Food=Love

Kitchen and Life Adventures

My friend Brooke makes no bones about her affection for my guacamole.  It is at once flattering and dismaying to think that, perhaps it is my culinary abilities that keep her in my social circle…  This is probably a slight exaggeration, given the fact that she and I were friends long before the aforementioned avocado salsa made an appearance. But the truth is: I’m happy to possess a surefire way to connect with people that doesn’t happen to require my assistance on moving day, or subsidy of some weird charity I’ve never heard of.

I like to cook; I’m good at cooking. If I can parlay this interest into enriching important areas of  friendship, love, and community service–that is alright with me.

Ingredients (Once again: all measurements approximate)

3 large avocado, chopped

small tomato, diced

2 tbs. red onion, diced small

3 tbs sour cream

1/2 lime, juiced

seasoning: paprika, garlic powder, cayenne, cilantro, pepper, cumin, salt

Your prep work consists of a good deal of knife work.  Do not, under any circumstances, consider using a blender, processor or slamming chopper.  I am immune to any whining and have no interest in arguments of “time saving” strategy. This dish tastes best when the vegetables are intact and maintaining their respective flavors. Tomato pieces should be the size of your thumbnail, onions the size of your pinkie nail.

The first step is to integrate your spices into the sour cream and lime juice; mix thoroughly and allow to rest at room temperature for ten or fifteen minutes.  As for the measurements of each, I have only a few suggestions…  pinch each of salt and cayenne, two or three pinches of fresh cracked pepper, two pinches each of garlic powder, paprika, and cumin.  Use one heaping tablespoon of minced, fresh cilantro.  (Dry spice flavors do not open up immediately and need ample opportunity to leech into a dish.  Since there is no heat required for this recipe–the time needed for this process to take place cannot be rushed.)

The second step requires a quick mash of your avocado, making sure to leave it half chunky and half creamy.  Carefully fold in the sour cream mixture until the resulting product is evenly colored.  Add onion and tomato, folding once again very slowly and carefully.  Do not mash, do not stir vigorously–it is important that the tomato does not bleed into the guacamole, otherwise the color will be brownish instead of bright green.

You can serve with tortilla chips in the traditional way, of course.  But don’t be afraid to use guacamole as a cool accent to a crispy tilapia or grilled marinated skirt steak. I like to use it as a condiment on pita sandwiches with grilled chicken and shredded cabbage.  Right now, I’m inspired and imagine a fantastic salad with guacamole on a bed of lettuce and a piece of blackened salmon… The possibilities are endless, really.

However you serve your guacamole, take my advice and make sure to share with good friends.

Lucky or not, I am underemployed and only work two days a week this quarter.  Thus, I am faced with finding ways to make use of my time.  Cleaning is probably my least favorite thing to do and I am not particularly handy with projects around the house, so the time-filling has become somewhat challenging.  Of course, I work on school preparations and sending out my resume to positions that seem fitting with my skills–but that still leaves a decent amount of aimless wandering about.  I have decided to lure my husband home for lunch a couple times a week, in order to feel vaguely useful.

Today I made my famous Beef Stroganoff.  It takes about ten minutes to make, but tastes like a slow-cooked meal.  I perfected this recipe back in my Atkins days and it has evolved to include whole wheat flat noodles. I love it because it’s fast, delicious, and surprisingly low in fat.

Ingredients (all measurements are approximate):

• 1 medium onion, diced
• 8 0z. baby portabello mushrooms, sliced
• 1 lb. Stew Meat, cubed
• 8 oz. Cream Cheese (I use whipped)
• 3 tbs. Dijon mustard
• 3 tbs. Steak sauce/Worcestershire sauce
• 1 tbs. minced garlic
• 2 tbs. olive oil
• Seasoning (salt, pepper, paprika, parsley)
• 12 oz. Whole wheat flat noodles

First, put a pot of water on to boil the noodles…

Next, you’ll need a large skillet in which to saute the diced onion in olive oil with the spices.  Add mushrooms into the pan after about two minutes, stirring mixture over medium high heat.  Continue seasoning as more ingredients are added–do not reserve spices ’til the end, as the flavors will not meld adequately. After two or three minutes, you will add the cubed beef, garlic, and steak sauce. Cook onions, mushrooms, beef, and spices over high heat–stirring frequently–until all ingredients are browned and softened.

