Scooby Snacks

This past week and a half I have been shapeshifting between grounded reality and elusive fantastical dream. Some moments I am in peaceful repose nestled in both worlds adjusted to the normalacy within the the odd, the strange and the poignant. O_'s presence shadows mine, her reality weaving and bobbing with my own. I imagine that her fantasic dream now spans both her waking and dreaming hours- and now she invades mine too. The other night I awoke to find her lost in my room confused, as I was-- thinking she was a nurse on nightly rounds. Another night I rose to discover a darkened huddled figure fumbling by my cabinets, I dreamed it was O_ only to have her transform into the aide on duty. Adjusting to this new existence has been a bit like putting on a new pair of prescription glasses, there is gentle pressure on both the eyes and brain as the new lenses coerce the old ways of seeing to let go. With this focus there is a deepening and a sinking and unlike a pair of eyeglasses which mainly sharpens the view, this way of being seems to simultaneously rouse and relax the whole of me.

When I used to go camping on a sort of yearly retreat I would go with minimal accoutrement. Being that the intent was to empty out to fill up, I would bring the bare essentials when it came to food. My stand by was water, a few hard boiled eggs, apples, celery and an avocado. In the spacious silence and rest my modest refreshments would come alive with a new attention to details. My stay reminds me of that time, first because there is a general absence of what the majority think of as creature comforts and second because of this special zoomed in attention. While I am excited to be here to rebuild muscle strength, most of the other inhabitants are not as thrilled. The majority are elderly and feeble and their stay is the result of an accident or illness that most likely forecasts admittance into a nursing home. For some the loss of independence has been fast and harsh. For others like myself, the change has been somewhat kinder. While the staff work tirelessly and with admirable amounts of cheer there is seemingly little left for all that needs to come together to make home. Yet we are all scrapping together what we can to create it.

Past the peas and carrots, behind the lack of privacy and indulgence, through the powerfully compelling stories of heartbreak and loss is the wonder and magnificence of Scooby snacks. I was introduced to a few without even knowing it, delighted nonetheless. But now that I have a name, I juggle the words about in my head and taste the syllables upon my tongue to play and muse. My first came to me in the form of three orange foiled Lindt truffles. B_ explained to me earlier that a friend would come by later that week with "cannonballs", giant chocolate globes filled with warm gooey centers. A few days later he triumphantly produced a small red goodie bag filled with these cacao delights. He offered me three, a good portion of the booty. Suffice to say that B_ has lived a hard life and lived without much for the majority of it. The fact that he can be so generous within the weight of deprivation speaks volumes. Humbled, I treasured each morsel and thrilled every time for those few moments when my insides and outsides would touch and merge awash in a chocolate velvet dream. Scooby two occured when I was treated to my choice at the vending machine. After a few indecisive moments I selected sodium rich cheetos and within short seconds I honed in and devoured the crunch, color and salt off of each making up for past repasts. Lastly we come to J_, tall wiry nurse who reminds me of one of two kinds of grade school cafeteria worker. Though of a certain age she sports long hair with a thick fringe of bang and I just know she is kooky fun and wears purple in her off hours. Comrades in the way of food, the love of desserts and treats--she invites me to partake in snacks, scooby snacks as named by her grandchildren, to be precise. First it was individual carrot cakes with cream cheese frosting baked in aluminum heart molds, then it was a wonderful wedge of Carvel ice cream cake frosted in cobalt blue and red piped cream and last night was dense rich coconut cream pie smattered with a generous helping of toasted flakes of sun. While it has been a long time since watching that psychedelic mystery solving cartoon of the 70's, I like connecting the colorful treats that have been appearing with the whimsy and play and innocence of the show. In this new surreal landscape of in-between, there is no distraction from the bigness and shine of the outer world. Everything is closer in, tucked to the heart like a beautiful secret, full of treat and surprise.

