Bundles of joy and Italian String Bean Bundles

I just hit the last “submit order” button for this Christmas season.  You can’t see me, but I’m doing the pee pee dance.  After spending several days in the stores fighting lines, sitting here in pj’s and fuzzy slippers, sipping coffee and firing gifts out to family members across the country as if we could afford it, is a blessing. I have to admit, the sales are off the charts this year.  Free shipping, reduced prices, if the retailers keep this up we’ll get a check from them if we place an order on their site.  I like it, I really do.

We’re traveling off and on over the holidays.  Since my mother broke her pelvis the first of the year, traveling the four hours to us is not doable for her.  Not having her in the house at Christmas until the last-minute is a plus, as keeping a secret from her, when you’re in the same house is nearly impossible.  As a kid, I can remember all packages bearing her name had small holes in the bottom where she’d poked a finger in to see if she could determine what was inside.  For me, I like to be surprised, or sometimes.

Most of my life I’ve been teased for being kind of skittish person.  By this, I mean I’m jumpy. If you walk in the room and I’m unaware you are there, when I do lay eyes on you, I’m liable to thrust my hands up in the air, throw the cat across the room, or attempt to two-step my way to Beijing.  It’s a personal problem.  I offer no explanation for this odd behavior, other than the possibility I was dropped out of a second story window as a baby and landed on my head. As for my other half, always searching for the silver lining, he views this as a positive trait.  In his eyes, in the event a masked intruder should break into the house, upon observing me exhibiting these peculiar behaviors he would assess me to be wired incorrectly and vacate the premises post haste for his own protection.  Always nice to be reassured that I’m making a positive contribution to the household.

Before my children moved out on their own, they found this endlessly entertaining, sneaking up me often, thus signficantly reducing my life expectancy.  Once, they hid in the closet when I came home from work, specifically, my closet.  Calling their names and getting no response, I did what I usually did upon walking in the door at night, kicked off my shoes and headed for the bedroom to get out of my work clothes.  Peeling off my jacket and opening the door to hang it up, I found my two potential inmates standing stock still, hands at their sides, looking up at me.  Triggering every fight or flight response in me, I first ripped every button off the front of my blouse, and then in a knee-jerk reaction my right foot shot out and nailed my son directly in the crotch bringing him down like a deflated hot-air balloon. Looking back on it, I believe that that defense would have held up in court.  It’s amazing we don’t eat our young, like guppies.

It seems that I attract others of my own kind, because our oldest cat, Boo Boo (the name alone would suggest where I’m going), has similar idiosyncracies.  If you round a corner and sneak up on her, she will turn sideways and on tiptoe, sidle across the floor Halloween cat style as though she was the lead ballerina in the feline production of Swan Lake.  Hysterical.

Socializing the old cat with the new remains an issue.  Better these days, they’re still far from perfect. They’ll be alone in the house for four days while we’re gone and we’re entertaining outfitting them in diminutive suits of armor in order to keep them from harming one another.  Not really, hold the comments, we’re putting them in separate parts of the house and hiring a pet sitter.  Ach.  On one trip down to the Bay Area we attempted to bring the older cat.  On our way home, we let her freely roam in the back of the car.  Ecstatic to be uncrated, she hopped back and forth between the back seat and the tailgate of the SUV, stopping now and then to gaze out the window in the back seat.

After coming to a stop sign and beginning to pick up speed, she climbed up to look out the window resting her paw on the automatic window button.  Uh-oh.  It is set up in a way that it has to go all the way down before going back up,  and in the interim the cat jumped out.  I practically dislocated my other half’s neck getting him to pull over to the side of the road.  Having apparently all nine lives to spare, she zigzagged across the road between traffic and hid in the meridian under some bushes leaving only her tail showing.  My other half did his own pee pee dance behind her dodging cars.  Calling her name and getting nothing, and with no other option he got down on his hands and knees and began the humiliating process of coaxing a frightened animal back out of a hiding spot.  You animal lovers will recongize this scenario, it’s the one when your voice rises two octaves above normal, and you’re reduced to making empty promises involving lifetime supplies of Greenies and Fancy Feast when they arrive home.  At last, the deal sealed apparently, she jumped into his arms and they were back in the car.  Note to self:  Turn on babylock when cat is in car.