The vegetables and the stew meat will begin to sweat, creating a small amount of broth.  Lower heat to medium and add your cream cheese, making sure that the mixture is thoroughly blended. Use more or less cream cheese based on your preference for sauce consistency. When the Stroganoff is looking the way you want it to, go ahead and add the dijon. Reduce heat to simmer and add cooked noodles to entire mixture.

(Disclaimer: Normally this dish is made with sour cream, but I have found that the creaminess of cream cheese and the tartness of dijon does a fine job of approximating the awesomeness that is sour cream.)

I’m looking forward to challenging myself in the remaining weeks of Fall Quarter, taking advantage of these extra hours of mine.  Cooking makes me happy and gives me a sense of productivity–if only to benefit my hardworking husband.  So, while I am stuck in this career purgatory I will try to learn some things, create some things, and be a super cool wife. Next week, I’m thinking: honey-soy seared tuna with stir fried sugar snap peas.

Chicken Paprikash is a traditional Hungarian dish that I adored as a child.  My paternal grandmother used to make it and my mother quickly picked up the tradition.  Upon my request, my mother whipped up a batch for our October engagement party.  It was a big hit among the guests and I was inspired to be the next in line to perfect the Paprikash.  In these last few months, I have acquired the recipe from my mother and begun recreating our family favorite.  The problem is that, as close as I come to recreating those amazing flavors–I still feel that there’s something amiss.

Ingredients (all measurements approximate):

• 2 lbs. chicken
• pint sour cream
• 2/3 c. Hungarian paprika
• chicken bouillon paste
• 2 medium onions, diced
• cup flour
• salt and pepper, to taste
• egg noodles
• two tablespoons butter

First I dice the onions to the size of my thumbnail.  It looks like a ton of onion, and it is–but it just simmers away for hours with the chicken until the pieces are almost imperceptible.  In a good sized stew pot, I will saute the onions until nearly translucent in two tablespoons of butter, and two pinches of salt.  This usually takes about five minutes on medium-high heat, stirring frequently.

Once the onions are ready, I begin to slowly add the paprika.  The mixture will become pasty and gooey, so I make sure to turn down the heat a bit and really let the flavors of the onion, butter, salt and paprika meld together.

Next, I take my chicken pieces and begin piling them on top of the paprika paste mixture.  (The chicken should be bone-in and, if possible, leave a little skin on.  I know this is difficult for some people, but the more of the chicken you simmer in that pot–the more amazing flavors will be present in the end.  And don’t worry–I remove all of the bones and skin before the finished product hits the dinner table.  My mom uses a combination of breasts and legs. I usually just use a family pack of legs.) Once all of the chicken is in the pot–I will add water until it is just barely covering the chicken. The level is usually an inch from the top of the pot. I go ahead and return heat to medium-high until the broth begins to boil.  Then I immediately turn down to a simmer, leaving the pot uncovered.

After two to three hours, the chicken is tender and nearly falling off the bone (I make sure not to overcook, because then chicken becomes mash-y and mealy in texture).  It is time to turn off the heat and let the mixture cool to lukewarm.

Then I remove all chicken and parts from the stew, separating the sections I want to keep from the ones I do not.  I get rid of bones and skin, but my mom leaves all of her pieces intact. This is a greasy, messy job–but it goes pretty quickly.

