Anyone can cook

Yesterday afternoon we fired up the popcorn popper, slipped our latest shipment from Netflix in the DVD player, curled up as a family on the couch, and watched Ratatouille, the animated feature about a rat named Remy with aspirations to become a chef. The story was cute, the dialogue clever, the computer animation absolutely amazing. What stuck with me, though, was the message conveyed in the famous chef Gusteau's cookbook title: "Anyone can cook." Although the movie takes this idea in a specific direction (a rat can be a superlative chef who takes a great recipe and makes inspired improvements rendering it brilliant), I've been thinking about it on a slightly different vein while making dinner this evening.

I'm sure this sounds odd right after I posted about the drudgery of meal planning, but I think cooking has a very Zen side to it—kind of like golf—in that you don't have to be good at it to enjoy it. Anyone can cook, and anyone can enjoy cooking. It's all up to the individual to decide how much time to invest learning new skills, practicing, perfecting your game.

I cooked another new recipe tonight: chicken pot pie. Sometimes trying unfamiliar recipes is risky (no breading on the chicken cacciatore, please!); this one had the benefit of a previous test drive. The week I got out of the hospital after Audrey was born, women from our ward brought dinner to us each night, including Susan, our bishop's wife. She made us a chicken pot pie that far outstripped my own recipe. She even cut out a cute little chicken shape from crust and put it on top. While the golden-brown pie looked wonderful, it tasted even better: a savory filling overflowing with chicken and vegetables, and an unbelievably light, flaky, seasoned crust (it was the crust that made me have to have the recipe).

At first I hesitated to ask. Within our little church community, Susan is a famously accomplished cook. At ward potlucks whatever she brings is gone within the first five minutes. Sometimes people who are good cooks are highly secretive and won't share their recipes—or if they do, they purposely omit or change the amounts of ingredients to maintain their reputation as the only person who can make it "just so". We have one friend who makes this amazing dish, which elicits raves from anyone who eats it, and we were only able to get the recipe through completely nefarious means because s/he wouldn't share it with anyone who asked for it. (I cannot reveal any particulars of the dish and person or s/he would know we have the recipe, and while it was absolutely worth the shady means employed to obtain it, if I told you, I would have to kill you.)

Fortunately, Susan has no such scruples and when I asked, she freely shared her recipe with me. I found out the secrets of the delectable flaky crust: shortening (I usually use butter) and celery seed. Who knew? So while my pie wasn't anywhere as cute as hers (no chicken cut out), it had the same flavor. And I know with practice, I'll be able to perfect the presentation.

While I was rolling out the crust, I started to think about what makes people so stingy with their talents. Recently I had big wake-up call when I volunteered to make a pie for Thanksgiving. I had been gloating because I make a really tender, flaky pie crust and usually my apple pie is (and I say this in all humility) pretty terrific, but for some reason this year it went all wrong. Actually, I know exactly what went awry: I sliced the apples too thick because I was in a hurry. They were so thick they didn't cook through and it ruined the whole pie. That's what I get for being smug about my pies; it just goes to show I can't afford to get cocky (or rush myself), even when I'm good at something. So as an inner penance, I offered to teach one of my sisters-in-law (a young wife who is still learning to cook) how to make pies.

I think if you have a talent, you should share it. After all, I wouldn't have any cooking know-how if my mom and many other teachers hadn't shared their knowledge and abilities with me. Teaching someone else skills does not diminish your own skills, right? If anything, it guards against the culinary hubris of "super-secret recipes" and spreads the wealth of good food and good times making that food.

Take it or leave it

Last night we tried a new dish: chicken cacciatore. The recipe I used called for dredging the chicken in flour before browning it and Jimmy was not a fan of the breading. He refused to comply with our "try-two-bites-and-then-you-can-have-something-else" rule until Jim scraped it off. Then he took his two obligatory bites and requested cheap mac 'n' cheese (which I had in a Servin' Saver in the fridge, awaiting just such a culinary crisis).

While I enjoy cooking, I find the compulsory nature of having to make dinner every night for a potentially critical audience drains me of most of the creative stimulation or actual enjoyment I might get out of it. I discovered early in my married life that Jim was little help when it came to meal planning. His perennial suggestion if I ask what he'd like to have for dinner is, "Spaghetti. And garlic bread." To save myself from the tedium of spaghetti every night (not to mention major carbo-overload) within the first month of connubial bliss I came up with a weekly meal plan, which I also used to create my grocery list. This provided some much-needed variety in our meals while helping me save money by not impulse-shopping at the supermarket.

Three years ago, in an attempt to change things up and add even more variety (because spaghetti once a week is still a bit much if you ask me), I started to plan my meals a month at a time. I made a list of our favorite meals, created a calendar with my desktop publishing program, and populated it with dinner selections. Then I printed and posted it in the kitchen. From time to time, I add new dishes and get rid of the ones we don't like as much. I also vary it with more salads and grilled foods in the summer.