Cats are strange beings.  We invite them into our homes and provide food and shelter.  In return they use your $4,000.00 designer couch for a scratching post, and the $75.00 scratching post purchased precisely for that particular activity remains pristine and untouched. A litter box is provided and cleaned regularly for their use, and yet they seem to find your potted plants so much more convenient for eliminating all that high-end kibble they’re consuming.  We treat them like children, lavishing them with love, affection and gifts and still they view us with indifference and disdain, dispensing affection at their will, for which we are unnaturally grateful.  Good Lord, this is sounding like our last family get together.

Try these little bundles, they don’t fight back, and there is no writing of checks involved. I serve these before a pasta dish usually with a dipping sauce of Ranch Dressing. For a holiday party I tie the haystacks in the middle with a length of chive making a bow. Yum.

Italian Green Bean Bundles

1/4 lb. or approx. 64 green beans
8 scallions, halved
2 large eggs
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 cup grated Parmesan Cheese
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1 cup olive oil for frying
Salt to taste
Ranch dressing or sour cream dill sauce for dipping
Wooden toothpicks

Bring 6 quarts of lightly salted water to boil in large pot. Add trimmed beans to pot and continue cooking on medium boil for about 3 mins. Do not overcook. Beans should be slightly under el dente. Drain beans on a clean kitchen towel on a cookie sheet until cooled.

When cooled line up in fours and cut to the same length, about 5″. At the same time halve your green onion tops and set aside. Place 1/2 onion top in center of each group of green beans.  Secure in the center with a toothpick placed horizontally.

Beat two eggs in shallow dish.  Mix together dry ingredients in separate shallow dish.  Dip each bundle first in egg mixture and then in flour mixture, shaking off excess.  Place on paper towel lined cookie sheet in single layer.

Heat oil in large skillet over med. heat to about 360 degrees.  In batches add the bundles turning often until golden brown on both sides.  Drain on paper towels.  Sprinkle lightly with salt.

Serve immediately with Ranch dressing or dill yogurt dip.

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Coming of age and New Orleans Style Artichoke and Green Bean Casserole

Another Thanksgiving behind us.  As usual, the morning after I began my yearly process of dragging the boxes marked “Christmas” out of the closet, starting with the one marked “lights”.  No matter how many strings of working lights I put neatly away the year before, a third of them don’t light when I plug them in the following year.  Must be built-in obsolescence, like computers.  The model of this laptop was probably already obsolete before UPS dropped it off at my front door, my search engine before I opened the box, and certainly my software ten minutes after I installed it.  Maybe that’s a common thread that runs through the larger plan.  Humans come equipped with it.  Aging begins the moment we take our first breath.  I know after the holidays pass these days my body marks the passing of time a little more then it used to.

Tom was a larger bird this year, twenty-three pounds.  Wrestling him out of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator and getting him on top of my counter took three men and a van. Actually, I did it myself and I believe I can now clip my toe nails without bending over.  I don’t stuff the bird these days.  Stuffing gets baked casserole style while the bird is “resting” waiting to sacrifice himself for the whole.  Word is, according to the experts, stuffing the bird the night before may cause severe digestive distress, or worse actually be the last punch in your card if ingested. Who are these experts anyhow?  Anybody ever met one? Have you ever listened to the disclaimers on the prescription drug ads, and yet they’re deemed fit for human consumption.  How on earth did we manage before all the information they provide us?  I can remember as a child seeing meat defrosting in the sink, eggs sat in a wire chicken basket on the counter, stuffing was always put in the bird the night before and yet I can never recall seeing a coroner’s van in front of our house the day after Thanksgiving, and unless I’m having an out of body experience I’m sitting at my obsolete computer writing this blog, and I’m still around.

Way back when, there was no refrigeration. For people living in the now, comprehending life without refrigerators, washers and dryers, ranges, and dishwashers would be like trying to imagine not flipping a switch and having light fill the room.  I know for me when we have an electrical outage I still go into a room and flip the switch out of habit, even it nothing’s going to happen when I do.

As a little girl, my grandmother and I spent a great deal of time together in her kitchen. While chopping, stirring, and cooking, she would share stories of her life, including the fact that she and my grandfather got one of the first refrigerators in their neighborhood.  Before the first refrigerators, people had ice boxes. Large blocks of ice were delivered by wagon, or later trucks to keep food cold.  Halifax, though not a small town, had a small town feel to it.  Neighbors knew neighbors.  Word passed through the phone lines that the refrigerator had been delivered and, one by one, friends and interested parties showed up at my grandmother’s front door to take a look.  It was much smaller back in the day.  There was no side by side, no defrost bin, no filtered water, and if you wanted ice, I suppose the ice man came into play again.  I don’t know, I wasn’t there.  Really.

