Look, I can own from the starting line that I am a wimp when it comes to being sick. That’s why I’m so proud of myself for bearing the Burn Ordeal so well. But the thing most men, all married men in fact I’m betting, save one or two with really mean, drunk wives, don’t understand is that having the stomach flu and working a 10 hour day after coming back from 24 hours of total stomach flu misery and then thinking of having to go to the store to buy those tomato soup and grilled cheese makings – the only thing that sounds even vaguely palatable and after a day of one donut and one orange section – that prospect just is, well, it just wants to make me cry.
See, these men (my bosses here in Corporania) all have wives at home. If their wives get sick they stop off and buy them their tomato soup, and maybe even make it for them. If they get sick their wives certainly make it for them. And really, I would have been happy if I could have just worked nine hours and had that little jump start that would have put me at the store and maybe even home before dark.
But no, see, there’s this directive that we all have to work 10 hours every single day. And there was a memo, and the memo stated quite clearly that no one could work less than that without permission from Himself. And really, truly, if the company hadn’t gotten itself in this position through very poor management, and if they would let us hire the people we’ve been saying we needed for the last two years, then everyone could work eight hours and all would be well. But it’s their fault. And the icing on the cake is that, in my department, we’re not behind. We never are. But we still have to work the overtime because upper management only looks at the numbers, and if our little three or four people (we’ve been short one for several months because they haven’t let us replace the one who quit, even though we interviewed) don’t do the overtime it pulls the overtime numbers stats down for the larger department.
OK, all that said. You get my bitchy drift. But the main point is, these managers are men. They don’t know what it’s like to be sick and have to fend for themselves totally. All I want to do is leave early so I can get to the store before dark and get a little rest for my fluey body before tomorrow comes and here I am again.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
French Thanksgiving Touches
It's less than a week until Thanksgiving, menu planning is in full swing, and as usual my determination to KISS (keep it simple stupid: turkey, oyster and non-oyster dressing, roasted root veggies, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, slaw, corn casserole, cranberries, pumpkin pie, cherry pie, tiramisu) is under erosion from the torrent of fabulous recipes I somehow encounter during the course of a typical day. Steely resolve is mine, however, and so far I have succumbed to only one gully leading to the weediness of our traditional wildly straining-under-the-bounty holiday table. But I still haven't received from my kids their dishes of choice requests. In the mean time, since I know you want to add a touch of French country savory goodness to your own table, here is the magical tempress of a dish that's led me off the path of KISS. If you know me, you know that by the end, unless my discipline is well-tempered and it usually isn't, I will have added several "small, simple little touches" and the menu will have doubled (actually the tiramisu was the first sign of erosion -- the recipe in the latest Cooks Illustrated was just too tempting to ignore). And now it's this Chestnut-fennel purée (Purée de châtaignes au fenouil) from Le Jardins Francais : http://www.frenchgardening.com/cuisine.html.
Chestnut-fennel purée (Purée de châtaignes au fenouil)
3 lbs. fresh chestnuts
2 medium heads fennel, bruised and tough parts removed, sliced in sixths
1 tsp. fennel seed (wild fennel seed if possible)*
4 T. unsalted butter
1/2 c. crème fraîche
Salt and pepper
*Wild fennel seeds are smaller than the usual variety, nearly black in color, and incredibly flavorful.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Cut a slit across the rounded side of each chestnut and place them on a baking sheet. Roast for 20-30 minutes, until peelable (they don't have to be perfectly tender.)
Cover the chestnuts with a towel to keep them hot while you peel them. If they cool, the inner skin won't come off. (If the skin refuses to come off a few of them, don't throw them out. You'll be able to remove it after the next step.)*
Place the peeled chestnuts and the fennel and fennel seeds in a heavy saucepan and just cover them with water. Add a good pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to medium low and simmer until the chestnuts and the fennel are very tender.
Keep the pot covered to conserve the cooking liquid.
Drain the chestnuts and fennel over a bowl, reserving the cooking liquid. Remove any skin that is still clinging to the chestnuts or has come loose among the vegetables. Pass the vegetables through the fine blade of a food mill back into the saucepan. Add the butter and crème fraîche and whisk until incorporated. Then whisk in enough of the flavorful cooking liquid to make the mixture nearly pourable, or to a consistency that pleases you.**
Note that the purée will thicken as it stands, so don't throw out any remaining cooking liquid until serving time. Correct the seasoning with flakes of sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.