At this point I have a pot full of beautiful reddish brown broth.  And the kitchen starts to smell amazing. In order to create the right flavor, I will alternate adding tablespoons of chicken bouillon and tasting the broth until I am satisfied with the saltiness.  I use a tub of bouillon  from the soup aisle; it is creamy and powdery. The final measurement is somewhere in the vicinity of 1/2 cup.  Lastly, I carefully add a tiny bit more of the bouillon than is necessary–I don’t want the sour cream (added subsequently) to dilute the strength of flavor.

In another large bowl, I begin blending approximately 2/3 pint of sour cream with a cup of flour.  Once the ingredients are completely blended, I start adding ladlefuls of my chicken broth, whisking continuously.  After 3 or 4 large ladles of broth are mixed into the sour cream and flour bowl, I empty entire contents into the main stew pot.  I continue whisking the mixture of broth, flour and sour cream until the Paprikash is creamy, reddish pink, and having the consistency of a bisque.

Finally I add my saved chicken to the pot and simmer on low heat for another hour. Do not boil.

I serve finished product atop noodles in a bowl.

Although the dish is labor intensive, it requires very few ingredients.  At first I tried to add my own special touches of herbs, garlic, skinless chicken…and it never turned out the way I was expecting.  I have learned that the more I adhere to the official family recipe, the better my dish tastes.  As much as I see myself as a cooking innovator, it seems that a tried and true family recipe should be respected for its longevity, and not second guessed.

When I was born, my mother was 23 years old.  She had a high school diploma and had only worked a few years as a flight attendant. My brother was a year older, and my younger sister due to be born exactly one year later. She was unhappily married to a Viet Nam vet with anger management issues, and the situation was less than ideal.

I’m happy to say that my mother remarried a smart, conscientious guy who adopted us kids–and they worked hard together to provide this unorthodox family some version of a comfortable life.  She got a nursing degree and he started his own business. I can’t say that my parents were especially patient, affectionate, or available…but they did the best they could given their youth and initial circumstances.

Reflecting back now, I think about what my own parenting style would look like.  My husband and I have not been blessed with children yet, but it’s something you think about at my age.  I wonder: What will my priorities be?–because you can’t take care of everything all the time. And, in what ways would I be different or similar to my own parents? In all honesty, these are questions I started contemplating as a disgruntled teenager.  You know, like when your mom insists that you clean your room before going to the school dance?  I would never do that. Or when you get grounded for staying out past curfew? What’s the big deal–I was only a block away. Basically, it’s a kind of fairy godparent wish-list sparked in the adolescent mind.

An interesting idea has occured to me, as I wait patiently for little ones to arrive.  Why don’t I start implementing these planned behaviors with me? What’s wrong with doing a little parenting of myself?  If I’ve wished so long (and in such detail) about child rearing techniques I hope to adopt–wouldn’t it behoove me to apply those strategies to the person who might most appreciate them?

It’s crazy sounding, I know.  It’s perfectly oddball; how does one parent herself exactly? Am I supposed to bathe, burp, and swaddle myself? Ridiculous.  Shall I read happy little books at bedtime and take lots of baths? Preposterous.  Only an insane person would contemplate such a notion.  Get over your crappy childhood like the rest of us and grow up already.  Right?

Maybe.

Let’s map this out and decide how crazy it actually is…

FAIRY GODPARENT WISH-LIST

1.  Encourage to play an instrument.  How cool would it have been for me to learn the guitar or piano? Musicians are automatically part of an elite group, admired for possessing such a universally beloved skill.  Every Christmas my grandma would play all the carols while the rest of us sang along. It was a magical tradition, and I can’t imagine my childhood without those family concerts.  My plan is to provide my kids with an opportunity to learn music from an early age and develop a sense of appreciation for the arts in general.

2.  Less TV, more exercise.  I grew up in an era when it was perfectly acceptable for children to spend three or four or five hours at a time in front of the picture box.  My siblings and I knew the TV Guide book backward and forward (only four channels, mind you), treated TV characters like special friends (Facts of Life girls were so pretty and wisecrack-y!), and believed that Jeopardy was a perfectly acceptable substitute for dinner conversation.  On the other hand, our neighbors, the Beaversons, were so strange with their daily family jogs and basement weight lifting.  Freaks, really.  Whenever there was a commercial during Married With Children, we had fun mocking their ‘California’ lifestyle.

