Slowly Killing Myself With Food.

As previously mentioned here, I decided to make a life list of food. Well, after the first overnight away from my sweet baby boy which included (but was not limited to) red lipstick, a fabulous dress and a few too many cocktails, I was able to fulfill one of those items on the list: chicken fried steak, from Pelton Cafe in San Leandro.

Since the bag of potato chips I ate from the mini bar of our hotel that morning didn't fully take away the feeling of "blech" caused by the night before, I figured a steak, breaded and chicken-fried, couldn't hurt.

The reality was, however, the only thing that was really going to cure this mama's hangover was to go back in time and not mix my liquors. Since that was impossible, the steak was a close second to a cure and it was, unfortunately for my waistline, quite fabulous.

So, check. One life list item, done. Now I have one for you to add to your list.

Three words: Bacon. Salted. Caramels.

Dude....dude. I know what you are thinking: I am a disgusting human being. This may be true but you know what?

I don't even care.

It went down like this. We ate a lot of bacon over the holidays and since we have a temperamental disposal and I was always taught not to pour bacon grease down the sink (and I like to come up with excuses to cook with it later) I save it in a foil-lined bowl and throw it away once it has hardened. So I thought to myself, "You need butter to make caramels. Butter is a fat. Bacon grease is a fat. Bacon is salty. And since bacon is delicious..."

My logic was spot on, I think—it just seemed like the obvious path to take.



I basically used this recipe but instead of 5 tablespoons of butter, I used 2 1/2 of butter and 2 1/2 of bacon fat.



I let my caramel boil until about 250 degrees instead of 248 degrees like the recipe calls for. It didn't seem to be thickening like I was used to from previous batches I'd made using all butter. Perhaps this was from my substitution of bacon fat for butter. However, I think the more likely culprit was the fact that I didn't have a full cup of cream. I had to use about a 1/4 cup of half and half to make it a full cup.

Either way, the caramels came out a little soft, so it was a bit more of a challenge to get them out of the pan and into wax paper rolls. However, it was not any more challenging to get them into the hole in my face.



Oh. My. God. They were unbelievable. I recommend you stop what you are doing right now and get to caramel making. It will shave several months off your life expectancy, but it will be worth it.

My 2010

To many, it is no secret that 2008 (and a good part of 2007 and 2009, for that matter) was undoubtedly the most trying and challenging years of my life. Maybe someday you’ll get to read about those years in detail it in my memoir. Or, you could just get me drunk enough at the next party we're at together. All that is in the past and today, I am stronger for it. But in July, 2009, something happened that ensured 2010 was going to be, unequivocally, my greatest year.

This year was the year that saved me. The year that I remembered what it felt like to be truly happy. The year that made me feel like “me” again. I plan to continue this trend in 2011. Until then, here is my 2010:

Our 2010, in photos from Grant Shellen on Vimeo.

Happy New Year.

Row, Row, Row Your Boat....

When I was 16 I ran a red light during my drivers test. But I didn't run just any red light. No, I ran the FIRST red light out of the parking lot. In fact, this intersection was so close to the DMV, I am 98% sure you can actually see it from the parking lot.

When it happened, the instructor in my car said, "Oh, you just ran that red light."

Honestly, I had no idea it happened, even after it happened. I think it was pretty obvious that I just failed, miserably. So I said, the only thing could think of.

"Ok. So what do I do now?"

The instructors answer to that question was something like, "Make a u-turn back into the DMV, you blind ding-dong."

Running a red light during your driving test is the dumbest of dumb moves; I am fully aware of this. However, if you saw this intersection, especially as an inexperienced driver, you might understand how my very naive self made the mistake. I am convinced that the DMV (aka: Satan's Dungeon) chose this location for their office just because they are jerks who like to make other people suffer. Because you see, this is no ordinary intersection. It looks like the city planners drew up the blueprints for the intersection at Dusterberry and Peralta Blvd by giving a pen to a baby. A "left" turn is kinda straight. Straight through the intersection veers off to the left a little. And if you make a right turn when Venus us aligned with Mars you are teleported to the magical land of Narnia. The thing is a wonky mess. They knew this would screw up hopeful teens and that's why they built it there! At least that is what I tell myself.