Variety is the Spice of Life

We've been taught as children to mind our P's and Q's but after this week I am reconsidering this admonition in favor for mining my peas and carrots. Every day I am given a tri-perforated menu which lists the food choices for the next day. At first it was a thrilling game of acquisition: I was scoring carbs, racking up fruit and vegetable points, seizing adequate protein and even procured a dessert or two. The daily selection displayed in my head like some colorful mosaic of texture and color and I put serious consideration into each decision. But I sobered up upon my first serving of well cooked carrots. If there ever were falsehood in advertising, this was it. They arrived mute and dull, death by water. I do not know in fact if I have ever had vegetables prepared that way and because of this I stared down at them and smiled a bit. The coins looked so gentle, edges slightly rounded, all tooth- extracted, the colors translucent shades of orange sherbet. Someone drained the life force out of these carrots and poured it down the sink with the water. I estimated that if I were to compare these poorly cooked carrots with some oven roasted ones simply tossed in olive oil and salt, the former would possess a scant 1/5th of the flavor and character of the latter. I discovered this sad situation to be true for the alternating beans and broccoli as well. Entrees while not similarly water logged were devoid of sense appeal and though my plate over floweth, very little deep satisfaction prevailed. Inside sources tell me that the menus are antiquated, leftover from the 70's perhaps. I can practically see the black and white laminated poster of the food pyramid tacked up next to the cook at the service work station. Apparently the meals were created to accomodate all diets. When one considers all of the possible restrictions overlayed upon a weary dish, what remains is some kind of mass which remotely resembles the fake food of restaurant displays- but with less luster.

It occurred to me that I could scribble a message on a napkin for when the trays were sent back to the kitchen. "Please feed me!" sounds dramatic and misleading. "To whom it may concern, can you put more care into the food and season it?", wierd and too self-important simultaneously. I am wisely afraid of retaliation from the cook crew who might find my attention too meddlesome. Just call me a concerned citizen, self nominated food-watchdog of my corridor. I am fine with my piped butter pats, packets of salt and personal stash of peanut butter granola bars; it is the welfare of the others that have me wondering overtime.

O_ is a sprite, bird like woman with greying hair pushed back into a hurried ponytail. Her eyes are bright and surveillant, she is perpetually leaned forward darting out the door and out of reach of hands that want her to mind. She wants to bolt, to open the door and fly away. She hungers to taste and explore all of the dimensions denied her when peas and carrots are cooked to an unbearable flattened line. I cannot help cheering her on silently everytime the door alarm sounds. She never gets far before those hands huddle her back in, but everytime is a personal assertion of will and appetite. Story has it that another past patient would sneak out in wheelchair to the local ice cream store, he too was later found wheels stuck in the mud. Despite temporary setbacks this gentleman marched on to a full recovery. I find myself blasting down the corridor full tilt ahead so that the whirr-whirr of my wheelchair will reverberate and sprinkle the halls with speed-movement and sound. I dream of peddling through the rooms with streamers and balloons attached to my chair pushing a cart full of never ending goodness and satisfaction, some sort of adult Good Humor truck. From being here and watching others (like O_) I conclude that with whatever is on the plate there is always the need to excavate and explore and uncover the right seasonings that make life taste great--even if it means bending a few rules.

The Start of a Great Adventure

I had plans, plush lavish satiny plans. Emboldened with a little taste of meat and the beckoning smells of simmering wine, onions and herbs in my kitchen, my recently dormant appetite has abruptly been reawakened. I am now ravenous and back to my usual tricks of dreaming up ornate multi-tiered plats. Those tiny silver wrapped remnants of Halloween past will no longer keep this wolf at bay, not to mention the fact that few if any of these goodies exist any more. Inspired but not quite enough to create my own recipe, I have perused the pages of Epicurious for some ideas. For starters I thought Prune Kumquat Sticky Pudding with Armagnac Toffee Sauce might set me straight. But before I could utter the phrase “crazy as a kumquat”, I got the phone call. Within a few days I will dash away for unknown days and nights to the medical facility of my choice for rehabilitation. It sounds dark, exciting and mysterious…and it sort of is. I am going for physical restructuring; I am going to put more meat on them bones. Being a great strategist and self proclaimed cheap skate, the sort that can visualize the contents of ones refrigerator, the varied expiration dates of individual items and turn out the precise number of meals with minimal throw out before departure time, I had to turn my back on that Sticky Pudding. However, I have been determined to add a little soul to being full and realized that I had most of the ingredients begging to be used already in my kitchen for Jerk Chicken with Collard Greens. The cook up is a cinch since the marinade is whipped up in the blender. The meat promises to be a celebration of habanero heat, lively citrus and salt mellowed with the warming sun of cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice. Baked up juicy with ribbons of steamed calcium rich collard and a few buttery nubs of potato on the side, this meal is final bon voyage for the next great adventure and sustenance for some in-depth undercover analysis of hospital cuisine. I can hardly wait for the party to begin!

Singing on the Bones

For some time I have wanted to write about Gertrude a real inspiration to me in my life but there wasn’t the appropriate place for her within this food blog. But in this past week of trick and treating spirits, feasting with the dead, and hobnobbing with goblins, I have discovered a rather small entry point. Halloween, All Soul’s Day and The Day of the Dead are festivals born from the mid point between the autumnal equinox and Winter solstice. The celebrations honor all “endings” within the great life cycle, which is appropriate since nothing ever dies but simply is later reborn. Having narrowly escaped from her foil covered plastic tomb and snatched from the very hands of death by a benevolent third party, Gertrude’s newly padded figure is testament to that very poetic concept.