*The technique of roasting the chestnuts before peeling, and then boiling them with the fennel allows you to develop the delicious cooking liquor essential to the flavor of this dish. Boiling the chestnuts in their shells and then peeling makes peeling more difficult in my experience. Reboiling them after peeling gives a less flavorful result. And you can't use the liquid from boiling them in their shells because it has an acrid taste.
**You can reduce the amount of butter and cream if you desire by increasing the amount of cooking liquid you incorporate into the purée. The result will be less unctuous but still flavorful.
Note: This is the most delicious puree I've ever tasted. It's worth the effort, and unfortunately using vacuum-packed chestnuts seriously diminishes the result. A guaranteed star of the Thanksgiving table. You probably won't have leftovers, but if you do, thin them with homemade chicken broth for a fabulous soup.
Chestnut-fennel purée (Purée de châtaignes au fenouil)
3 lbs. fresh chestnuts
2 medium heads fennel, bruised and tough parts removed, sliced in sixths
1 tsp. fennel seed (wild fennel seed if possible)*
4 T. unsalted butter
1/2 c. crème fraîche
Salt and pepper
*Wild fennel seeds are smaller than the usual variety, nearly black in color, and incredibly flavorful.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Cut a slit across the rounded side of each chestnut and place them on a baking sheet. Roast for 20-30 minutes, until peelable (they don't have to be perfectly tender.)
Cover the chestnuts with a towel to keep them hot while you peel them. If they cool, the inner skin won't come off. (If the skin refuses to come off a few of them, don't throw them out. You'll be able to remove it after the next step.)*
Place the peeled chestnuts and the fennel and fennel seeds in a heavy saucepan and just cover them with water. Add a good pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to medium low and simmer until the chestnuts and the fennel are very tender.
Keep the pot covered to conserve the cooking liquid.
Drain the chestnuts and fennel over a bowl, reserving the cooking liquid. Remove any skin that is still clinging to the chestnuts or has come loose among the vegetables. Pass the vegetables through the fine blade of a food mill back into the saucepan. Add the butter and crème fraîche and whisk until incorporated. Then whisk in enough of the flavorful cooking liquid to make the mixture nearly pourable, or to a consistency that pleases you.**
Note that the purée will thicken as it stands, so don't throw out any remaining cooking liquid until serving time. Correct the seasoning with flakes of sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.
*The technique of roasting the chestnuts before peeling, and then boiling them with the fennel allows you to develop the delicious cooking liquor essential to the flavor of this dish. Boiling the chestnuts in their shells and then peeling makes peeling more difficult in my experience. Reboiling them after peeling gives a less flavorful result. And you can't use the liquid from boiling them in their shells because it has an acrid taste.
**You can reduce the amount of butter and cream if you desire by increasing the amount of cooking liquid you incorporate into the purée. The result will be less unctuous but still flavorful.
Note: This is the most delicious puree I've ever tasted. It's worth the effort, and unfortunately using vacuum-packed chestnuts seriously diminishes the result. A guaranteed star of the Thanksgiving table. You probably won't have leftovers, but if you do, thin them with homemade chicken broth for a fabulous soup.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
What is it?
CNN says it may be a ghost on a gas station surveillance video. What do you think?
http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/offbeat/2007/11/14/lai.gas.ghost.woio
http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/offbeat/2007/11/14/lai.gas.ghost.woio
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Bye-Bye, Coffee, Bye-Bye House Help
Now that coffee is supposedly good for you, I’ve suddenly lost my taste for it. Now, contradicting my recent purposeful declaration to several friends that I, in fact, didn’t like tea and all and was tired of trying to, I now love tea and wake up craving it. This, after several years of unsuccessfully trying to get off the coffee.
It was a conversion of factors. Chronologically it went down like this: The guy who’d cleaned my house a few times just stopped showing up, and stopped returning my phone calls. At first he pled strep throat, true. But it’s three weeks later and he’s as gone as the May moonlight. Coffee connection? I worked at the coffee house in my neighborhood – that’s how I found him. And I liked him a lot! He was ok. I trusted him in my house. And he blew me off! Even after I recommended him to the whole listserv. Maybe he didn't like our arrangement of one room a week, but I was flexible on that. And I don't think there were that many skeletons laying around that he'd be that frightened of my house. Anyway, he doesn’t work at the coffee house any more, but the association remains, and I can't help but wonder if whatever I did to make him disappear has bled over to the coffee house? I don't know, because I have no idea why he disappeared! Some people are just irresponsible, I guess. Darn it.