Lest you think I'm some kind of compulsive organizational freak (which I'm not; just look at the disgusting state of my upstairs bathroom!) I cannot stress enough this isn't a "set in stone" kind of thing. My world and identity as I know them do not implode if the schedule isn't followed with precision. Some nights I don't feel like eating what's planned for that evening, and I switch it around. Some nights I just don't feel like cooking and we eat out. Some nights I ask Jim to cook and we eat whatever he wants to make. But the beauty of the meal calendar is this: just ten well-spent minutes of planning each month saves me from the weekly boredom of spaghetti and the aggravation of aimlessly wandering grocery aisles trying to figure out what's for dinner.

Tonight was home-made pizza. Mmmmm.

After dinner conversation

I took the kids grocery shopping this afternoon and while we were on the frozen foods aisle, I let Jimmy pick out dessert. A boy after my own heart, he chose Blue Bunny's Bunny Tracks ice cream (they also make a sugar-free version—yay!) Now, ordinarily Jimmy has pretty good table manners (for being four), but tonight after dinner...

Jimmy: "Mom, I'm ready for dessert."
(Prolonged pause, in which I cup my hand up to my ear and look at him expectantly.)
Me: (finally) "I need to hear you say something else before I get your ice cream."
(Jimmy looks puzzled.)
Jim: "I think Mom is waiting to hear you say the magic word."
Jimmy: "The magic word?"
Jim: "You know, the magic word you should say when you want something..."
Jimmy: (thinking hard) "Uh... train!"
Jim: (unsuccessfully stifling laughter) "No, that would be please."
Jimmy: "Oh! Mom, may I please have some of that bunny crack ice cream?"

Yeah, Jim and I both lost it at that point.

(Reluctantly) in love

After all the times love has
walked out on me
slammed the door in my face
stabbed me through the heart
(giving the knife a good twist)
stood me up
cheated me
cheated on me
sweet talked me
and then
taken me for all I have
I should be cynical—
face the fact “love” is an alias
for some nameless, selfish manipulation
and I, a victim of my own poor judgment—
but even after all this
some naïve, disobedient corner of my heart
that escaped the twist of the knife
jumps out of my chest
to throw itself at you . . .
and I watch you lace up your cleated shoes
hoping it means you have an excellent track record
and not that you plan to use them on
the foolish part of my heart
I’ve given to you.


(Note: This is a "vintage" piece I wrote a little over 13 years ago, right before I came up to Ellensburg for Thanksgiving to meet Jim's parents. The prompt at Writers Island for today was "Over the Horizon" and I thought this poem appropriate, as it is about heading over that final horizon of love.)

Reconciliation

Conversation on a Park Bench, by Jack Riddle

Usually I keep my posts pretty light, but today I find myself feeling introspective. Those who know me best know I'm prone to holding grudges. Maybe "hold" is too mild. Cherish grudges, keep score, harbor resentments, believe fervently revenge is a dish best served at any temperature... well, okay, I'm not that bad. I've never put out a hit on anyone (even one ex-boyfriend who really deserved it).

Lately reconciliation has been on my mind. The Sunday before Christmas I was assigned to give a talk in our sacrament meeting. Right away I knew I should focus my talk on a line from "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing":

Peace on earth and mercy mild

God and sinners reconciled

In researching, I found something interesting. Reconciliation is a compound of three Latin roots: re, meaning “again”; con, meaning “with”; and sella, meaning “seat.” Quite literally, reconciliation means “to sit again with.”

In church, I talked about how earlier last year I had resolved to put aside the assorted resentments towards acquaintances, friends and particularly family members I'd been carrying around over the years. In the months following my decision, I found forgiveness challenging. (Note the subtle tone of understatement.) Some of those grudges were longstanding, but I began to realize being willing was enough for the change to start to take place. When I prayed for help, the Lord made up the difference for my shortcomings and as I became open, chances to forgive came to me.

Much of what happened is too personal to share on the internet except in the most general terms, but I profoundly appreciate these lessons I'm learning and those who've graciously forgiven my flaws. I'm so very grateful I can again sit comfortably together with family and friends because life is too short, too fragile, for me to waste time feeling hurt, self-righteous, and estranged.

I ♥ my treadmill

Not that we're picking out china or anything. But having time to myself to run for a half hour this morning is the one thing that has kept me going all day, as I've been taking care of my (still) sick kids and trying desperately to get caught up on the laundry.