3.  Culture and diversity.  There’s no downplaying the white-ness and Catholic-ness of my youth.  I never knew a Jew; there was not a single black kid in my grade school; and all the kids in the neighborhood shared the same preppy, acid-washed wardrobe.  To call suburban Toledo ‘homogenized’ is an understatement.  Why wouldn’t you want your kids to learn about other cultures, races, religions–fashion trends?? We had already embraced the exotic cuisines from around the globe (and featured at Epcot): Indian, Chinese, Italian, Mexican, Thai…how was it that our social circle continued to remain so one dimensional? Ultimately I desire knowledge, and there is very little to learn from people who think and act just like you.

4. Establish organization, boundaries, and routine.  As mentioned in my most recent blog entry, I am a bit of a mess when it comes to dependability and responsibility. It is a curse I do not wish to pass on to my spawn, and I fully believe it is a skill that can be practiced and learned.  My childhood was scattered, unstable, splintered–we never seemed to have all of our ducks in a row.  I went to school everyday disheveled, without fail, forgetting something or other.  Even in kindergarten, when your mom or dad is supposed to check your bookbag and your lunch, I would invariably be the only kid without scissors, or carrying a greasy paper sack filled with meatloaf and giant pickles. Truly, I am constantly in awe of the highly organized, detail oriented species of human.  And, as much as I embrace what makes me, me–what I wouldn’t give to occasionally have my shit together.

5. Pamper and comfort.  My parents didn’t have time to kiss, or hug, or compliment–there was always some utility bill that needed paying, or some report that needed completing.  As a result, we children were called on to take care of ourselves from the earliest years.  Starting from about eleven years old: we did our own laundry; we cooked the meals; cleaned the house; maintained the garden…and resented pretty much all of it.  I think kids should have an opportunity to be kids, to play and laugh without fear of being put to work.  It would have been nice to be comforted with kind words and a kiss after stubbing my toe–instead I received tough love statements like, “You’re fine.  Get up and walk it off.”  I always imagined one day my mother or father would wrap an arm around me and thank me for making the mashed potatoes for the fifth time this week, and just once tell me to “Go, have fun.” if I asked to play outside.

I don’t see anything wrong with employing this list in my own life.  In fact, it makes perfect sense.  It’s kind of like when you purchase a gift for someone and secretly wish you could keep it for yourself.  I always end up treating other people better than I do me.  The candle I give you for a housewarming gift is exactly my idea of a nice accesory in the bathroom, and the picture frame I give you for your birthday is something I would love to have for my desk–but I never seem to make the connection that I deserve these things, too.

Whatever happy, productive parenting I plan to bestow on my brood–well, why not live it myself? Shouldn’t I provide for myself the same special consideration I would offer these future children? It is never too late to learn important lessons, experience whimsy, feel tenderness… In the end, I will be my own fairy godmother.

Afternoon, Readers.

So I’ve been away for some time, and I freely admit that I am prone to slacker tendencies.  I could bore you with excuses of computer malfunctions, work issues, personal commitments and such–but you and I both know that these are weak excuses and nothing more.  I will tell you that I have never been one of those people who is, what we call, “dependable”.  But there are worse things to be in this world.

Michael Vick, I’m talking to you.

I grew up with parents who…okay, I have to stop this sentence as I realize it’s just another excuse.  My bad. Let’s just say that organization, details, and task completion were not necessarily the priority in my childhood home. We were a clever, emotional, spontaneous group–generally speaking.  So I am a bit a product of my chaotic environment. Plus, I am perpetually sleepy. Is anyone else as big a napper as me? I fear the answer is no, so I try not to pose the question to actual humans.  Some of you may be flabbergasted at my talent for relaxation.

