The African Queen

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghana 

Donnel has always been different. From the beginning of our acquaintance in junior high school, she stood out as a girl who'd suddenly break into shrieking barks of laughter at any moment, making the whole auditorium turn around to look at her, which is the very first time I noticed her. She was sitting in the back row of stadium seating for our 7th grade science class, the first lecture hall I'd ever been in. Felix V. Festa Junior High School is a lot bigger than my elementary school. In fact, our junior high is so big that it's sub-divided into wings comprised of the different elementary schools in the Clarkstown school district: A, C, and D wing, which quickly split into serious factions.

"D Wing" had a bad rep of smoking, spitting, cursing, fighting blue-collar kids who were rowdy in the hallways we'd briefly pass them in, while going to the main auditorium for the first day speech, at the ripe ages of 13 and 14. "C Wing" had wealthy Jewish kids from northern New City with rich doctor/lawyer parents who'd spring for limo rides to school on their birthdays, or to pick up their date for the 8th Grade Dance. Neither resonated with us.

"A Wing" had kids like us from the more rural parts of New City, or the town kids clustered around North Main Street. We only went there for two years before attending high school, as a way of prepping for the very different type of experiences we'd be having. Grade school here is K-6 (Elementary), 7th-8th grade (Junior High), and then high school, which is 9-12. And different it was. I had a cubbyhole with my name on it at Chestnut Grove Elementary, and I hung my coat from a row of hooks on the wall. I'd never seen a locker before, and I met my best friend Gina on the very first day of junior high (our last name initials being "D" and "E"), because she took pity on me for being unable to open the lock. After she showed me, I could manage it on my own, but I still have nightmares about forgetting my locker combination, or where exactly it is in that huge school during those first few disorienting days.

After that initial loud bellow of belly laughter from Donnel in a packed lecture hall, I could always spot her in class wearing a cute little top bun of hair, with slits for laughing eyes, seated next to her equally striking best friend, Laila. They were as different as night and day. Donnel emigrated here from Ghana with her family at 8 years old, while Laila is a classic Viking-like blond from Norway. Donnel can appear as dark as a winter night with no stars, while Laila's long, flowing, white-blond hair fanned out behind her like the rays of the sun. It was astonishing to me, because l'd never seen people like them before.

There was a lot to adjust to, at my new school. I'd form friendships of my own during those two years, drop others, and as always, walk two miles to school every day, up-and-down the big hill on Germonds Road. For us, that was the real main event, because a kid's candy store was on our way (remember Jill's, next to DiNoto's?). Occasionally, I'd walk a few streets over to wait for a morning bus that stopped on a nearby block with school bus service (home to the large Boos fraternal twin sisters recently arrived from Brooklyn of blond, blue-eyed, German-Italian stock), but most of the time, we just walked.

I wouldn't become friends with Donnel until high school, and it was extremely contentious at the time. Not with me, but with her best friend Laila, who was so jealous of our friendship that she refused to befriend me or even speak to me, which baffled me to no end. She never really liked me, and to this day, I have no idea why, other than my friendship to Donnel. I also dated her younger brother my senior year, ahem, but I digress. Back to Donnel. She had two younger siblings a year behind her in school, Dawn and Donald, but it was her mother who fascinated us. She kept two big pots on her stove at all times: one topped with perfect white rice, and the other filled with the most delicious stews I have ever had in my life. It was the perfect drunk-and-stoned food for us, as teenagers.

Always, the pots were filled with popping hot, saucy, spicy stews, made with big chunks of beef, simmered and softened to perfection. It was my first real introduction to African food, and unlike the bad starvation jokes about Ethiopia or sodden broccoli sent to poor kids with "bloat belly" in Africa, I had no idea their food was so good. It was exactly what you wanted after school on a cold wintry New York afternoon. At her mother's house in New City, two large pots were always on the stove's back burners. I don't remember a single time without them being there. During the summertime, we swam in their backyard pool, which was another luxury to me, coming from a strict Acadian household with rules about no extras allowed (ever) for children.

"Oh, these pots always have food in them," she explained to me during a quick house tour, excited as we were to get into the pool. "See?" She opened one of them with a ladle, to show me the steaming stew inside, pouring it back into the pot. "You don't even have to ask! Just take some. Here's where the bowls are." And with that, she opened up the nearest cabinet, as her smaller siblings raced by us onto the sunny deck waiting outside. It was stunningly luxurious to me, the exact effect they desired towards their upward mobility. Not ask for food?! I'd never heard of such a thing before, and during our time spent at her house, I'd never take something without asking first. It was one of the many cultural differences we'd come across as friends during our time together, but we took it in stride. After all, that's nobility for you.

