School Lunch

I have been known to be fairly competitive, especially in the area of academics. In college, Grant and I took three sections of English together. This means we wrote our own versions of the exact same assignments over the course of three semesters. I could hold my own but my husband was and still is generally a better writer than me and he always scored just a little bit higher than me on each of our papers. It fried me every time. I remember one assignment in particular. It was a research paper which I worked my ass off to complete. Long hours were spent in the library going over and over the material until finally I was satisfied. Grant, who went on to get his degree in journalism, always worked better under pressure and likely busted his paper out in a day or two.

When our papers were graded and returned I cautiously looked at my score. 98 percent. O to the M to the G! Eat that, Grant Shellen! Victory is MINE!!!

"What did you get?" I asked him.

"I don't want to say," he said.

Do you want to know why? Because Grant got 100 percent. ONE. HUNDRED. PERCENT. That means that there was nothing, NOTHING, about his paper that could be improved upon.

Ass.

Anyway, I have grown as an adult (clearly) and I am not as competitive with my husband as I used to be and really it does help being married to someone who gets 100 percent on research papers, for editing purposes. Grant tells me he thinks I'm a pretty good writer. He even thinks I could write a book someday. So I'll let you in on a little secret: I think I might actually try. But my worry is that I will never be able to put something out there that is a "100 percent" which is also known as "perfection."

So I threw my back out today and my absolutely perfect husband came home early to help take care of our boy, cook dinner and assist me with general movement. While laying on an ice pack in bed, I picked up Anne Lamott's book on writing, "Bird by Bird," and happened to start reading the chapter on "perfection." In it she says

"perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die."

She then reminds her readers that the reality is that our death is inevitable and that "people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you." Amazing advice.

But, Heather, you have a food blog? What the hell is the point of all of this?

I know, I know, I'm getting there. Just bear with me.

Lamott also talks about the importance of having a "shitty first draft." It is the catalyst to your second and third and so on. The need to constantly produce perfection does not allow for the very important shitty first draft to be written. One exercise she often does with her students is to write about school lunch. That's right, for 30 minutes, just write anything you want about brown bagging it to school. According to her, you can learn a lot about your family and where you came from with this topic. So I present to you my version of "School Lunch." I cannot guarantee 100% but I can guarantee it is absolutely my shitty first draft.

School Lunch

I never thought that that as an adult I would thank my mom for the kind of lunches she packed for my sister and I while growing up. For one, we were the only kids at school whose sandwiches were made on wheat bread. Being as young as I was, I was unaware of the the importance of whole grain in your diet. I was, however, aware of the importance of being cool and more often than not, cool equated to bread that was white in color, not brown. Then there was the beverages she packed for us. It was always all natural, 100 percent fruit juice. Apple, pineapple or orange.

What the hell was that about? Where was all the red dye number 3? How about the high-fructose corn syrup? The stuff that is so far from juice, it can't even be called juice but "fruit drink," rather? I remember the one time we begged and begged my mother to buy us the ever popular 1980s beverage, "Squeeze-its." These are the drinks that Grant has, I believe, correctly renamed "Sting-its" because of the lasting sting the drink would leave in your throat. I imagine that sting is due to the crack cocaine the drinks are clearly laced with. She finally caved into our incessant nagging and bought us some. I think she bought us strawberry or purple or unicorn farts and gumdrop flavor, I can't remember. What I do remember is that they were completely disgusting. We never admitted it to Mom, of course. I was never so happy to see apple juice in all my life after we choked those down.

We also rarely found desserts in our sacks at lunch. As a kid, I did not see why lunch should be made up of anything else but pie and gummy bears. My mom thought otherwise. I suppose it is because she thought dessert should be saved for a special occasion and not something that was to be expected. I remember one particular time in kindergarten when my mom packed me two whole marshmallows as a treat. I could not wait for lunch; they were all I could think about. I remember thinking about how I was going to eat them. There were two so I could eat one at the beginning of lunch and one at the end. Or, I could save them both for last. That was probably what I decided on. I knew that things like marshmallows in my lunch box were a rare occurrence and I wanted to savor every minute of them.