But enough of my shameful work ethic…let’s talk about my unique attributes.  As mentioned, I am heartily spontaneous–thriving on the last minute adventure.  I do not fear what is unknown, rather I seek it.  Give me a recipe or a map, and I’ll show you how to deviate from it.  Give me a last minute emergency and I jump into the adrenaline of being needed.  It seems that I work best under pressure and for short periods of time–like a bolt of lightening.  When it comes to productivity I can do some amount of damage, but blink and you’ll miss it.

Feeling bad about who you are is stupid.  I cannot be awesomely organized or constantly punctual. And that’s okay, because I make up for who I am not with my other, more adorable qualities…  Let’s talk about where I shine, when I’m at my best: the ideal me.

I’m proud to say that I have an artistic side to my personality.  Although most people would claim the same of themselves, I am different because I have a joyful irreverence that takes these creative expressions to a higher level.  Only the most brazen can truly innovate.  It’s embarrassing at times how little I am able to conform to expectations, but every so often the eccentricities produce positive results.

My creativity lends itself to cooking; I love to strategize, prepare and execute dinner parties. These are short term projects I can visualize completing, consisting of a definable beginning, middle, and end.  I treat my gatherings somewhat like a PR campaign promoting the Katie Fine brand.  What decorations, what food, and what guests best represent who I am and want to be? Granted, there is the potential to go overboard with themes and events, but I try not to worry about other people’s limitations.  This is one thing I like about me.

My daydreamy, analyzing nature lends itself to advice-giving.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I am on the speed dial for several friends who occasionally seek straightforward, cut-the-shit style guidance.  My communication background allows me the ability to breakdown relationships and their behaviors into manageable morsels for discussion. What’s more, my assessments often lead to real steps toward improvement, unlike Mr. Fancy-Pants: Dr. Phil.  I’m not folksy and vague; my therapy is tart and practical. It’s kind of a gift.

Finally, my innate ability to observe means I am the first person to notice your lovely bracelet from Spain, or the collection of cardinals sitting in a tree, or the melancholy tone in the voice of a depressed friend.  As much time as I spend reflecting on myself (this blog entry as evidence), I’m just as concerned with the people around me.  It’s a distraction I can’t seem to avoid.  I will see subtle beauty that often goes unnoticed; I will see quiet sadness obscured by self-deprecating humor; and I will see good qualities in others while observing the not-so-good. Very few of life’s details get by me, and I am not too shy to remark appropriately.  If I’m out strolling with my husband and the dog, I compliment the neighbor on how the fuchsia blooms on her shrub blend so nicely with the purple shutters.  When my student is wearing an adorable pair of shoes, I am the first person to say, “Cute sandals, Rosa”.  This talent may seem shockingly useless at first glance. But what is more important than having the ability to stop competing with others long enough to show genuine appreciation?

Every day I have to stop and remember that it’s okay to be a little kooky and mildly irresponsible.  So I’m one of those slackers–so what?  I am learning all the time to embrace who I am and stop anticipating rejection and condemnation from the world. The right things seem to happen in due course and I eventually find myself where I hoped I would be…in spite of all the napping.

Food is portrayed in pop culture and the Mass Media as sustenance, luxury,
status, sin--and so on. The Food Network, Top Chef, and comparable programming
thrive--suggesting a human obsession that continues to grow in spite of warnings
and admonishment to treat food as nothing more than a flavorless tool.  Additionally
food is ascribed so much power in Health Communication--it kills you/it cures you.
French fries are a source of shame; yogurt keeps your bowels regular...

Food is undeniably political, whether it is viewed in terms of abundance or type.
Populations with little food are often marginalized groups, discounted for flawed
political, economic or social systems. Certain populations are designated McDonald's
consumers, while others are the caviar elite. Who eats what and why? It's an
undeniably fascinating topic.