Way back in the dawn of time (read: before I had kids) I talked Jim into letting me get a used treadmill just like the model above except it has a heart rate monitor. It was a bargain at $75, but we had to go pick it up from the home of my co-worker, whose wife had been using it as a glorified coat rack. Jim was convinced (as he eloquently expressed while we moved it in and out of the bed of his truck and carried it down two flights of stairs to our old basement apartment) it was just going to be a coat rack at our home. I'm happy to say I proved him wrong, even before we had to move it up three flights of stairs to a new apartment, and then two years later into and out of a moving van, and down another flight of stairs at the Big Red House into the basement room where it now resides.

You see, for me the treadmill is an instrument of sanity. Most moms with small children have a limited window of time for working out, which is even more limited in the winter. But my treadmill cracks open that window of opportunity just a little wider. I can get up at 6 a.m. or stay up until 11 p.m. and run in a safe place while it's dark and freezing outside, no gym membership required. Or, I can queue up Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood on the DVR for Jimmy while Audrey's taking her morning nap and run for a quick half hour.

I ♥ my treadmill because it's the place I can escape, burn off stress, get an endorphin rush, and jam out to "Black Devil Car"—all while keeping an eye on the baby monitor.

Snow day

When I woke up and came downstairs this morning, I saw the flakes falling thick and furious. This was the view from my front porch at about 8:30 a.m.

What a great day to call in sick to life, play nurse to my two babies (one just coming off a nasty cold and the other in the worst of it), and finish working on my latest snowing—er, sewing—project.

Addendum: style challenged

Baaa-aaa. Because I'm feeling a bit sheepish.

Here I was trying to have a little laugh at my own expense, but after reading my sister's comments on my "style challenged" post, clearly it backfired in a most unbecoming manner.

First, let me say that I in no way bear my stylish friends any ill will, nor do I covet their style. Maybe I covet the seeming effortlessness of their style, but I'm sure they actually put a lot of work into looking so great. I hope they will forgive me for being churlish.

Second, I'm deeply sorry for what appeared to be a blatant pity party. I'm not actually needing reassurance because I'm fully aware that the retro ghetto thing developed to serve certain needs: a) I'm a cheapskate with not a lot of time to shop; and b) what I do wear has to run the gamut from being spit up on to being covered in soot when I stoke the wood-burning stove. I think it's more what Dory said about changing things up: I see myself in the pajama pants and blah t-shirts or the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt that make me look like Rocky Balboa's less Italian twin and I'm hit with the realization that it's definitely time to change things up. Not to suit someone else's idea of style, per se, but to not feel so unfabulous because I'm making so little of an effort.

Does all that make sense?

Style challenged

I have friends with stunning personal style. Aubrey has this air of modern über-hipness permeating everything she wears, as well as the way she decorates her home. Dana, who always looks polished and posh, finds amazing designer clothes at thrift stores and garage sales, and sometimes sells them on eBay. Both of them have an innate ability to wear just the right thing and exude total hotness. Kind of like those figure skaters who make it look so easy you watch them and think, "I could do that." Yeah, and fall flat on my face trying.

In spite of the fact two of my favorite shows are What Not to Wear and Project Runway (which I love because I sew and for the drama), I personally operate in a mostly fashion-free zone. I have occasional moments of adequacy if I make a big effort, like when I dress up to go to church or out to dinner. For the most part, however, my personal style could best be described as retro ghetto chic.

What is retro ghetto chic? It's all about cheap function. At any given moment, my outfit will have at least one item puchased at a thrift store or at Costco, and may also include hand-me-downs or items purchased off the clearance rack at some not-haute retail outlet such as Fred Meyer. Right now I'm wearing pink sock monkey pajama pants (a gift), black shearling slippers (Costco), and a brown Old Navy t-shirt (lately from Value Village). In all fairness, I got up less than an hour ago and haven't showered yet, but the only likely change (besides clean underwear) after I shower will be swapping the jammy pants and slippers for some black pants (Value Village) and red sneakers (clearance rack at Marshall's).

But I don't want your pity. Because those red sneakers are Skechers.

Wax on, wax off

We're about fifteen minutes away from 2008 as I start typing this post, and in my mind I'm waxing philosophical about what the new year holds in store for me (a triathlon, no more sugar until the triathlon, other goals)... and then my mind wanders onto the topic of waxing in general, which is never going to happen to any part of my body or my hardwood floors... and waxing gets me to thinking specifically about "Wax on, wax off" from The Karate Kid... and I start to imagine, wouldn't it be cool to have my own personal Mr. Miyagi to teach me special moves to prepare for all those personal battles in my own life (and to give me a sweet old hotrod)? At which point I get way existential and realize all I truly need is the Mr. Miyagi within, that inner sensei who knows me best: me. And that's how I'm going to accomplish all the goals I have in mind for this coming year. Cool.

The moral of this story is: too much chocolate+late night+blogging=80s/90s cinematic flashbacks that make no sense to anyone but me.

Wax on, wax off. Oh, and happy new year!