However, being the very complacent and quite child that I was, I was easily coerced by my classmates. Before I knew it, two kids had convinced me to give them my marshmallows. I remember they asked me if I would "share." Oh, how they manipulated me with their words! Share! Share my ass! Those little punks just stole my pillowy treats right out from under my nose! I went home that night in tears and told my mom what happened. I was convinced that I had missed out and feared their would not be another treat in my near future. The next day before school, my mom told me she packed me two more marshmallows and this time, I was not "share" them with anyone. In fact, if I was feeling threatened in anyway or if I feared for the life of my marshmallows, I was to go to the back of the playground and eat them first before anyone saw if I had to because they were MY marshmallows. And that was exactly what I did. I stuffed both marshmallows in my mouth and chewed like hell to get them down before anyone even noticed me. They were awesome and so is my mom.

Last Supper

I fear I may have eaten my last meal. I know this because after this meal, I am sure to perish. I think it would be hard not to after consuming a meal that starts with a pound of bacon. And the part of the bacon that is used is not the meat, but the fat that is rendered from it. They say that everything is better with bacon, and my friends: this includes fried chicken.

Let me back up for a minute. This meal begins 24 hours before cook time as the chicken is soaked in a briny bath of buttermilk, an onion and salt. The breading is a simple mix of flour, old bay seasoning, poultry seasoning, black pepper, Nature's Seasons, one or two teaspoons of sugar to help the coating stick to the chicken, and of course the experienced and loving hands of a mom who has spent years perfecting the recipe (thank you Carolyn Poppe!)






Now onto the part about the bacon—the part we would rather not think about. Once brined and breaded, the perfectly moist chicken is fried in a sinful combination of 1/4 cup of vegetable oil, a stick of butter and the bacon fat. But now you are presented with a problem: an entire plate of bacon, crisped to perfection. A plate of bacon that has served its purpose but now has no place in the meal. It is a problem with a simple solution, which is to consume the bacon as a pre—fried chicken snack, naturally. Judge all you want, but we ate it not because we wanted to but because there are starving children in Africa or China or some crap like that and it is just not responsible to waste. So yes, I ate the bacon (for the kids.)



When the chicken is nice and golden brown on both sides, place the pieces on a paper bag on a cookie sheet and place the oven to cook the chicken through.



By the way, you will notice I did not include a picture of what the paper bag looked like after the chicken was finished off in the oven because, well, what you don't know can't hurt you. Well, in this case it can in the form of clogging your arteries but that is neither here nor there. Anyway, here is what it looks like when you are done. Please resist licking your monitor:



And to go along with this this amazing dish, we made mac and cheese, homemade biscuits, pan gravy and cole slaw. Because, you know what? I say go big or go home. As I said, this was clearly my last meal. So my friends, I bid you farewell. Dear Lord, it was worth it, though.

What ever happened to predictability?

I never believed it until now but there really is no harder job than being a mom. Of course it is fun and one of the most rewarding things you will ever do but most day you are just trying to get through it and it is so often about survival. People ask me how I do it. And I think my best friend, Brittaney, said it best: We do it as best we can. We go until we can't go anymore and we love it. But at any point, anywhere at any time, we could close our eyes and fall asleep.

I would be lying if I said I never miss the life that I had before I was a mom. And some days I feel it more than others. Like today for example. Since most of my days, food is no longer about enjoyment for me but rather, how fast can I shove this food into the hole in my head before another meltdown, I was just a little bitter when I heard what Grant had for lunch. While he was enjoying pulled pork hash, fried eggs and mimosas, I was inhaling a salad with dry chicken chunks on top, while watching Full House. Seriously, Full House, as in the Tanners.

