks of celery, sliced thin
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 cups frozen corn
1 pkg. Lawry’s taco seasoning
1/4 tsp. chili powder
1/4 tsp. cumin
1/4 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
1 15 oz. can kidney beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 cup sliced black olives
1 14 1/2 oz. can diced tomatoes w/jalapeno peppers, with juice
1 14 1/2 oz. can diced tomatoes, with juice
2 14 1/2 oz. cans chicken stock
2 cups water
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lime juice

Garnish with sour cream, chopped green onion, cheddar cheese, and tortilla chips.

Heat 2 Tbsp. oil in large soup pot over med.-high heat. Add turkey and crumble. Cook until browned and cooked through. Drain on paper towels.

Add additional 2 Tbsp of oil to pan. Add yellow onion. Cook for 5-6 mins. until onion is translucent.

Add carrots, green pepper, and celery. Cook 7-8 mins. or until carrots are tender.

Stir in corn, garlic, taco seasoning, dry seasonings and cilantro. Add cooked turkey. Cook 2 mins. longer.

Stir in tomatoes, kidney beans, olives, chicken broth, water and lime juice. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and cook uncovered for 40 mins., stirring occasionally. Garnish with suggested garnishes. Yum

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If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance. – George Bernard Shaw and Cheesy Onion Garlic Bread

Photo by Susie Nelson

Last week we took an afternoon off from the mayhem to go to a movie. Lincoln, to be precise. It is hard for me to sit in a theater for long periods of time. Similar to airplane seats, theater seats are designed more for a show of comfort rather than comfort itself. After two hours, no matter how much 500 calorie a bite buttered popcorn I consume to take my mind off of it, the squirming commences. Before long I look like a worm snared in a bird’s beak.  Nature did not provide me with a great deal of padding in the posterior regions of my body, a trait running through my mother’s side of the family tree.  Perhaps I need to invest in inflatable drawers for such situations.

Lincoln, I thought, was very well done. The director avoided puffing it up with Hollywood glitz, rather depicting the characters and their surroundings as I imagine they might have appeared during that period of our history.   Long, however, very long.  After the second hour the squirming became so pronounced I caught my other half scanning the theater for open seats.  I forgot, even after reminded, to turn off my cell phone.  Experts in the psychological sciences say people never “forget” to do anything, but I find I often do in spite of them saying so.

Luck  not being one of my strong suits, my phone waited to ring until a lull in the action.  At first blast my other half, not a fan of public scenes, began squirming himself. Rifling through my enormous bag, I located the half a peanut butter and banana sandwich left over from lunch the day before, mummified remains of a throat lozenge, and the carcass of a dead sea lion (just wanted to see if you were awake), but no cell phone. Reaching the required ring amount, my phone took over and redirected the call to voicemail. Moments later during a particularly poignant scene my bag announced loudly “voicemail received”.  As often happens when one person yawns another will, my ringing phone became contagious.  Several other phones woke in the darkness and a background symphony of ringtones began. Perhaps we’d started a new phenomenon, like flash mobs with phones?  Men could be heard grumbling as women either answered, really bad behavior, or searched for their phones.

Even though movies can be downloaded or ordered at a click of the remote, I like to see them on the big screen on occasion. There was a time when I couldn’t walk in a darkened theater, much less sit down.  Not due to my lack of padding, but deeper issues.  Problems began after moving across country from Longview, Washington to Ashdown, Arkansas. We were four on the road, two vehicles, my other half in his truck and me and one small dog and a very old and very ornery cat in our car.  From the beginning the trip was fraught with problems. In Utah we experienced incredible electrical storms, my brakes began to fail as I descended the steep downgrades crossing the Continental Divide, and two flat tires were changed during that trip, one on top of a mountainside in the pitch black of night and the other on a desolate stretch of highway crossing the Great Salt Flats.  When all else failed to aggravate we could rely on our constant companion on the road, the unrelenting heat holding the midsection of the country captive that year.