Donel - One of the numerous Angelic guards of the South Wind.

The Staff of Life

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bread

John 6:35 (King James Version)

³⁵ And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. 

Over the years, we've had to endure the hype and common misconceptions that come with humans and their many food-related disorders. "Coeliac Disease"* is serious, I know. My stepmother has it. Do you? No?! Then, you don't need a gluten-free diet. In fact, my father followed her seriously restricted diet for many years (in solidarity of her and her limited cooking skills), because he doesn't really cook except for the occasional backyard barbecue, like any other typically American dad. He said for many years that it helped him with his joint pain, though the dry arid climate of West Texas helped more by far. 

Now, they both take medication for heart disease (my dad also has stents in the major arteries leading to his heart), because they both have genetic tendencies towards that kind of health-related problem. Homosapiens are not Neanderthal types of primates anymore, so why would you believe that eating like one is beneficial to your modern-day health? Some of the worst content I designed during my time in the publishing industry was wrongly formed in the bad combination of tying food to the weepy "self-help" subculture, because a lot of people with mental problems try to effect a total cure upon their brain disorders through dieting, and that isn't enough of the right kind of health care.

Don't get me wrong. Healthy eating does work wonders for our overall health, and proper nutrition is essential to continued good health, but hopping on a trendy diet bandwagon will only get you so far. Just ask the former "Queen of Daytime Talk" herself, an entertainment brand so famous that she gets by with just one name (like any real rock star), now driven so low by her recent drop from the public's constant eye that she finally admitted in a widely televised ad what we all know about her to be true: she's just another paid corporate shill for one of the worst "touchy-feely" diet food purveyors, because despite all of her money, fame, and long-term access to the "best of the best", she's still off in the head, thus filling the core of herself with food instead.

What kind of message do you think that sends to very people who made her rich and famous, particularly from one of our most beleaguered populations that she openly stole from, the African-American single mother struggling to keep her (and her family's) head above water? She bankrupted all of them as far as I'm concerned, and if I were you, ladies, I'd drop all of her magazines, book projects, and t.v. shows today. Start the new year of 2016 right, by giving your hard-won economic support to those people among you who are genuine enough to love you back for your faith, not to just another "Mad Black Woman" who sang the blues publicly and ate all of her feelings (in between ridiculously unhealthy juice "fasts"), because all the money and fame in the world ain't gonna give her back what her own mama and daddy took from her, and neither will you.

Just leave food out of it! I got that covered and now so do you, you just didn't know it, yet. You have everything you need inside of you already, and what G-d hasn't provided, my local bakery can give me with freshly baked warm bread straight outta their ovens (for a mere $1.79!), in a long Italian-style loaf so big, that I cut it while it's fresh and freeze it in sections, defrosting each part as I need it over the course of a week. Who else will tell you that for free? Well, a lot of us will. All you have to do is listen. We're here. Happy New Year.

https://hotbreadkitchen.org/who-we-are/

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coeliac_disease 

On the hunt

http://www.venisondonation.org/

If you're a regular reader of mine, you should know by now that hunger is a human problem, and not a food one. Humans have always used resources as leverage against one another in times of war, and what greater weapon of mass destruction is there if not for starvation? 

Many a cynic has gone on t.v. in some corporate-sponsored advertisement to disturb your Saturday ballgame viewing with horrible images of bloat-belly children in Africa, in a crass exploitation of so-called "white guilt" and the collective sense of responsibility we feel as hardworking, wealthy Americans. 

But, as my man Father Raphael (from Nigeria) pointed out to one such carnival barker who used the St. Francis parish to fund-raise, with his disgustingly lurid pictures of poor children: "When hasn't there been starving children in Africa?", which is a delicate, sensitive, and extremely intelligent criticism that opens up further under scrutiny. Aren't there rich people in Africa who care about Africans?! 
What happened to them all? 

As bad as the slave trade has been for many people of American descent, it isn't the full story about our world in crisis. It's sort of like my old housemate from art school, who immediately noticed when I didn't pack-rat my tiny hearing aid batteries for recycling later, because I replaced an old one for a new one while walking and talking with her on the street, and then tossed the tiny battery into a garbage pail. (Sue: they're mercury-free because I asked my audiologist on my next visit to town. Thanks for making me feel paranoid and irresponsible. Sleep easy, gentle hippie). 

Is it really up to me and my every miniscule action to save the world?! How can that be? I understand the Butterfly Effect*, and the implications that a small movement may have many miles away, but like my mom's exhortations about sending my uneaten broccoli to Africa, there's something about useless fretting that obscures much deeper issues.