Was I jealous of his meal? Of course! However, later that day, my baby fell asleep on my chest, reminding me that what I do all day is worth it. And I am positive that his head smelled a hell of a lot better than anyone's slow roasted pulled pork.

Hot Summer Nights

This weekend was Charlie's first trip to the zoo. I think he enjoyed it but I imagine he would have enjoyed it more if he had, say, the ability to sit or control of his neck and appendages. Furthermore, aside from his hands, my son has all of my physical features. This includes his very fair, almost translucent, skin. Since you really shouldn't put sunscreen on a baby because infants are not able to say, "Mother, I fear I might be getting a bit dehydrated," it is just best to keep them out of the sun. Although, the family did get a chance to observe, "The Charlie" in his natural habitat.



"The Charlie" spends much of his day pooping, sleeping and chewing on his hands. He is quite possibly one of the cutest animals at the zoo but be forewarned. If you anger him, he will barf on you.

This day was particularly sunny and quite frankly, it is about time, considering it is June. Since I was on the hook for dinner for my family that night and it was the first real "hot" day of the year I was not really interested in turning on the oven. So my logical self thought: slow cooker. A nice warm meal without generating nearly as much heat as the oven and, I could start something in the morning before the guests arrive and it will be done when we got back from the zoo. I am a freaking genius.

So I made beef stew. Yup, stew. And there is nothing like a piping hot bowl of beef stew on a hot summer evening.

I don't know what I was thinking either. One would think that I would learn from my mistake but rather than do that, I did the same exact thing the next night. This time it was not stew, it was soup. When I told Grant what we were having for dinner, he said, "OK. You do know that it is almost summer now, right?" as he was standing in front of our make-shift air conditioner aka standing shirtless in front of a fan that is positioned next to an open window.

Yes. I know that it is almost summer. I don't know why I continue to make hot bowls of liquid for dinner when it is 82 degrees in the house. Whatever the reason, here is what I made:

Asparagus Soup with Toasted Garlic Croutons and Goat Cheese

1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 small Yukon gold potatoes, diced
1 large can chicken broth
approx 2 cups asparagus, chopped (I used frozen and it worked great)
approx 1 cup half & half
Few tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
salt and pepper to taste

Croutons

3 or 4 slices of Ciabatta bread, cubed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 clove garlic, minced

Saute the onion and garlic in oil and butter until onion is translucent. Add the potatoes and continue to saute a few minutes more. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add the chicken broth and bring to a boil. Add the asparagus. (Note: I also happened to have some broccoli stalks left over that I chopped up and added with the asparagus. It was quite good to have that layer of flavor in the soup but very much optional). Reduce the soup to a simmer and cook until potatoes and asparagus are fork tender. With an emulsion blender (or a food processor) blend the soup until smooth. Add the half & half after blended.

For the croutons, saute the butter and oil and garlic for a few minutes. Pour over the cubed bread and spread on a cookie sheet. Bake the croutons in a 350 degree oven for 5-7 minutes or until crisp. Sprinkle a few croutons and some goat cheese on top of the hot soup.

So why did I do it? Who knows. I really do love making soup. But perhaps the real reason is that my subconscious mind is rebelling against the change in the weather. Because if one thing is for sure, these post-baby thighs of mine are no where close to being shorts ready. In fact, my entire post-baby body is not looking forward to any summertime attire. So maybe if I just keep making soups, the universe will think it is fall and I can keep my legs nice and covered until, well, stretch marks become fashionable. I realize this is unlikely to work. I guess I will just have to switch to gazpacho for a while.

Chili

I swore that I would not be one of those moms that would forget to do the simple things required to take care of myself like brush my teeth, use the restroom or put on deodorant. Well, I have yet to pee since Grant has left the house this morning and I would highly recommend staying away from my armpits if I were you. Basic hygiene is one thing, and I have come to learn that my son loves me whether or not I have showered. However, I never thought I would forget to eat. I remember several nights in the first few weeks we had Charlie home and Grant and I would turn to each other with bloodshot, tired eyes and with all the energy we had left in us say, "It's 10pm. I suppose we should eat dinner or something." The or something was "go to bed" if you were wondering. Bed usually won over food.