I remember my Dad. Anxiously waiting for me in the parking lot and the expression on his face when I pulled back in 2 minutes after I left, changed quickly from elated anticipation to "Oh shit, this can't be good."

More than anything, I was embarrassed. Everyone knew I was taking the test and the thought of having to tell friends not just that I failed but how I failed was chilling to say the least. But I moved on from it and two weeks later took the test again and passed with a 95%. And now I can get a good laugh out of my story.

However, recently I was reminded of the day I ran that red light. But this time, I did not think of it in a "funny ha-ha" way. More like a "funny-ha-ha-my-palms-are-sweaty-and-I-can't-feel-my-legs" kinda way. As I previously mentioned here, I joined a rowing team. Every member of the team is required to be the coxswain in the boat at least once every couple of months. The coxswain is the driver and it is pronounced like "cox-sin" and yes, if you are a boy it is ok to giggle when you say it aloud.

A few weeks before it was my turn the coach gave us newbies a quick lesson in being the coxswain.

"Being the cox is not that hard. Your job is to steer and keep the boat safe. You are the eyes of the boat. Now, if you run into any trouble all you have to do is remember the two most important commands. Way enough (Stop what you are doing) and All Hold (Put the "breaks" on, basically)."

Ok, so it's easy he says. I like easy.

"But I mean, it can be scary because if something happens to the boat...well, it's your fault."

Awesome. My days of avoiding this terrifying duty had come to an end the other night. I was very nervous. We row at night and it is very dark and very hard to see the other skinny boats on the lake. Also steering was weird and took me almost the entire practice to get right. But the worst part of all is that most actual coxswains are tiny little people with tiny little rear ends. This is not me. I was not sitting the seat as much as I was wedged in the seat. Half way through the row both my legs were completely asleep. However as awesome a picture I have painted here about my experience, it was really not all that bad. I may go as far as to describe it as being even a little bit fun. But I am very glad my obligation is fulfilled for at least the next two months. I row because I like the exercise and being made to feel like a sausage squeezed into a casing is not my idea of a workout.

Eh, whatever! My bruised ass and sore legs were able to talk me into a few cookies after practice anyway!

Mother of the Year

Let me start by saying the food tonight was really amazing. Really, it was. And the service was great and my family was treated with respect. That said, we never should have gone to this restaurant tonight.

Why?

BECAUSE IT IS INAPPROPRIATE TO TAKE YOUR BABY TO DINNER AT A BAR!!!

In our defense, everything leading up to our choice to go to Sweet Fingers in San Leandro tonight made us believe that we were going nowhere other than a restaurant that also served alcoholic beverages. Their website, the fact that we bought a gift certificate from Restaurant.com, and the Yelp reviews I scanned all seemed to scream "Yes! You can enjoy all our Caribbean classics with the entire family!"

However, as we walked up to the door, my inner self started to panic and something was telling me, "You are about to make a horrible mistake." This was further confirmed when we walked in and smelled something that, how shall I say, immediately gave me the munchies.

We were greeted by a "hostess" who was, not surprisingly, confused as to why we were even there. And over the course of the next 2.5 seconds, Grant and I had this entire conversation using only our eyes as communication:

Me: Um, this is a bar.
Him: I know.
Me: We are the only people here!
Him: I know.
Me: We are the only white people here!
Him: I know.
Me: And it smells like pot in here!
Him: I know.
Me: What do we do?
Him: I don't know.
Me: Do we bail? We can't bail. Oh my God, everyone is staring at us.
Him: I know.
Me: We are terrible parents.
Him: I know.

So I said the only logical thing I could think of.

"Do you guys have high chairs?"

They did. One. It was broken.