Which on it’s own would be scant force to break the coffee addiction, so then comes factor number two. The burns. While I was on house arrest (the doctor’s orders week for healing) I had no way of getting my coffee. At first I was scared to death – how was I going to make it? Would I get gruesome caffeine withdrawal headaches? But on the second day I decided to do a bit of a cleansing diet and put it out of my mind.
Emerging, the first thing I did was stop by the coffee house and get my ritual Americano. But it was bitter, I didn't like it, and I didn’t finish it(!). The next day I woke up wanting a cup of tea. So I stopped by the Park Avenue on the way to work to get one. I know, way more expensive than making my own tea, but I really used to enjoy going to the coffee shop first thing in the morning, for there I was always greeting with a smile, someone saying my name, maybe even telling me that I looked nice or pretty or something, asking me how things were, telling me about their life or their day. Living alone, this friendly way to begin my morning trek to work really gave me a morale boost. But the staff has turned over and the guys working there now are, though completely competent and decent seeming, just not exuding the warmth that I used to feel from Chad and Cole and Dale and Marilyn. I don't even think they remember my name. It's kind of depressing. Not once has one of them ask me how things are, or complinented my outfit, or whatever. That may sound babyish to say, but the thing is it was a big part of why the coffee ritual there was important to my life. The charm of my morning coffee stop is gone, it doesn’t feel so personal any more, and no one made a Thai iced like Chad did, and he’s long gone, and now they are weaker and waterier and don’t have the love in them that made them so fine, and no one ever even asked if they are ok. So now I feel just as happy making my tea at work.
Which is all sad, but also good, in that my health will probably improve and my budget certainly will. And I'm enjoying the birth of this new tea ritual, which itself is full of rich potential. There is so much in tea. So much history. So many tangents. I could pick a culture -- Turkey, India, Japan, Persia -- and explore the life of tea in it. One culture at a time. Slow little journeys through the east, coming home again, the land and the dishes and the mannerisms and the importance of community, which is the other thing that makes me sad about the House Help and the coffee shop. Those were parts of the fabric of this community I've grown fond of. The motions and sounds of connection, little waves, touches and brushes on my quiet little shore line.
It was a conversion of factors. Chronologically it went down like this: The guy who’d cleaned my house a few times just stopped showing up, and stopped returning my phone calls. At first he pled strep throat, true. But it’s three weeks later and he’s as gone as the May moonlight. Coffee connection? I worked at the coffee house in my neighborhood – that’s how I found him. And I liked him a lot! He was ok. I trusted him in my house. And he blew me off! Even after I recommended him to the whole listserv. Maybe he didn't like our arrangement of one room a week, but I was flexible on that. And I don't think there were that many skeletons laying around that he'd be that frightened of my house. Anyway, he doesn’t work at the coffee house any more, but the association remains, and I can't help but wonder if whatever I did to make him disappear has bled over to the coffee house? I don't know, because I have no idea why he disappeared! Some people are just irresponsible, I guess. Darn it.
Which on it’s own would be scant force to break the coffee addiction, so then comes factor number two. The burns. While I was on house arrest (the doctor’s orders week for healing) I had no way of getting my coffee. At first I was scared to death – how was I going to make it? Would I get gruesome caffeine withdrawal headaches? But on the second day I decided to do a bit of a cleansing diet and put it out of my mind.
Emerging, the first thing I did was stop by the coffee house and get my ritual Americano. But it was bitter, I didn't like it, and I didn’t finish it(!). The next day I woke up wanting a cup of tea. So I stopped by the Park Avenue on the way to work to get one. I know, way more expensive than making my own tea, but I really used to enjoy going to the coffee shop first thing in the morning, for there I was always greeting with a smile, someone saying my name, maybe even telling me that I looked nice or pretty or something, asking me how things were, telling me about their life or their day. Living alone, this friendly way to begin my morning trek to work really gave me a morale boost. But the staff has turned over and the guys working there now are, though completely competent and decent seeming, just not exuding the warmth that I used to feel from Chad and Cole and Dale and Marilyn. I don't even think they remember my name. It's kind of depressing. Not once has one of them ask me how things are, or complinented my outfit, or whatever. That may sound babyish to say, but the thing is it was a big part of why the coffee ritual there was important to my life. The charm of my morning coffee stop is gone, it doesn’t feel so personal any more, and no one made a Thai iced like Chad did, and he’s long gone, and now they are weaker and waterier and don’t have the love in them that made them so fine, and no one ever even asked if they are ok. So now I feel just as happy making my tea at work.