That being said, I have a suggestion for you. If you really want to do something nice for a new mom and dad, bring them food. Better yet, do like my best friend Brittaney did and bring food and cleaning supplies. (Side bar here: Also, bring burp cloths. Especially if you give birth to a child like my son. I am going to buy stock in the things because, so help me God, more food comes out of that kid than goes in.)

All she said when she walked in the door with a bucket full of solvents, sponges and rags was, "I do bathrooms" and I swear the heavens opened up and all the angels and archangels began to sing their songs of cleaning glory. In our master bath, Brittaney said when she was done, "I don't know if I arranged all the stuff that was on your counter right. Sorry if I put any of it in the wrong place."

Um, hi. I don't care if you punch me in the face and steal my jewelry when you are done. YOU JUST CLEANED MY BATHROOM!!

But more importantly, back to the food. My Brittaney is amazing. She is the mother of twin 3-year-olds, has two dogs, a full time job, gets up at dark-o-clock to train with her rowing team and still found time to make three, count them, THREE meals for us. She made us a tray of enchiladas with rice and beans, two servings of marinara sauce and she provided pasta and finally, chili.

Ahhhhh, the chili. Everything was amazing but the chili was superb and I needed to know how she made it. Now, I typically am one to scoff at canned food. I also make it very clear that there is no reason to eat soup from a can because soup is so easy to make. This is when my husband gently reminds me that I may think that it is easy but most normal people think that getting a can opener and a pot is actually easier than cooking anything from scratch. So based on that, this chili is everything I am against. However, sometimes that is what comfort food is all about. Everyone loves a homemade, fancy mac-n-cheese made with aged cheddar and a nutty Gruyere but sometimes "The Cheesiest" is the only thing that will hit the spot. Aside from the ground turkey and grated pepper jack cheese, this is what this chili is made up of:



This is seriously the easiest chili out there.

1 package ground turkey
2 cans white beans
1 can corn
1 package taco seasoning
1 jar of salsa
grated pepper jack cheese

Brown the meat in a pot. Add the 2 cans of beans and 1 can of corn (including all the liquid in the can), taco seasoning and the salsa and heat threw. Once heated, stir in the grated cheese and serve.

Is this how I would usually make chili? No. But sometimes it is okay to cut corners if it end result is just as delicious. Plus, it leaves much more time for this, which is the most important part of it all. Right?

Ode to my "Bah"

My Great Grandma, a.k.a. "Bah," (pronounced like what a sheep would say – you know, "Baaaa." I don't know, ask my mom. She tried to say Grandma and it came out "Bah." Think that's weird? Grandpa came out "Daddal." Your guess is as good as mine.) loved chocolate covered orange rinds. I can still hear her saying it now in her West Virginia drawl, "But I don't want none of that 'light' chocolate. Only dark chocolate." The last time I saw my Bah was on her 95th birthday when the whole family went back east to surprise her. I bought her a bag of dark chocolate covered orange rinds from a fancy chocolate shop in Los Gatos. I handed her the bag and told her what it was. She was sharp as a tack until the day she died but her eyesight had seen better days. She took the bag from my hand and promptly put it in the top drawer of the side table to her left and said, "I'm gonna put them right in here so I have them all to myself. Because I am not going to share them with no one!" And I hope she didn't.

While my mom was growing up, Bah was her best bud and she spent countless weekends at her apartment. She grew up adopting many of Bah's habits and behaviors, especially food preferences. Bah had a blood pressure issue so she ate nearly no salt. So, neither did Mom. It was not until just recently that Mom even started incorporating salt into her diet and growing up we would wait for Mom’s famous “too salty” cough as she would take her first bite of a meal while eating out. My mom also prefers dark chocolate much like Bah, and you would be hard pressed to find her eating any of that “light” stuff. However, the addition of orange, or any kind of fruit for that matter is where my mother draws the line. In her opinion, which she makes very apparent by a snarled nose and look of disgust when fruit and chocolate are even mentioned in the same sentence, is why would anyone ruin perfectly good chocolate with all that pesky fruit?