When I had no money to give, I gave my blood. When I had no food to eat, I sold my belongings. When I had more time to spare, I gave it back to the church as an apprentice Sunday School teacher. 
Which brings me back to the same eternal question of: what can you do? Besides sending badly cooked vegetables overseas. 

This week, I urge you to look beyond the quick, obvious, and easy, as you reach back out into the world to help. What can you do right now, with just what you have on hand? 

Thank you for your patience while we right your wrongs, most directly with new legislation that addresses massive supermarket waste. 
Don't worry: we won't send you deer meat, if venison isn't your thing. 
It isn't mine, either.

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/food_waste_loc/?bkmQyjb&v=61604

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_effect
 

Skeleteon in the Closet

Pour vous, Isabelle.

Summertime is a big deal for a lot of women, and not just because school is out, and the kids are home ALL DAY LONG. I never really thought adversely about going to the beach or the pool, because I've been a swimmer for as long as I can remember. What's not to like? But, like any other social situation filled with strangers and new people comes the attitude that many women and girls have about their bodies. I don't have any issues about mine, because I do the right things: I eat clean, good food that I enjoy cooking and eating, I walk every day, I do yoga or swim or practice martial arts...something happens in my life to keep me on track, because I am motivated to have the best life ever. 
I want to have fun and enjoy myself.

Don't get me wrong; I smoked and drank my way through the SUNY school system like any other college kid on a strict budget, but I never got it twisted. I actually wanted to show off my bikini body every year, and why wouldn't I? I work hard at it, and I want to stay beautiful for as long as I can for my partner, because I care about how he feels. I know he thinks the same way about himself towards me, too. Not that MMA is the sport for "working out", because it is extremely intense training (like my childhood ballet lessons that could have been a really serious career), but I have had points in my life when I gained unwanted weight from neglect, typically because I was working a job so stressful, most people take some sort of drug (or cocktail) to get through it. 

And so, try as I might, I no longer feel any pressures to conform to any standard other than the one I set for myself, because childhood was my time for insecurities. I survived my time in grade school, with mean bullies and schoolyard taunts. That doesn't mean today's "PSA" is a joke; far from it. Every day in my happy little home here in the Hudson Valley I see my beautiful people out in public, mixing it up in our common community spaces with people far less fortunate than us. They say the Irish are blessed with luck, charm, and good looks, and that's true, though I think it's more than a fair trade off for centuries of brutal oppression, military occupation, and countrywide starvation. 
We earned it proper. 

Yet, many cultures still demonize their women for their looks (or lack thereof), which leaves one to wonder why a woman with a serious brain disorder would dare hope to have a happy, healthy, attractive child. From what?! Thin air? It takes a lot more than running around a track like a lunatic because your mom committed suicide, and 30 years later you still can't talk about it until you are gaunt and winded. The work that I do (physical stuff included) is a lot more demanding than me running away from my problems and the world, just as starvation and hunger will not bring you the peace you seek. You need help, and I'll be here for you, girl, but first ya gotta eat something. I mean it.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/31/world/europe/31caro.html?_r=0

 

Chops

Extra cabbage my mom gave me from her Corned Beef dish will do nicely!

Years ago my boyfriend's sister (then live-in boyfriend I didn't want, then fiancé, and also including soon-to-be annulled tricky disaster of a faux first marriage) went to Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa, financed yet again by his desperate parents looking for a rock star in their two kid rubble of a messy family. Never happened, but I learned a thing or two, just like I honed my innate business acumen and musicianship on the side: I don't have time for more art forms than the many ones that I already practice at an expert level daily, but I do love to dabble, with the understanding that my dabbling is also at the maestro level. 
It doesn't go away simply because my brain is solving other types of problems, even when I may want amateur status. I like the newness of anonymity, like any other careful observer does.

Voilà! My homemade cole slaw.

And so it is with cooking, too. I cook almost every single day of my life, out of habit and enjoyment, or from necessity and want, so now I cook at the master level. I don't ever want to be a professional chef who runs a kitchen (Oh, good! Another job for me that's hard, low-paying and takes years to pay out), but I like listening. My brief "sister-in-law" did the wacky school stuff like deboning quail and many mindless hours of repetitive chopping, but she did tell me some useful stuff from her classes like: 1) pairing wines with food is a matter of preference that serves the customer well above any other snobby food rule, because a pro kitchen exists to show people a good time, not embarrass them with their ignorance. Want a nice red with chicken or fish? Have it! The "correct" choice is whatever you want and/or what beverage you think tastes good, not what anyone else says about it, unless you specifically ask a Sommelier for advice sur la table. Nothing blows the deal of a deep-pocketed repeat customer than humiliating some bourgeois "Nouveau-Riche" type looking to impress people with their freely thrown cash, so don't do it. Skills!