Which is all sad, but also good, in that my health will probably improve and my budget certainly will. And I'm enjoying the birth of this new tea ritual, which itself is full of rich potential. There is so much in tea. So much history. So many tangents. I could pick a culture -- Turkey, India, Japan, Persia -- and explore the life of tea in it. One culture at a time. Slow little journeys through the east, coming home again, the land and the dishes and the mannerisms and the importance of community, which is the other thing that makes me sad about the House Help and the coffee shop. Those were parts of the fabric of this community I've grown fond of. The motions and sounds of connection, little waves, touches and brushes on my quiet little shore line.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Nornan Mailer's Mother Wouldn't Hear A Bad Word Said
Regarding persons criticizing one's children. I recall an interview with, I think, Normal Mailer in which he said that his mother, like any mother, would always defend him. I paraphrase: "If someone ran up to her screaming that I'd just opened fire on a crowd of people in a shopping mall, she would probably say something like, Well, somebody probably made him mad."
Teenagers are a special breed. I used to pride myself on being able to turn touchy situations with teenagers along totally around by simply taking them seriously as human beings and not judging them. They would appreciate this so much! It could really save the day for the parents on a trip or at a meal, whatever.
I think part of what sent me to that response was the memory of my uncle at a Sunday lunch when I, as a teen, was just cranky and so appalled that I had to sit at the table and listen to all the stupid things my family had to say. I was getting dirty looks from everyone, when my uncle leaned over and said, "You want to get out of here and get some ice cream? Let's take a ride in the Yellow Submarine."
The Yellow Submarine was his beat up Porche, yellow of course, and it was very fun to ride in. Mostly, though, I was so touched at not being judged, so amazed and thrilled and grateful that someone had, even for a moment, understood my pain, that, really, I think it opened a door in my heart that has never closed. I have great sympathy for the pain of the teen, and my uncle showed me a way to ease life up for a teenager, for a moment, here and there.
I don't get the opportunity that much any more. One's own children don't buy it; through that phase of life they need to push against us, and their friends are usually pretty darn well behaved around me. But sometimes all it takes when I see one of them struggling is a question and a look and a smile. Something that tells them they are not being judged, that they are still lovable people.
Teenagers are not adults. While bad behavior shouldn't be indulged, of course, annoying teenage angstishness does not need to be pointed out at every turn. It's a useless power struggle, anyway. Lead by example. Have a bit of compassion. It's the only thing that works, anyway.
Teenagers are a special breed. I used to pride myself on being able to turn touchy situations with teenagers along totally around by simply taking them seriously as human beings and not judging them. They would appreciate this so much! It could really save the day for the parents on a trip or at a meal, whatever.
I think part of what sent me to that response was the memory of my uncle at a Sunday lunch when I, as a teen, was just cranky and so appalled that I had to sit at the table and listen to all the stupid things my family had to say. I was getting dirty looks from everyone, when my uncle leaned over and said, "You want to get out of here and get some ice cream? Let's take a ride in the Yellow Submarine."
The Yellow Submarine was his beat up Porche, yellow of course, and it was very fun to ride in. Mostly, though, I was so touched at not being judged, so amazed and thrilled and grateful that someone had, even for a moment, understood my pain, that, really, I think it opened a door in my heart that has never closed. I have great sympathy for the pain of the teen, and my uncle showed me a way to ease life up for a teenager, for a moment, here and there.
I don't get the opportunity that much any more. One's own children don't buy it; through that phase of life they need to push against us, and their friends are usually pretty darn well behaved around me. But sometimes all it takes when I see one of them struggling is a question and a look and a smile. Something that tells them they are not being judged, that they are still lovable people.
Teenagers are not adults. While bad behavior shouldn't be indulged, of course, annoying teenage angstishness does not need to be pointed out at every turn. It's a useless power struggle, anyway. Lead by example. Have a bit of compassion. It's the only thing that works, anyway.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Finally, Healed.
Yes, it's taken all this time to get the burn wounds healed. Last week, due to the un-unconfinable-in-public nature of two remaining wounds, I was forced on doctor's orders to stay in my house with my, um, bosom exposed to the air. I'll spare you the icky details.