I've loved and hated food for a very long time. Like most people, its a challenge for
me to enjoy my favorites without occasionally overindulging.  Do I sometimes
'eat my feelings'?  Um, yeah. But that's better than punching some clerk in the face,
or drinking a pint of vodka during rush hour. So what if I wind down from a rough
day with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal? I'm not hurting anybody.

That being said,  for the most part I strive to use the best possible ingredients.  If I
cannot make the trip to Findlay Market on the weekend, I make a point to shop the
outside edges of the grocery store: primarily produce, dairy, and protein.  And when I
need pasta, bread, or cous cous--I choose the heartiest  whole grain selections.  I'm
constantly surprising myself with interesting meals based on these parameters.

My relationship with food is dynamic, constantly in flux.  One day I am restricting my
diet,  eating nothing but bananas, almonds, lean beef and plain spinach salad--the next
day I am contemplating recreating outrageous dishes just mentioned on Man vs. Food. 
Whatever the day, I know I'm getting better at this stuff (except for the occasional
chill-out bowl of Cap'n Crunch).

Most weekends Gene and I will hang around the house basically doing nothing. Often I will wake first and start serenading my husband with “Sleepy Bear” songs until he begins to stir. If I cannot rouse him with my charming melodies, I will resort to the fail safe method for waking a beast—I ask political questions. Something as innocuous as, “Honey? Do you think Palin has a shot in 2012?” will begin a twenty minute rant, which by the time Gene takes a breath, has rendered him completely awake. And so begins Sunday morning.

One of my three favorite meals is breakfast, and my favorite items to cook for breakfast are French Toast or Pancakes (with some sort of salty meat product). These are my specialties, and I admit the secret to success is large amounts of cooking oil. I know, I know—the image of a pool of blended oil on a skillet is utterly distasteful. And yet the end result is phenomenal: French toast is marbled with a beautiful caramel and cream color and pancakes have a crispy edge with a moist, cakey middle. This gorgeousness is particularly dependent on a generous amount of oil crackling over medium-high heat.

The second most important key to creating incredible French Toast is thick cut bread; I like to use leftover Challah from Shabbos dinner on Friday. Similarly, the most important ingredient for pancakes is preparing a batter with the proper consistency. I use the Kroger brand Buttermilk mix, experimenting with varying amounts of water until the mixture is the same thickness of goopy shampoo.

Every once in awhile I will do Blueberry Pancakes as a special treat. The technique is something I picked up from my Aunt Denise many years ago. It happened to be Spring Break and a few of us Mercurio women were bunking at Grama’s place in St. Petersburg, Florida. I was told to use slightly overripe blueberries, and to drop berries quickly into the batter once it’s poured and begins to bubble. I remember thinking that her Blueberry Pancakes were the best I ever had and that I would always adhere to her rules.

So, whole chickens were on sale at the grocery store and I thought, “Why not me?”  I decided to marinate this little guy overnight in the juice of two lemons, tons of garlic, and olive oil and stuff it later with various stale bread I had lying around.   While I shopped for other necessary items like celery and onion for the stuffing, I had a conversation with my mother.  She instructed me to bake the bird for about 1 hour and 45 minutes at 350 degrees (covered in foil for 2/3 of the time) and saute the stuffing vegetables before baking.

Since I never follow a recipe, I was a little concerned about the finished product, but the end result was particularly good.  I’m my own toughest critic, and I am not exaggerating when I say that this roasted chicken with stuffing was nirvana on a plate.

This salad makes you look like a master in the kitchen but is amazingly easy. My version is spinach leaves topped with gorgonzola, pear slices, candied walnuts, and honey balsamic vinaigrette. When Gene and I first moved in together, I prepared this salad for dinner with my future mother-in-law (along with citrus shrimp and wild rice). Just before I took my first nervous bite of the dish, Phyllis tells me that she does NOT like gorgonzola.  Somehow she ate the entire thing…