On the farm where my grandmother was raised, she told me they cured their meat, or smoked it to preserve it, or cellars were dug to keep the meat cool.  During the winter they buried it in the snow.  With my memory, I’d probably bury it and never find it again until the spring.

We’ve come a long way since the milk man delivered milk, butter, and eggs to the back door.  In Egypt, so my other half tells me, when he was growing up a farmer would come by in the morning on a bicycle with large metal containers strapped to the sides.  The servants would come out to the street with pails and fresh milk would be ladled into them.  Once inside, the rich cream would be skimmed from the top and given to the children, or used by the adults in their coffee.  In his memory, nothing tasted as good as a child as that thick, rich cream.

Today I’m making soup out of the turkey, and finishing the tree.  I went out early this morning and picked up two new strands of lights. You know, the miniature lights that used to cost a couple of bucks, and now cost something resembling my last car payment.  I then went to the grocery store and bought two steaks and a baguette and had to take out a second on the house.  To add insult to injury the twelve year old with the braces bagging my groceries, asked if I needed help out to the car with my purchase.  Really?  I’m barely baby boomer age, I think I can still manage two filet mignons and a thin loaf of bread without requiring attention from emergency personnel between the store and the car, but thank you for asking.  For the prices they’re charging for food these days, humor me and I.D. me for the wine. Now, that would make for a satisfying shopping experience.

These green beans are New Orlean’s style, and a really nice change of pace.  As with all good Cajun food it’s rich and gooey and rates a second helping.

New Orleans Style Artichoke and Green Bean Casserole

1 large onion, finely diced
1/2 cup olive oil
8 garlic cloves, minced
1 9 oz. pkg. frozen artichokes hearts, thawed
2 lbs. fresh green beans, trimmed
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup Italian bread crumbs
3 Tbsp. freshly chopped parsley
2 Tbsp. melted butter
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Slice the green beans lengthwise (French cut). Cover with water (salted) in large deep skillet and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to med-low and continue cooking on low simmer until green beans are tender. Remove from heat and drain. Set aside.

Quarter artichoke hearts. Set aside.

Coat bottom of large skillet with 2 Tbsp. olive oil. Heat until shimmery. Add onions. Brown lightly occasionally scraping bits from bottom of pan. Add 2 Tbsp. of water and scrape all bits. Add remaining olive oil and garlic and chopped parsley. Cook until garlic is fragrant.

Add artichokes and green beans. Thoroughly heat mixture, stirring frequently to coat evenly. Add 1/2 cup bread crumbs, salt, pepper, and cayenne. If too dry add a little more olive oil stirring well to mix evenly. Season if necessary.

Place in greased casserole dish. Pour other half of bread crumbs over top. Drizzle with melted butter. Bake for 25-30 mins.

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Babies on Board and Greek-Style Green Beans in Mushroom Tomato Sauce

I have posted for sale ads in so many locations in an effort to lighten our load before our move. It’s gotten so bad, I have to consult a “cheat sheet” when someone responds to an ad to remember what it was I said about the item, and how much I asked for it.

A very nice woman drove the two hours from Sacramento yesterday to look at our portable dishwasher. When she arrived, the dishwasher was in the garage with the door still half open from the cleaning I’d given the inside earlier.  After circling the machine, I would presume to check for dents or scratches, she inquired, “Does it have any extras I should know about”.  As it had adjustable racks and shelves, I reached down to fully open the door to show her how everything worked. A small whiskered black and white face looked up from her napping spot towards the back of the lower rack and offered a welcoming “meow”.  I explained that the feline in the bin option had only been available in the 2004 models, but was soon discontinued due to hair cloggage issues occurring during the rinse cycle.  Deciding to forego the feline option and rather opt for the pared down model, money was exchanged and my dishwasher was loaded on her truck. This, as it turns out, was an excellent choice on her part because we found out from the vet later on in the day that our foundling is carrying, if you will.  And, by this I do not mean her NRA membership card is current. Ach.  Do you suppose it’s the word “patsy” boldly stamped boldly in red letters on my forehead that alerts animals that I’m a registered sucker for a furry sob story? Sigh.