All in all I really have to say that even though I thought I was rather stoic through the whole thing and soldiered on darn well, in truth it was pretty traumatic, all told. The sight of all that bleeding and the not-healing wounds and, yuck, it was just all really yucky and horribly, horribly painful. Plus, I received scant sympathy, save from Metal Ox, who was the most patient and let me tell him those icky details nearly every day -- go figure. And Miss R brought me aloe plants from her house in a lovely pot (Thank you, Miss R!) and tried to get me the book club book for while I was confined. And Scorpie I came over a couple of times and was really sweet and helpful. Once he even did the dishes without me even asking! Wow. And SII was kind and visited, as well, and fetched some organic bottled aloe from C'dale. And the Princess was gracious about missing Elizabeth: The Golden Age, which we were slated to see the very day I did the deed. But the main point is that I don't think I whined or felt sorry for myself hardly at all, and you know what a baby I am when I'm sick. But I got the first throughthemail Get Well Card I've gotten since, I don't know? since I had my tonsils out in 5th grade? Thank you, STLST!
I think I've finally come to a place where i don't really expect someone to leap through the door with a hot toddy and lovely soup every time I don't feel good. Which is progress. I'm sure if I were really practically dying or something someone would show up. But the point is that these days instead of thinking Why isn't so-and-so coming over to help me? I think Now how in the hell am I going to get X and Y done when I can't even put on a shirt? And that is progress. And I'm happy for it. Anyhow, extended visitations were impractical in this instance, given the bosom exposure mandate and all. Of course this is all tied in with being single. Wishing for the gentle, nurturing, manly mate. And acceptance of the beauty of life as it is.
The Dalai Lama was wonderful, of course. But the two redheads do not get along, and they both made their grievances quite clear, such expression first manifesting from the peer-aged redhead. Of course I love the peer-aged redhead, but when push comes to shove I will always adore and protect my lovely daughter. This is the nature of motherness. And frankly, for her 17-year-old self, I thought she was fine, especially considering riding in the back seat for four hours up and four hours back, with not even her own music to listen to and all. Still, I tried to be neutral and not participate in their little girly sniping. Ironic that they chose to be so judgmental of one another on the Dalai Lama trip. Compassion, anyone?
Work is crazy. I wish for a job offer else where. Preferably for more money.
All in all I really have to say that even though I thought I was rather stoic through the whole thing and soldiered on darn well, in truth it was pretty traumatic, all told. The sight of all that bleeding and the not-healing wounds and, yuck, it was just all really yucky and horribly, horribly painful. Plus, I received scant sympathy, save from Metal Ox, who was the most patient and let me tell him those icky details nearly every day -- go figure. And Miss R brought me aloe plants from her house in a lovely pot (Thank you, Miss R!) and tried to get me the book club book for while I was confined. And Scorpie I came over a couple of times and was really sweet and helpful. Once he even did the dishes without me even asking! Wow. And SII was kind and visited, as well, and fetched some organic bottled aloe from C'dale. And the Princess was gracious about missing Elizabeth: The Golden Age, which we were slated to see the very day I did the deed. But the main point is that I don't think I whined or felt sorry for myself hardly at all, and you know what a baby I am when I'm sick. But I got the first throughthemail Get Well Card I've gotten since, I don't know? since I had my tonsils out in 5th grade? Thank you, STLST!
I think I've finally come to a place where i don't really expect someone to leap through the door with a hot toddy and lovely soup every time I don't feel good. Which is progress. I'm sure if I were really practically dying or something someone would show up. But the point is that these days instead of thinking Why isn't so-and-so coming over to help me? I think Now how in the hell am I going to get X and Y done when I can't even put on a shirt? And that is progress. And I'm happy for it. Anyhow, extended visitations were impractical in this instance, given the bosom exposure mandate and all. Of course this is all tied in with being single. Wishing for the gentle, nurturing, manly mate. And acceptance of the beauty of life as it is.
The Dalai Lama was wonderful, of course. But the two redheads do not get along, and they both made their grievances quite clear, such expression first manifesting from the peer-aged redhead. Of course I love the peer-aged redhead, but when push comes to shove I will always adore and protect my lovely daughter. This is the nature of motherness. And frankly, for her 17-year-old self, I thought she was fine, especially considering riding in the back seat for four hours up and four hours back, with not even her own music to listen to and all. Still, I tried to be neutral and not participate in their little girly sniping. Ironic that they chose to be so judgmental of one another on the Dalai Lama trip. Compassion, anyone?
Work is crazy. I wish for a job offer else where. Preferably for more money.
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