Ashdown, as it turned out, was a small rural town 45 minutes north of Texarkana, largely supported by a lumber mill. Stepping out of the car I was captured by the oppressive heat and humidity, ripe smells, and overabundance of insect life buzzing around my head. To me it was like exploring the dark side of the moon.  A pungent smell lingered over the town. Later I was told it was attributed to the aromatic marriage of chemicals used to treat the paper pulp comingling with the mulchy undergrowth of the prolific flora of the area kept moist by daily bursts of rain.

For the first several weeks I went about the business of settling in.  As the stack of boxes dwindled in the spare room and the house began to take the look of home, I struggled to find my footing in my unfamiliar surroundings.  Left to my own devices during the day, as my husband’s name was on the employee roster at the mill, I took out my pencils and drawing paper and began a body of work when it comes to my artistry I’ve never equaled since.  Perhaps it was being stuck inside, or the peace of the small town but I found the days passing quickly and my pencil whipping across the page in front of me.

At the end of the second month with fall on the horizon, I decided to look for work.  Texarkana, the nearest “big city” seemed the obvious choice to shop for work attire.  While in town, I was tasked with picking up some wine for dinner, as Ashdown was “dry”. Being dry did not guarantee the inhabitants were, they simply had to travel a little further upstream to get whet.  It was an unusual setup, Texarkana, as it rested on the border between Arkansas and Texas. This was marked by State Line Boulevard which divided the city in half.  On the east, the Arkansas side, it was wet, but if you crossed the street to the Texas side it was dry.  Very odd.

At any rate, I referred to a page torn from the yellow pages and my map. After several wrong turns I located the mall.  Cool inside, I browsed for a while.  After selecting several items to try on the sales clerk directed me to a fitting room. room. Having removed my pants and with the store’s pants in my hand, the lights flickered, then went out.  “Power outage”, I heard in a distinctly southern voice. Dark circled around me.  In a total panic the walls suddenly felt suffocating. Half dressed I exploded out of the dressing room unable to grab a breath. Using the clothing racks for balance, I hopped along managing to drag my pants up and zip them.  Reaching the dimly lit middle aisle my mouth gaped like a wide mouthed bass floundering in the back of a fishing boat. I sprinted for an exit.  Once outside, my heartbeat slowed to a tolerable level, and eventually my breathing returned.  For two years following the incident, being enclosed anywhere caused the same fight or flight syndrome in me. At Costco I had to stand by the door while shopping to assure I knew where the exit was.  After flying across country and nearly strapping on a parachute and bailing out, I consulted a doctor.  Diagnosis, panic attacks. For those of you who have experienced anxiety attacks you will recognize these symptoms. Thankfully I put these behind me a decade ago and I’m back to being as normal as I get. Still, every time I walk into a dark theater, I have a moment where my heart rate accelerates, and then it passes as just that.

In closing, Kendall at See Further has been kind enough to include my name of a list of nominees for Most Illuminating Blogger Award.  I will reciprocate as soon as I can.  Please take time to visit the site if you get a minute.

Cheesy Onion Garlic Bread

1 loaf of frozen bread dough
3 Tbsp. butter
1 cup thinly sliced onions
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 tsp. Italian seasoning
1/8 cup sliced black olives
4 oz. sundried tomatoes packed in oil
1 1/2 cups cheddar cheese, shredded
1/3 cup parmesan cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

To thaw bread dough, place in microwave on defrost for 2 mins. Cover and let rest for 30 mins.

Cover a large cookie sheet with tin foil. Spray with cooking spray. Using your hands spread dough until you form a large rectangle.

In large skillet melt butter over med. heat. Saute 6-8 mins. until onions are translucent. Add garlic and Italian seasoning and continue cooking 2 mins. Remove from heat.

Spread garlic and onion mixture evenly over bread dough. Top with black olives and sundried tomatoes. Cover with cheddar cheese and top with parmesan. Bake for 15-20 mins. or until golden brown and bubbly.

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