I’ve been keeping a close eye on Gertrude for about a year now. I was bequeathed this African violet when my then-attendant decided to make the long trek back to Arizona. Though seen as a friendly gesture, I did not want the added responsibility of maintaining another life form other than my own. On the large scope, this plant required very little maintenance. Nonetheless, in the short span of two years, there had already been three prior plant casualties. Still weighing on my mind, I was hardly anxious to accrue another. In a different time and place I loved my narrow crooked garden overrun with calla lilies and climbing roses, spires of foxglove and chatty nasturtiums poking at a well established rosemary bush. My small little garden merry with lobelia, salvia and monkey flower was a riot of color and palpable life and every day I tinkered in it. I gardened the way that I cooked-- with little formality and lots of poking and plying. When I moved here, I wasn’t quite sure how to transmit that kind of methodology to another person. Plant rearing became foreign and clinical, mechanical and then non-existent. With the picture of yellow withered leaves indelibly imprinted upon my mind, I reluctantly took the violet in. It became Gertrude in an attempt to bond with her, forge a connection that might giver her a better chance for survival. When she came to me she already looked slightly anemic and wan. I even suspected that a cat might have sat upon her as her leaves were pressed flat and a few stray feline hairs straggled behind. And then the horrible familiar pattern began again, she’d dry up and get over watered- each cycle losing more leaves and more will. Over a long seven month period Gertrude shriveled down to a mere nub of herself attired with a few reluctant leaves. In a last ditch effort the violet was resuscitated with roomier pot and dark rich soil. Shell shocked at first, in a kind of plant coma, there was no discernible change for five weeks. Growth eventually came, sluggish initially and then with such vim and vigor it was hard to recognize the plant that I once knew. A survivor, Gertrude now radiates such life force. She has a bounty of thick succulent jade leaves the size of small lily pads and there are five flower spikes full of nodding buds. Throughout the day I look and marvel at her transformation, her triumphant resurrection. This house plant demonstrates how essential our many environments are to us. We are touched throughout the day by spheres of influence and those imprints have such power to nourish or deny.

This plant, this model of robust sunny health is now my mentor on such matters. In a brief consultation a few days ago and after a quick question and answer session, I surmised that I have not been properly nourishing myself as weeks have turned barren and cold. I’ve been “in de pekel zitten” and brining myself from the inside-out. Also while I’ve been talking up a good story about warm hearty soups and fruitcakes aging in hospitable baths of liquor, I have been surviving on vittles far less agreeable. I quickly concluded that I want to dine on boeuf bourguignon—and then just as quickly decided that the requisite two bottles of good burgundy might be a touch too immoderate for me. I dreamed of how luxurious it would be to eat satisfying chunks of meat softly simmered in wine and herbs and a melting array of vegetables. Encouraged on by dancing skeletons and their cries to “put some meat on them bones” I compromised and decided upon a good beef stew. It went something like this:

Two handfuls of 1” cubed Chuck
Approximately ¼ cup of flour for dredging
Salt and Pepper
Oil
Chopped onion and garlic
¼ cup of precooked bacon pieces
1 cup of red wine
1 glug of brandy
One small can of whole tomatoes
About 2 tablespoons of tomato paste
A Tablespoon of brown sugar
About 6 cups of beef stock
Chopped 1/2 red pepper
Two Diced celery stalk
2 handfuls of trimmed and halved green beans
3 small zucchini chopped
1 ½ cup of grated carrots
A mess of shitake, de-stemmed and torn
A sprig of fresh oregano

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix meat, flour, salt and pepper in a bowl until thoroughly coated. Place oil in a dutch oven on medium high heat and add meat pieces browning a few minutes on both sides. Remove meat and put back in bowl. Add a bit more oil and cook onions and garlic until lightly colored, introduce cooked bacon. I tried to include the amounts that I really used, but of course use what you like. Then deglaze with the wine and brandy, scraping up the browned and burnt bits on the bottom. Add the paste, tomatoes, stock and sugar. I added back the meat and all of the veggies, closed the lid and popped it into the oven for about 2 hours. I served this over sweet potato fries and with some limited edition Thomas’s cranberry toast with butter. Gertrude approved.