But we stayed. Me in my cowl neck sweater, Grant in his western shirt and Converse sneakers and my very blond, very blue-eyed, VERY vocal 7-month-old baby boy. In retrospect, we probably should have left. But if we had left, we never would have gotten that amazing jerk chicken. Or the brown stew with lamb. Or a rum, sorrel & ginger beer cocktail.

Or a contact high.

My Little Parsnip

I think I finally found one. Parsnips. Yes, I am pretty positive that my son doesn't like parsnips. Because up until this point he eats anything that I put in his mouth. I mean, it is no surprise that he likes bananas, sweet potatoes, apple and pear sauce (with and without cinnamon) and carrots. But he also likes peas, spinach, avocado and broccoli. Broccoli which smelled like farts while I was making it and while he was eating it. Farts. F-A-R-T-S. Stinky, broccoli farts.

Yes, most of Charlie's food I make at home but when we are on the go, I opt for the jarred stuff. But have you ever tried some of that stuff? I remember the day I was feeding him "Winter Squash" and after I tried it and literally looked at him and said, "Really Charlie? Because this is gross." And Charlie just looked up at me as if to say, "Right, and your point, Mom?" I am not trying to say that I drizzle curry oil over his strained carrots or make him "minted pea" mash but the jar stuff doesn't even taste fresh.

When I say he "likes" everything, I should probably clarify. He displays two different emotions when it comes to his food. There is the stuff he really likes, like apples, pears, carrots and bananas. I know this because with each bite he makes long, convincing "Mmmmmmmmmm" noises. In general he is fairly content during most of the meal. Pretty much everything else, he seems indifferent to, as far as taste is concerned. However, at some point in nearly all his meals, he turns into a child that I swear I did not give birth to. I try to imagine the thoughts he is having inside his tiny, little brain as the meal progresses. It probably goes something like, "Hmmm, this tastes strange/good/awesome/weird/whatever. But mom, that doesn't mean stop. Mom! Why are you stopping! MOM! FOOD! WAAAAAAA!"

That's right. If you are not shoving the food into his mouth at a continuous pace, Charlie becomes very, VERY upset. Even if after a pause, the rate at which I'm feeding him returns to an acceptable, lightning-speed pace, if he so much as remembers those few moments when I had to stop for whatever reason, the cycle starts all over again. He starts screaming, his face turns the color of marinara sauce and he begins slamming his head and body against the back of his highchair in anger. I don't get it.

"What are you upset about, Son? I am feeding you! Not shoving hot pokers in your eyes, which, based on the shrillness of your screams is what the neighbors think I am doing!!"

The only explanation I can come up with is this: demonic possession.

But despite the tears, the anguish, the moments when his head spins around 360 degrees and he sprout fangs, he will eat it all and then some. And I can only assume that he likes it because it all goes in with not so much as a crumb left on his face.

But then I made him parsnips.

Nope, those didn't go over well. He kept screaming for more bites but after about five or six spoonfuls I realized that he was not swallowing any of it and instead was storing the mush on either side of his cheeks. It was like he was hoping that the next bite would be something delicious but, nope...still parsnips.

Well, that's ok with me. I couldn't really ask for a less picky child and parsnips are a little weird. And so long as I am mixing them with carrots, sweet potatoes or applesauce he is eating them. Reluctantly, but he is eating them. And I'm not going to tell him this but I'm sure it won't be the last time I will hide veggies in his food.

Biscuits and Donuts

My middle name is "Marie." My parents chose this name not because it is the most popular middle name in the world but after my great-grandma Marie. She is not my biological great-grandma—my grandpa was only three when his mother died from consumption (seriously, I'm not just saying that because it is an old-timey disease) and he married Marie shortly after. My dad has countless stories about this crazy Danish lady.

My dad is the second oldest of four boys. First there is Steve, then my dad, Roger, then Chris, and finally Clint. Yes, Marie was from Denmark and had a substantial accent but could speak English well enough. Even still, she never pronounced my father's name correctly, and referred to him only as "Rotney." My dad recalls birthdays and Christmas when Grandma Marie would send the boys a check as a gift. Four separate checks for $2.00: one for Steve, one for Chris, one for Clint, and one for Rotney.