Look at this innocent face

Informing my mother of the latest sale, silence ensued on the other end of the phone.  “Hello?” It seemed she was under the impression that I’d sold the dishwasher in our kitchen and that we were now without one. What would I do?  Would my hands actually have to submerge in soapy water and scrub the food off manually?  Aren’t there people for that?  I adore my mother, but “hothouse flower” is what she calls herself, and truly she does her level best to live up to the name.

In the past I’ve occupied two homes not equipped with a dishwasher, as well as one with no garbage disposal.  Truthfully, I would pick the garbage disposal over the dishwasher if I could only choose one.  That, was really annoying.  In France, when we visited my other half’s mother in 2002, I was fascinated to find that in her building a garbage disposal was simply an opening in the sink where you deposited your food scraps. After being deposited they were propelled by gravity to a community bin in the basement to be later emptied and disposed of.  Voila!  If I redeemed the money I’ve shelled out on repairs for mine, or replacement costs, I could upgrade my housing search on Yahoo and add a third bedroom and a swimming pool.  From what I understand these are no longer acceptable in France due to hygienic issues, so no point in tearing your disposal out and giving it a go.

One huge benefit to renting, as opposed to owning your home, is that when something goes wrong in a rental, you pick up the phone and somebody is sent out to repair it.  Your wallet remains in your purse unopened.  When you own, you look around the room and find you are the only person who gives a damn that you’re standing ankle-deep in two feet of soapy water your new dishwasher has just deposited on your carpet, and, if you wish to do something about the situation, you’d better have your checkbook and a pen handy before you place a call. 

In my experience, if an appliance decides to go south, it’s usually ten days following the expiration date of the extended warranty.  Either that, or the part that malfunctions is the one and only part not covered under the warranty still in effect.  Uh-huh.  In our ten years in this house we’re on our third dishwasher, our third stove, our second refrigerator, and we’ve replaced both the garbage disposals in the main kitchen twice and the one downstairs once.  Our recreation room has been completely restored, done incorrectly, completely torn down, and partially restored once again, plus one ceiling has totally collapsed in the office put back in place. It’s like my kids used to say, “we must still have money, there are checks in the checkbook”.  Wouldn’t it be nice if it worked that way?  I’d order checks by the gross.

I remember another time, when we first moved in.  Busy decorating the downstairs area, putting up pictures, etc., I noticed that suddenly the hall light wouldn’t turn on.  After exhausting everything we had at our disposal to correct the situation, an electrician was summoned.  On the following morning an electrical contractor and one young helper arrived. The two of them spent four hours trying to diagnose the problem.   Finally unable to locate the issue, the contractor began happily working up an estimate for removing the entire wall to access the electrical system, with an assumed guarantee to syphon the last dollar from our savings account.  Happily, we were informed, the total would include the $468.00 we’d already racked up.  I felt better already.  Just prior to giving him the okay, his apprentice made a startling discovery.  It seemed someone had hung a picture over the second light switch accidentally turning it off. What? Some might argue that this was my fault. I would deny it. 

 In truth, until the loan is paid in full the bank owns your home, as is evident by how many foreclosures are on the books these days.  Still, home ownership brings with it a kind of “warm fuzzy” feeling of security whether deeply based on reality or not.

It’s amazing what you find you can live without.  Who knew, I could get along without that third colander, and that second lettuce dryer?  I now have room in my cupboards for storage and haven’t given a second thought to all that I’ve already boxed up.  Maybe there’s something to living less encumbered??  We shall see.

Greek-Style Green Beans in Mushroom Tomato Sauce

1 1/2 lbs. fresh green beans
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 cup button mushrooms, thinly sliced
1/3 cup ripe olives, sliced
1 28 oz. can diced tomtoes with juice
1 Tbsp. parsley flakes
1 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. salt
Freshly ground black pepper (2 grinds or as desired)
1/2 cup Feta cheese

Cook green beans in large pot of boiling salted water until almost tender. Remove from heat and drain. Set aside.

Heat olive oil in large deep skillet. Saute onions and garlic for about 5 mins. until onion is translucent. Add tomatoes, mushrooms, olives, oregano, salt, pepper and parsley flakes. Bring to boil over med. heat. Reduce heat and cook on a low boil for 10 mins. to slightly reduce sauce.

Add beans to skillet. Cook 8-10 mins. until beans are tender. Sprinkle with Feta cheese. Serves 6.

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