Gluten Free

About 10 months ago, we started getting a veggie box from the CSA certified organic farm, Terra Firma. It was our family's small but delicious attempt to do something better for ourselves and better for the planet. In theory, we pay the weekly price of the box and that supplies us for our produce for the week. In other words, maybe we can save a little bit of money. Well, that turns out to not be the case most weeks. What ends up happening is I take a look in the box and plan a meal around it which usually means I am at Whole Foods, filling my cart with 14 other things. This is exactly how gorgeous Trumpet Mushrooms and Salmon, (that was $15.99/lb) ended up in my cart this week.

Our weekly farm box is not the only change our family has made. Recently, Grant has decided to try a gluten free diet. He is currently about a week into a two week trial run in the hopes that he will see some improvement in his overall health. I think it's great...for him. I, on the other hand, can't imagine doing it because that would mean no brownies and I love brownies. But, I love my husband more so I am doing my best to be supportive. And even though I do have days when what I really want to do is duct tape him to a chair, sit across from him eating an entire loaf of white bread, my maniacal laughter drowning out the sound of his tears, I too have made some scarificies. This means cringing when I buy things like "Gluten Free" Bisquick and potato and soy based pastas. I mean, come on, gluten free pasta? The 25% of him that is Italian must be cursing his name.

So I've got my salmon, the mushrooms, and some beautiful baby carrots, a leek and some spinach from my veggie box and I know I have the making of something fabulous. Then I am reminded of quinoa. Quinoa is a gluten-free friendly grain that is delicious and good for you. Even though I am in no rush to give up my brownies, I can definitely work with this.



Beautiful carrots from our Terra Firma veggie box.



Chopped leeks



I was so excited to eat my trumpet mushrooms that I forgot to take a picture of how beautiful they were before I chopped them up.



Saute the veggies in butter and olive oil, along with one small diced onion and 2 cloves of chopped garlic until the veggies are tender. Add the chopped spinach at the end and cook until just wilted.



Mix the veggie hash with the cooked quinoa and place the salmon, perfectly seared to medium rare, on top. Gluten free and delicious.

Skating in Milk

My lovely sister-in-law, Allison, told me a story once of a former acquaintance of hers. Her friend was having a day, probably not unlike many other days when you are juggling work, your kids and everything else in between. Upon coming home from this long day which ended with a trip to the grocery store, her very small son thought he would "help" put the two very heavy gallon jugs of milk on the counter. I'll give you one guess to what happened next.

Splash.

"So we skated in it." She told Allison. Her children and her skated in the spilled milk. Because you know why? Sometimes that is all you can do.

I try to remind myself of this story often, especially on days when it feels like I am waste deep in milk. But I was reminded of it the other day but this time in a more literal sense when I got a phone call from my sister.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Question. Do you know the best way to clean up olive oil from the floor?"

"Oh boy, did you spill?"

"Um, yes. I dropped and broke the brand new bottle I just bought from Trader Joe's."

After a quick Google search, I found her an answer. "Online it says, oatmeal. Pour oatmeal on the spill. Leave for 20 minutes, then sweep it up."

"Ok, great. Also, glad I bought oatmeal as well."

I have to say, I was proud of my little sister for remaining so calm. With everything she has going on in her life, including but not limited to bills, rent, school and a demanding little dog named Joey who is just a monocle and a smoking jacket away from being a grouchy old man, an oil spill was the last thing she needed. And even though now, what she did need was a new bottle of olive oil and tub of oatmeal, the bottom line was there are important things in life than crying over spilled, err, oil. Although, I don't recommend actually skating in it; that is a head injury and a trip to the ER waiting to happen.

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.