At the stove every damn day, people!

Same with cookbooks: 2) they can't teach you how to cook because it's about flawless timing, countless hours of practice, and the spills and mistakes that come with real trial and error mixed with ingenuity and bravery, the hard-won experience of a daily habit. That's what I have, whether I wanted it or not, because if I want to eat really good food, I often have to make it myself. And so it was with cookbooks, too. I asked her what her best recommendation was, and she told me the truth, as told to her by one of her professors: 3) it's "The Joy of Cooking", any edition and any version, from any year. The author doesn't tell you how to do it; she gives you a basic template to follow, with versions and iterations based on your choices, preferences, budget, and/or or pantry ingredients on hand. She can't think for you. You have to do that. So that's what I do, in a nutshell, every single day of my life, and maybe some day you can, too, because I don't want to be single forever, people!

Enjoy the fresh new Springtime produce that's hitting our shelves soon. We've earned it.

Perfectly cooked medium/medium-rare lamb chop, a total Spring dish.

Another perfect chop: this one a pork "Scallopine" cut in brown butter.

Perfect sticky rice with sprig of fresh thyme.

One perfect (and tiny) leaf of thyme on a bed of fluffy white rice.

Mrs. Reilly's Soda Bread

Katie Reilly is in the house!

You know me; I'm always looking for really good food, and traditional Irish fare is no different. I look for excellent, fresh ingredients that are written in a language that's easily understood. You know, "real food" 
as my Mom would say. So a recent grocery store trip was no different than other day except for one special person: Mrs. Katie Reilly, and her infamous Irish Soda Bread. 

The label on the back was my first tip off that I had indeed found something very special. There are no artificial ingredients added. 
Like, none. Don't believe me? OK. See here for yourself:

Real ingredients, with no crap added into the mix. Wow!

And so I put it in my basket, and went on my way...or so I thought. 
At home, I found another surprise underneath the store's adhesive label that I carefully pulled off, so as to not tear the bag. It was the real story of an actual woman named Katie, her clan, and how much her food and her kitchen meant to them as a group.

Buried treasure! "Arrrhh!"

It was an unbelievably good find, what with the plethora of fake brand names that flood store shelves nowadays; the openly desperate manifestation of many a rich corporation, in an industry that seeks legitimacy and the money that goes along with having the real thing. 

But if living in an actual Irish/American town like Pearl River that also has strong Dutch, Huguenot, and Native American roots has reaffirmed anything for me, it's that you can't steal someone else's history for very long. You either have it or you don't, just like Mrs. Reilly.

Behold: the best soda bread I've ever had.

If you still doubt the power of authenticity in a world chock full of posers, let me close it down for you, finally. It was so good that I bought one for my exceptionally finicky Mom. She ate three pieces of it in a row, and she usually has a cup of yogurt for her afternoon tea. That's right, my dear readers, it passed "The Mom Test". Put that in your pipe and smoke it, "Irishers". Enjoy!

Happy St. Patrick's Day 2015, to you and yours.

http://www.myveronanj.com/tag/atie-reillys-original-irish-soda-bread/ 

http://www.celticpassions.com/about_katie_reilly.html 

Dr. Martin's Mix

Much like my Mom's poor attempts at her half-baked feminism and her angered infrequent bouts of cooking that she rebelled against when I was growing up, (preferring instead to replace them with compulsive cleaning chores like laundry and washing dishes), her recipes also reflect her deluded, fractured sense of self that is so inherent with her disorders and her generation.

Much as I find her "I Hate to Cookbook" a sometimes silly relic of yore that is more akin in tone to old Russian satellites falling out of the sky than it is to reality, I found a family gem among her favorite recipes, as evidenced by the splattered pages of this well-worn recipe for "Dr. Martin's Mix."

Recipe for "Dr. Martin's Mix" from the " 'I Hate to Cook' Book".

My mom was drawn to it because she likes to pretend that she is a doctor (giving herself the name "Dr. Diane" when we were kids, like a commercial advertising a fake character called "Dr. Mom", made for selling cough syrup), given her science background and the many, many hours she is forced to consider her own challenging illnesses that were fed by a constant, steady pop culture diet of t.v. shows about similarly fake doctors popular in her time like "Dr. Kildare", because she also has open crushes on "out" actors like Richard Chamberlain, also a weird reflection of the warped sensibilities of her youth.

It's not real, but the food I make from the collected shards of her self that I put together on my own certainly are, such are the strengths that a "Master of the Arts" has always had, no matter who we are with, or where we are, out there in the larger world.