I don’t understand it. This coming from a woman who actually started to like sugar on her tomatoes because she copied her Grandmother who substituted it for salt. But dip a raspberry in chocolate? DISGUSTING!

Which brings me to tonight. I am home by myself this evening and my son is sleeping soundly upstairs. Since this sleeping on his own thing is relatively new for me, I have to find something to do with my time otherwise I will check on him every 10 minutes. Literally. I do it so much I wonder why I don’t just lay on the floor by his crib but then I think to myself, “Now Heather, that would be insane.” So I started rifling through the cupboard looking for something to bake and I came across a bag of dried cherries that I think I was planning on adding to homemade trail mix. But why would I want to do that when I could add them to cookies?? So with the handful of cherries, a half a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and the little gem I found hiding in the back of my cupboard, Hershey’s “Special Dark” Cocoa Powder, I made these:



Based on the color of dough alone, I knew they were going to be rich and delicious and I owe it all to the dark chocolate cocoa. The light stuff just wouldn’t have cut it. And I am sure if my mom knew I put cherries in them she would make some kind of gagging sound and wonder how I could have added “landmines” to what had the potential to be the perfect cookie. And to that I say, well, maybe I just want to put them right here in this drawer to my left and keep them all to myself. Not share them with no one!

Reward

I have recently discovered this great new diet. First, all you have to do is get pregnant. Grow the child inside of your body for approximately 40 weeks (give or take). During this time eat whatever you want and watch as, not only your stomach, but your hips, thighs and ass expand at an extremely rapid rate. This is mainly caused by all the cookies you will need to consume and the fact that pretty much all physical activity becomes nearly impossible. (This is including but not limited to: jogging, walking, climbing stairs, standing, breathing, motion in general etc.) And try to retain a lot of water if you can. Bags of potato chips in a single sitting help with this. Then give birth. The weight loss is incredible!! Oh, and also you have the pesky responsibility of now raising a child but, whatever. Minor detail.

Anyway, I kid you not, with the regiment I just described coupled with breastfeeding day in and day out, I lost 37 pounds in 6 weeks. But all joking aside, I did not expect to drop that much, that quickly and I am very happy with this change. However, my starting weight when I found out I was pregnant was not what I would call ideal. That coupled with the fact that when I did find out I was expecting I was too scared to sneeze too hard for fear I might dislodge the little noodle in there, I gained a teensy bit more weight (cough) 45 lbs (cough) than I wanted too.

So, about two weeks ago, Grant and I did a 6 day metabolism boosting diet. In a nutshell, it consisted of a low carb, high protein diet with 3 meals a day, 2 snacks and lots of lean protein, veggies and the occasional fruit smoothie. It really is the easiest thing to do and a common sense approach to a diet but you get mighty tired of salad by the end, to say the least. But it worked and thanks to the diet and my daily walks with my son, I lost 8 additional lbs. Woot! And as hard as it was, honestly it felt really good to eat completely healthy for a week. I suppose these so called "nutritionists" may be onto something.

But tonight I decided we deserved to treat ourselves. And the fresh scallops at Farmer Joe's Market in Oakland were begging for me to buy them. I basically tweaked this risotto recipe. I opted for no fennel because I find it offensive and I added red onion and sauteed oyster mushrooms that also looked AMAZING that day at the market. I then topped it off with three beautiful seared scallops. It was well worth 6 days of salads and grilled chicken. But, the weight loss was also worth it and I plan on doing the diet again on a more regular basis in an effort to lose more, and cleanse my body a bit. Now, if I can only find a diet that will do something about this gelatinous tire where my abs once were. One of the many other gifts my beautiful son has left me with.


(Photo by Grant Shellen)