The Butterfly Effect

I like patterns-- whether flooding the deeply engraved grid of my waffles with syrup, numbering the crisp accordion pleats of my window blinds or watching paired birds of a feather perch upon a distant tree branch. It seems to me that there is an invisible story constantly being sketched upon the world ripe for the asking. The Butterfly Effect is another pattern albeit more abstract and a phrase that describes the idea that a small change during the initial stages of a dynamic system lead to more significant movements. While this scientific theory ultimately requires a higher understanding of mathematics than I currently possess, it has sparked the imagination of science fiction enthusiasts and even the creators of The Simpsons to wonder into the infinite variations that can occur over time with the change of a single variable. I sometimes imagine a detail of my life casting off a transparent thread pulling me ever so slightly down a new trajectory. Perhaps this is the reason why I deliberated so long as a child at the local Baskin Robbins. Fifty one flavors is a lot of choices to choose from and if you double your scoops, there are that many more: rocky road and pistachio or perhaps peppermint chip with a topper of chocolate with peanut butter ripple? Careful, life could be very different down the road. It is a fun game to be sure, one with no answers and only more questions. This week I was asked by Gattina to respond to the Butterfly Effect Meme created by Dan at Saltshaker, which by now has certainly traveled across the globe spurring maelstroms of frenzied baking and cycles of obsessive licorice eating in far away places…

Here are the variables:
An Ingredient
A dish, a recipe
A meal (restaurant, a home or elsewhere)
A cookbook or other written work
A food “personality” (chef, writer)
Another person in your life

Brie Cheese in the sixth grade: My teacher was introducing the class to foods of the world and we were currently being courted by France. In my exclusive little cheese world of Kraft single slices and mozzarella, Brie was odd man out, funny spaceman in a silver suit. She explained that the French ate this gooey mold encased cheese without removing the dusty white crust. Even at this tender young age, I recognized the French to be connoisseurs of good eating and in spite of being put off by the dry dingy rind, I ate it. This mold covered cheese shook me up. It was so wildly different from my homogeneous surroundings that biting into it was a promise of a bigger, colorful, more sophisticated world. I literally ate it up and vowed to save up my money to buy more of this funny French cheese.

Chicken Mole: My friend J_ of chocolate covered fruitcake nugget fame labored over a traditional mole. She fused together a Diana Kennedy and a Rick Bayless recipe to create her own. It had about five different kinds of chile, fresh lard from the butcher’s shop, almonds, sesame seeds, raisins, Mexican chocolate, corn tortillas, allspice, cinnamon stick, star anise, coriander, cumin, oregano, bay leaf and stock. Being that this was a test drive for an important event and receiving very mixed reviews, she asked me to be “the mouth”. While I have certainly eaten all kinds of wonderful food throughout my life, my first bite of this mole made me sweat. It was the most soulful thing I have ever eaten. It tasted of tradition and story, smoke and earth and passionate love.

Rare Roast beef with a friend: I was visiting the home of my best friend in college and we were sitting in her kitchen eating and talking, eating and talking. It was some time ago so the exact details are blurry but somehow between the two of us we ate an entire small roast beef. We happily sawed away at thick juicy slabs of meat which we repeatedly dunked in a magic pool of A-1 sauce. We drank hot cups of Horlick’s malt beverage, ate bowls of Cherry Garcia ice cream and then polished off a few bundles of sticky rice in lotus leaf. It was a strange hodgepodge of food that we consumed over the afternoon and evening. The time was magical, the food delicious and that meal--that friend always epitomized the essence of hospitality and generosity.

My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George: This is a children’s book that I read when I was about eleven which completely captured my imagination. The young boy in the story decides to head out to the Catskill Mountains and live off the land. He uses his ingenuity and wits to create home, find nourishment and stay safe. I admired Sam Gribley’s desire to define his own life and his ability to cull from the environment to fashion a simple, elegant and beautiful life. For the budding food enthusiast in me, the passages on food alone kept me reading: “Early the next morning, I got up and dug the tubers of the arrow-leaf that grew along the stream bank. I baked these and boiled mussels for breakfast…”

Aveline Kushi’s Complete Guide to Macrobiotic Cooking: For Health, Harmony, and Peace: While I am not a devout Macrobiotic follower, I enjoy the food and appreciate the philosophy of eating and living. Reading the book made me look at food differently- more holistically. It has made me more mindful of the ingredients, the method of cooking, the utensils used, one’s frame of mind while cooking and eating and the after effects of a meal. It makes me appreciate and see more clearly all aspects of nourishment.

Marisa's Mother: I have written a previous post about this cook and her influence upon me. She touched me with her open-kitchen policy towards me and generosity. Her cooking was simple and unpretentious but still had an elegance that came from a sharp attention to detail. What I appreciated also was how natural she was. There was no self-conscious attempt to teach me anything, she was just cooking in her kitchen and I was soaking it up.