Hey, what's cookin'? Oh! Yum!!

Blessings and encouragements to you this week as you fight your many, many battles. That's the fun of life on our planet! Enjoy your time here, my peoples, because it goes by so, so fast.

Stick to your ribs food: perfectly filling on a cold, wet winters' day.

Nut Job!

What the...?!

Our town undertakers (Bluebell the Bulldog and Highway the Golden Retriever's dad and granddad) own several properties around town, the most dominating one being the large old brown and yellow house that plays host to families in their time of grief, with one spectacular oak tree growing resplendent in the front lawn, a visual symbol of our area's shared genetic history.

Naturally, it also plays host to an enormous variety of wildlife, including one very large bird of prey that is the young Peregrine Falcon, a murder of loud noisy crows, as well as many other types of birds, and the fattest, happiest bunch of squirrels I have ever seen. I think this place is "Heaven" for them, their only foes the birds flying around the treetop, but food scarcity is wholly unknown as a factor in their lives.

Ohh...the squirrel that just ran away unearthed his stash. Nice!

As a result, I spied with my eye one chubby little squirrel take advantage of last week's brief afternoon thaw to dig out his trench of buried nuts that ran in a neat orderly row in the soil between the sidewalk edge and the line of snow that's shoveled. That critter actually knows where the soft dirt demarcation line is in that tiny zone, and plans for it way in advance. Genius! 

$ucking brilliant, dude. Look at all these nuts!

Wintertime fatness in an animal is a sign that it has planned well for scarcity, not a small feat in this fiercely cold clime that we live in, and something amateur housewives of yore learned the long hard way, hence the abundance of glass Mason jars and canning artifacts known to this part of the country. Squirrel is winning at the "Game of Life", and I think it knows. I love you, fat bastard!

"Fat Bastard" is smarter than some people I know. Kudos, squirrel friend!

“Quiching!”

The perfect hot, bubbly, cracking crust of a quiche.

The grocery store had an amazing special on eggs last week: a full 18 pack with no broken eggs for $1.88 that I couldn't pass up. Would you? Could any halfway decent chef with half a brain walk away from a bargain like that, right in the middle of a really harsh winter? No, and  "%uck no!" So, I did what any respectable artist would do, by brainstorming meal ideas, first at my mom's house with her old feminist cookbook about hating cooking, which she urged on me along with her old taped-together-as-a-binding green cookbook with horribly outdated ideas. Of course, I already knew exactly what newspaper clipping I was looking for in her recipe box, because I remembered it as the essence of simplicity in a recipe, and here it is:

A humble, simply perfect quiche recipe.

Since my days currently revolve around simple as a life concept, I knew right away that this recipe was the basic standby I recalled from my childhood, because it seems like something my grandfather would make. Norman people are not typically fussy, overblown drama queens, nor are our shared recipes.

I gilded the lily (just like you would with any basic template) by adding mushrooms, onions, and good cheddar cheese, poured into an also-simple, easy pie crust from a box that just needed water added to it, with as few ingredients as you can make a pre-made, powdered concoction to be.

The perfectly flaky pie crust that crumbles into layers....from a box!

The result was perfection, and it occurred to me as I sat, stood, bent over, and alternately stooped achingly over a stainless steel bowl of egg whites, that I had just made my quiche into a sport, so athletic are cooking exertions without the messy clutter of stupid gadgets that don't ever work as well as one healthy, talented human being. 
Behold, human! I have made "Quiching" into a sport, and it is good.

I ate three pieces of quiche after it came out of the oven.

Food! The Wintertime Edition

I have a bunch of food pics that I started taking right after Thanksgiving, with the arrival of our very first snow of the season, and most of it comprised of hot, salty foodstuffs. Yum! Here we go, bangerz. 
Let's get into it:

Crack an egg in a pan, put it on top of a leftover salad, and call it "done".

Skipping breakfast for that second cup of coffee? Word! I got you, bro: go for it brunch-style with a fried egg on top of that already-dressed leftover salad and you're done, just like me. I have stuff to do anyway, and I want to get out the door quick, yo. Ain't got time for dishes and fussy stuff today!

Steak and eggs for breakfast: it's a dish every guy knows.

Same deal with this bitch right here: take leftover food from last night's doggie bag, add a cracked egg in the middle of them pan drippings, slice up a spicy white onion real quick, and you're done. You're welcome. (On a side note: this steak sucked as a dinner entree, but slammed as a late breakfast that became my lunch. Resting overnight in a fridge done it right, homey.)

Imported Italian grape tomatoes canned in olive oil. That's slick yo.