One of my favorite stories was the time when my Dad was about 13 and Grandma was visiting from Wisconsin. "Rotney! Rotney! Come help your Grandma! Rotney!" she yelled with urgency from down the hall.

"What, Grandma?" Dad said as he rounded the corner into the room she was staying in. There she was, in all her octogenarian glory, naked as the day she was born.

"Ahhh, Grandma!" he yelled as he shielded his eyes.

"Get me my robe, Rotney." He did has he was told, but I don't think he has ever recovered from the visual.

Despite the fact that every time she saw my Dad she would tell him, "Rotney, you too fat!!" she was famous for her donuts and she happily made them for the boys during her visits. Of course she made the dough from scratch, fried them to perfection and doused them in sugar. Growing up, my dad made us a bastardized version of these donuts and instead of making his own dough he used Pillsbury Grands biscuits with the center punched out of them (still fried to perfection). I admit that there have been times when I've created a dinner menu based on these biscuits, not just because I want to eat them with dinner, but also because I want to make donuts out of the leftovers.

So, in the spirit of fall, I recently cooked a big pot of beef stew in the crock pot and at the suggestion of my mother made these biscuits. They were amazingly delicious and unbelievably easy to make. So easy in fact, that it seems I don't need to buy the ready-made kind anymore.

Of course, the downside of this realization is that now there are no longer any leftovers for donuts. So, I am not cutting Grands Biscuits off the shopping list for good. But maybe in the spirit of my great-grandma, who I never had the pleasure of meeting, I can try to make donuts from scratch as well.

The last time that my dad spoke to her on the phone as they were hanging up he said, "Jeg elsker dem, Grandma" which is "I love you" in Danish.

And her response, "Jeg elsker dem, Roger." She passed a away a few days later.

My Dad loved to tell stories about her. She seemed like a pretty neat lady and I am proud to share her name. I hope that maybe someday I can be a grandma like her...well, maybe without the flashing my grandkids part.

(Update: Apparently I had some of my facts wrong. My Dad has set me straight. Read on.)

Heather,
Thanks for the sweet story about my Grandma Marie. It brings back many memories.

The story is actually a bit more comical that you suggested. You are correct that she always called me Rotney (Which is Rodney with her extremely heavy Danish accent), however, every $2.00 check that she sent me for Christmas was made out to Robert Andersen.

It never bothered me that she called me Rotney and sent checks to Robert. As a matter of fact it provoked many laughs for my entire family. I was thrilled by the realization that the only time she ever called me Roger, was the last time she talked to any of us before she died. I wonder if she was just messing with me before that last call.

Chris and Clint (Clint particularly) still call me Rotney.

Rotney

Way Enough.

A few weeks ago I took a sweep rowing class. It was something that I always wanted to try it but never did, probably out of fear that I would fail. But then six months ago I pushed a nine pound kid out of me, unmedicated, and I unleashed some confidence that had been hiding in me for most of my life, so I signed up.

I started with 6 sessions in the novice class and recently graduated to the intermediate level despite the fact that I often feel like I have no business being in a boat on the water. I already have enough trouble keeping my lefts and rights straight and now "port" and "starboard" have been thrown into the mix. There is a term in rowing called "catching a crab" (tee-hee, I said crab). It is not nearly as gross as it sounds but about as embarrassing when you are the newbie on the intermediate team. It basically means you get out of sync with the other rowers in the boat and get your oar stuck in a way that, in the worse case scenario, can throw you out of the boat. Although I have yet to be launched out of the boat into the scummy water that is Lake Merritt, I did catch two crabs today. It was not easy for my stroke or my pride to recover.

But, I'm not giving up yet. So far it is an excellent workout and I love the idea of being on a team. And on Saturdays after practice, the team goes out to breakfast. In fact, the coach of the novice class said during practice one day that the great thing about being a rower is that you can eat whatever you want. This pleases me.