I found an excellently-priced item made by my local grocery store that was on sale and came in a can: these beautifully-shaped, perfectly ripe, whole grape tomatoes stewing in olive oil and imported from Italy. Priced right, packaged well. Also a done deal, and so friggin' fresh-tasting, it's like you picked them that morning from your Italian grandmother's herb garden with a handful of leaves from the basil plant, right outside her kitchens' sliding glass door that's conveniently placed for your optimal cooking pleasure. I know! I know. That good. 
I cooked them down in a sauce with some leftover eggplant for a spaghetti dinner. Yeah, baby!

A late night diner classic: the perfectly melted "Grilled Cheese" sandwich.

Sometimes, all you want to eat for lunch is a melted American cheese sandwich (that we call a "Grilled Cheese" sandwich), with some deli pickles on the side. I had it as a lunch almost exclusively for an entire year in my grammar school days, (sometimes alongside a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup that's made with milk instead of water, with some crumbled Saltines on top that you fish out as they go soggy, which is a really fun thing for a kid to do), so I can attest to its' long legs as a foodstuff that goes the distance. It stays with you, man.
You know what I mean?

Swiss-made, with stylistic origins of the Pennsylvanian Dutch who live here.

I found these imported Ginger cookies on sale in a cardboard display at the end of the cookie aisle that was priced to move, so I did it. 
They were just OK with a cup of tea (and all you fuckin' Micks know exactly what I mean, so don't front that you and your mam don't do that every single friggin' afternoon, yo), but I found that I loved the Dutch Swiss design reminiscent of our own Pennsylvania Dutch culture here (my family lived briefly in Pennsylvania) that has remained largely untouched and linguistically intact, thanks to the isolationist practices of the Amish who live there still. Quaint, n'est-ce pas?

Have a banquet for $.88! I can (and will) accept this as a foodstuff to eat.

I bought three different flavors of these cheap pot pies that were on sale for .88 cents apiece. 'Nuff said really: it's all salty, melt-y, gooey, hot gravy goodness. That's it, right?

More salt with hot gravy, meat, and potatoes. Please!

Don't forget an old reliable like this can of salt and gravy that's heated up in a small saucepan. My mom always kept it in her pantry for us to eat when we wanted something quick (that, or a small can of Beefaroni, yo), and we did the same thing during our college days on tiny hot plates in a small dorm room while living on a very cold upstate New York mountain top. It was priced right (that's reads as "cheap"), and I wanted it. That's what I can say about that.

A hard-boiled egg on half of a toasted and buttered sesame seed roll.

I had eggs, I had leftover sesame seed rolls that were going stale fast, and I had butter; I was also hungry and running short on food, time, and money, so this is what I did with those ingredients, and I had two of them in a row. Hey man, good eats to you today. 

Enjoy life and eat something today, will ya?

Like Water for Chocolate

http://barkthins.com/

I had a really weird day this week. During the morning, I saw the most beautiful movie I've ever seen (http://vimeo.com/38263988), and then I went food shopping in an insanely large grocery store. It was like a lesson in opposites from "Up High": this great, perfect beauty followed by lots of bad sh#t in triplicate lining every friggin' grocery shelf. 

I sought some comfort because I felt lonely away from my Brothers in Christ shown in the movie, and I'm also forever in mourning for my grandparents, people who shared a deep abiding faith in The Lord, and all the earthly delights as they happen everyday in nature (life philosophies and a real happiness that is rare). And so I went looking for them in the guise of my grandmother's recipe: a basic dessert (or so I thought) made of chocolate cake, whipped cream, and a jar of peaches preserved in a simple syrup, something we've enjoyed during wintertime when foods run scarce for many a year throughout the ages.

It was so hard, I thought I was going to cry. I couldn't find chocolate cake without reading an ingredients list that read like something written out by a mad scientist for some crazy project that never gets off the ground, and then I couldn't find real heavy cream without cancer-causing ingredients in them like Carrageenan and High Fructose Horseshit. I found a brand of preserved fruits in glass a few months back, so I put those peaches and pears in syrup in my basket, which made me feel slightly better (pear juice is a natural throat soother that elicits helpful, productive coughing: thanks to Dr. S in  Park Slope ;) But, I was starting to feel nauseous from the store's overheating with too many layers of clothes on, and lots of morbidly obese sick people with their bad energy and overloaded carts...it was too much.

What could I have for dessert? My time window was running out. Aha! How about chocolate? How bad can someone fuck that up? But...someone had. Package after package that I turned over to read listed high fructose this, and corn syrup that. No "cocoa" or "sugar" or "milk" or "cream". I felt like a monk, or my grandparents transported into the future, when everything is rotten and sick, like a "Soylent Green" fantasy gone wrong, until there it was; BarkThins. I turned it over, and there it was, too: the language that we speak to each other, in words easily understood, like childhood lessons we learned about good over evil, on a simple foodstuff package; words like "non-GMO" and "Free Trade Certified". The ingredients were the same type of words, too: real cocoa, and actual sugar cane. Yes! Score!! 

Later on, when I got home, munching on chocolate so good that it tasted like food I hadn't eaten in years; good, wholesome, rich, delicious chocolate, I looked at the package at little bit closer. 
And there it was, in black text on a light background, the name and address of the chocolatier in a town five minutes from the place my grandparents lived for many years, just a mere ten minute drive from the home in New City I grew up in Rockland County, New York. Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa. It was just what needed, exactly when I needed it, and that's just the type of love they always gave me: the really good stuff, of the kind that sustains you by lasting and being there whenever you need it, wherever you go.

Amen to you, on this winter day in 2015, from your beloved granddaughter who will always cherish, adore, and miss you. 
I honor you daily by not squandering the gifts you so lovingly gave 
to me, the first of which is this great lesson that so very many 
people miss: knowing the good from the bad. Amen.

Goodness, right here at home.

Happy Birthday to Me

When I was growing up, birthdays were rare breaks from my very strict norm. It was the one day (read that again: ONE DAY) of the year when I was allowed to choose what we had for dinner as a family, and what kind of cake would be served as dessert. As I got older (say, around 7 or 8 years old), birthdays became trading opportunities for my brothers to petition me with (ahem, more like, try to strong arm me into), by giving up my birthday dinner for money. If I switched out my usual spaghetti and meatball dinner with something more palatable to them, ("So boring! You pick the same thing every year!"), something they preferred, like spare ribs, they'd give me an extra $10 or $20 bucks for my birthday, which was really money for the Christmas gifts I'd spend for them, and they knew it, because it came up quickly on the heels of December 17th. Everything in our household was up for negotiation: my birthday, my gifts, my privacy, my body, even the food I waited all year to have free from strife, or so I thought. 

We were desperate for these few scant "outs" from our daily lives, which my parents could not tolerate as well, because they bartered between each other over just about everything, like a couple of spoiled and highly deprived children. It was excruciating to endure and bear witness to, and so, birthdays lost their luster eventually, too, just like everything else in that house did, quickly becoming another day to me, and a very abusive one that was rife with potential conflict at that. In short, I grew up, even when the people around me couldn't or wouldn't, stuck on just one speed or another. You want my cake that badly? Sure, take it, I guess. I mean, what the fuck?! It's readily available food! What gives? They became greedy, grasping, rabid animals in the face of this one freedom we had among the crushing grinding reality of our day-to-day life that my parents so hated. So, as I matured, it went: first, it was my simple chocolate cake with whipped cream and canned peaches that my grandmother had perfected over the years, next it was my humble pasta dinner so that I could have money to buy the few things I wanted, needed or liked. In short, I became a mother, as the people around me began pushing and pulling against one another after I caved into their stronger desires. 

At the end of the day, it was just a spaghetti and meatball dinner, covered with tomato sauce and coated with grated cheese on top. Shit, I could make that any time I wanted to, with some advanced planning. I was already a master chef by age ten, absorbing and inhaling my mom's few scant cookbooks in the pantry, because she considered cooking a plebeian chore for lesser minds, far beneath her "advance degrees in science" kind of mind, a skewed and warped view of her "feminism" loudly pronounced through a wedding gift titled  "The 'I Hate to Cook' Cookbook" that sat on the pantry shelf in accusation. It spoke to her desperation for some kind of legitimacy, one that she would never really be able to achieve on her own, given the problems inherent with her brain chemistry. She wasn't bashing against oppression. She came up against her own inequities, and creative cooking was just another one of her shortcomings that she cleverly hid, saying that baking was more precise and to her liking, because the measurements were like her lab concoctions at work, which were so much more important than us and our dinnertime. 

And so it went throughout the years, as I watched these days ripped away from me one by one in a type of silent horror show, like the throwaway milestones they had become to my family. First, it was the food I liked, then my gifts were traded for money given grudgingly, shoved at me from across the kitchen table, or thrust hastily into my hand as we passed each other by in the hallway, on my way to my childhood bedroom. My supposedly big adult years became birthday bashes they could use to manipulate one another with, and also use against me to dominate me with their far more pressingly petty needs. I knew it went haywire one year, when I found myself eating grossly over-sweetened cake that I did not like nor want, in my grandmother's overheated apartment, that I grew sick over with a painful food headache from yet another forced ingestion that had to take place in front of my very sick godmother, to placate her mental illnesses through her viciously depraved sweet tooth that she angrily substituted over actual medication, in tribute to her before I was finally allowed to reach my intended destination of a Sushi dinner my sick mother paid for with her birthday coupon, which she promptly screwed up by falling down on a slight sidewalk incline to the restaurant the moment I was distracted by opening the door for her in the bitter cold night. 

Whenever I folded in family, they ruined it gleefully and spitefully, right in front of my face. My brothers took away my 40th from me cruelly as well, co-opting the play I wanted to see with one of their selections instead, picking the restaurant and meeting place, booking a hotel for their families' comfort and enjoyment by pushing me into a forced engagement that I hated every minute of, culminating in my nephew taking and eating the birthday cake right off my plate in front of them without bothering to ask anyone about, that they pretended to ignore. In families with rampantly untreated mental illnesses, I was simply another pawn they tried to pass around abusively, as a covert excuse to hide their real intentions. Such was force of their hatred against me.

The next morning after that 40th birthday debacle, I found myself sick and throwing up into a tote-bag that I had bought from a breast cancer charity in honor of my cousin's successful battle against Stage Four Lymphoma (I bought her one for Christmas, too): on the subway, and in full view of fellow passengers, because I no longer drank as much alcohol as my family did anymore (I was well into MMA training at the time), stumbling through a full-blown snowstorm, stopping to heave in big gulps of cold air so as to not get sick again in public, desiring only to climb four flights up a rundown Brooklyn townhouse to an apartment I could barely afford but made due with through my salary by finding a rare rent stabilized place in a good, safe neighborhood. 

I knew something had to give, and that something was me, because they would kill me if I allowed this to go on. Certainly, they had bankrupted me until I had nothing left except myself to give. And so it went on: over these preceding next few years, I fought battle after battle with everyone in my family, as they deliberately turned their backs on me one by one, during my time of greatest economic need (which had never happened of such duration and acuteness before), to finally, in this year, achieve the real success my family has always needed. How did I do it? By allowing them to bash me bloody, body and soul, pushing my body and brain to its' limits, to achieve the actualized success of a self-sustaining kind, the type my people have always needed, by becoming a leader who is a force to be reckoned with, and on to the destiny I have always been fated to be, recounted here as a Queens' true life tale about the real Game of Thrones.

This year I will order food that I want, off the menu of a female warrior who runs her very own kitchen, cooking her very own type of food, in this town we call home, paid through blood, sweat, and tears covertly disguised as a paltry birthday lunch on my mother's dime, long overdue and sorely lacking. Finally on this day, our day has come. And so as my birthday approaches, so does our day together. As a united people, we will move forward through the power of a forceful realization felt in my body and soul, a queen to be linked and joined to her destiny at long at last. Enjoy this 17th day in winter in remembrance of me and on the house, to be always paid by me through The House of Doucette. Long may we reign, in peace and in victory. Amen to you, my children, from your ever-loving Mother in Christ, who is also Marie the Beautiful, Marie the Strong, Marie the Brave, and Marie the Brilliant, the very words you spoke near me to invoke the spirit that will be here forevermore. We have won. The fruits of my success will be yours to savor eternally ever after, on this 45th birthday of mine in the year of Our Lord 2014, the 17th day of December will forever and always be known as my true Mother's Day because it is for you, my people.

My 39th birthday at my grandmothers' house, December 17th, 2008. I made a minor typo in the photo caption when I posted it on Facebook back in 2008, which was immediately pointed out to me in typical "clever" hipster fashion as an error, unsolicited as it was by a older and supposedly more powerful man from my employed publishing past.

Edamame Salad

Weekday salad with leftovers.

I bought a bag of frozen soy beans in their pods, known as "edamame" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edamame), because I developed a taste for them in sushi restaurants around the U.S., typically served warm and covered in sea salt. They are surprisingly good, but for a table of one, a whole bag of them grew cold quickly. What to do? 

Some out of them went into batches of box macaroni and cheese prepared with cooked chopped meat and fried onions, an old college staple for budget cooking that's been an on-and-off  but reliable go-to dish in lean times, or sometimes when I'm simply in the mood for it.

As their last day grew near (the pods emitted a telltale fishy odor, and turned greenish brown), I finally used the last of the soybeans in a salad dressed with red wine vinegar, non-GMO coconut oil that I melted stove top, salted and peppered, with a couple of cranks from an Italian seasoning herb blend for added flavor, diced white Spanish onion, a few fresh basil leaves, some leftover sunflower seeds, et voila!

Happy eating, cooks.

Sweet Cherries

My life, in a bag of cherries: 
bilingual, Oneontan, sweet, and always in season.