It's Maddening... and I Eat

Cranky has taken over the kitchen.
He's always been very useful, resourceful, creative in there. Now he's God. (Don't tell Eric Clapton.)
I've been "off" food, and if it weren't for Cranky, I'd be living on gummy bears.
So what if the last three meals were eggy? Eggs are good, and take it from me, not always easy to cook well.
Somebody in the house cooks eggs well, and I think it isn't yours truly, madly. I do OK, but have you ever heard of the Two-Sentence Poached Egg?
First of all, the photo is today's lunch of a frittata filled with chopped spinach, shallots and smoked ham. Artfully arranged atop a spill of tomato sauce. I didn't take pictures of yesterday's fried rice with egg and veggies, or yesterday's poached egg atop polenta. Because the damn cook did such a good job, I was punishing him by no piccies. (OK, I am not that merciless a wife. No piccies because too lazy.)
Here's the story of the Two-Sentence Poached Egg.
Cranky thinks he can barely remember if he's ever poached eggs in his previous life as a pretty decent cook. So he asked me how to do it, while I cuddled the puppy in bed.
I could go into detail of what I told him, but you all have your own methods, so who cares? I told him how I do it, really, really briefly.
In a couple of minutes, he came back and asked how long they should stay in the simmering water. I told him my opinion, which made him run back to the kitchen and save the (dammit!) yolks-still-runny, whites-perfectly-jelled eggs. In time. Pulled them out, blotted them and blopped them on the steaming, creamy polenta.
It's not supposed to happen this way.
But if you don't think I'm glad, you're mad!
I'm so glad.

Dog Food

This is a food post, not a puppy post. I'm being a little private about my new doggie.
I'm still getting to know her.
The hard thing is knowing how to eat as I adapt to this new animal, a baby.
Yesterday we devoured our home-canned chili. So easy. So tasty! Didn't nearly need to cater to the whims of the infant while we ate our easy food. Didn't need to cook.
Today she's rambunctious. Growing up. A real horror, frankly, but that's what having a puppy means. Time-out box. Pee wipings. (But: Really house trained, already.)
Food post? Pimientos de Padron. Tossed with hot oil. And, by association, small tomatoes tossed with hot oil. Some slices of ham from Marin Sun Farms. And a lagniappe of dipping sauce: Spanish sherry vinegar.
The dog went nuts.

Dog in the Hizzle!

At one point this morning, my mouth was so dry from anxiety, I had to buy a bottle of water at Target. I don't buy bottled water, so this was some emergency.
We had been knocked back and forth by the Humane Society on whether this litter would be put up for adoption. Starting on Friday (and I know, that's not a very long time), we were strung out for days. As late as noon today, we still didn't know what our chances were.
Then, all of a sudden! Come! Visit the babies. Which one do you like? They're not publicly available yet. (It pays to make friends with the higher ups. And to promise them your house when you die. Which we did.)
We picked one in a hurry, and she was the one I'd been wanting, just from her description, ever since last week.
I will tell you more how fabulous she is, later. As of Day One, she is so beyond fabulous, I feel immodest even saying so. She's eight weeks, weighs three pounds, and will get bigger, but not much. She's half Jack Russell. My first girl dog, ever.
We've named her Bartlett.

Asian 2.0

It was simply a matter of needing to eat the eggplant and summer squash that had grown in our summer garden. We wanted to eat it. We just didn't know how to get around to it. We were a little tired of homegrown summer vegetables.
But it was food! Don't waste food.
I came up with this idea of a Chinese-style wokked eggplant. It was Cranky's idea to add the pattypans.
But. How? You cannot make up Chinese cooking if you don't know what you're doing.
I consulted several reliable books, most of which veered far from what I wanted: slightly sweet, savory, gooey.
Wow. All of a sudden, Barbara Tropp to the rescue. This imaginitive, intuitive cook who totally understood Chinese food (but was an American through and through — and spoke Chinese), could create genuine recipes, although they often had a modern, California twist.
Reading her eggplant recipe both freed me to experiment, and taught me to adhere to tradition.
Ohmagah.
We came up with a melange of vegetables (shiitakes in there, too), tossed with a mix of aromatics (garlic, ginger and chopped rehydrated dried shrimp) and a sauce (soy, water, balsamic vinegar, some sweetener... agave? eep... and a sloodge of the solids from the bottom of the jar of chile oil).
This is all wokked in order. I know I broke the rules, but the sauce came last. The vegetables were fresh, crisp, gardenny. The chopped shrimp added a delicious, meaty chewiness. The other flavors — well, you know. Yums. Sprinkle with chopped scallions. Serve with rice.
I am emboldened now to try "Chinese" without a cookbook. Could be a total disaster.
But if you knew how many times Cranky has nuzzled me today because of this meal... Eee!

Wow, The Wild Things, Wow

I don't think I've ever seen a movie on its first day of release.
Actually, it was Cranky who wanted to go. We had been to our local independent bookstore recently, to reread Where The Wild Things Are, a 1963 children's book by author and illustrator Maurice Sendak. We knew the movie was coming, and we wanted a little homework under our belts. Neither of us had especially been fans of the book, but we knew it was "nice."
Upon rereading it, we were captivated: Poetry, psychology, humor, wryness, happy ending.
So, the movie. How do you make a 94-minute movie out of 10 sentences?
Well, you write a little plot expansion into it. But you DO NOT mess with the real plot, which is about Max, the rambunctious kid, who comes to terms with his own behavior (rage, sadness, megalomania) after a little time out.
Gad, this account of mine sounds lame.
Here: I was weeping at the movie. The "rumpus" and everything that follows on the fantasy island is RICH with genuine childhood drama. The characters take on characters, much like the figures in your dreams never seem to be who they are, but they are. There's the "rage" Max, the "wimpy" Max, the "father" Max, all played by different monsters. And the mother... weep.
You've heard the term "acting out." Ho, boy. You'll see a bit.
I have yet to read a review that GETS this movie like I did.
I hope you see it. I hope you get it.

It Needed Washing Anyway

The storm blustered in last night and blew this doormat up and away.
Everything else that might get wet had been moved into the garage, but we thought the rug was safe under the awning.
We got inches and inches of rain. I don't have a measurement yet*, but it was 100% humidity in full force for about 12 hours. Pounding.
Still trickling now, and probably more tomorrow.
Which is fine, because I plan to flip the mat over and get the other side clean.

*UPDATE: More than five inches where I live.

I Know What I'm Having for Supper on Halloween

And this isn't it.
We were sucked into the idea of creating Halloween-colored food from some magazine we got stuck with in the veterinarian's waiting room while our dog struggled toward his end. (Talk about scary! No, I can't talk about it. I will only tell you he went through convulsion-contortions worthy of a Nathaniel Hawthorne character. If the character were a really strong witch. Yes, I'm feeling a little better. They have witches on Halloween, and I can actually joke about it.)
The magazine showed a plate of black squid-ink pasta topped with cubes of orange winter squash. I'm off most conventional pasta these days, so I thought black beans would be a great alternative.
Yes, they were. Also, this whole meal is perched over our new homemade version of "black rice," too good to even describe.
Well, we liked it a lot. It got us to thinking. We also tinkered with some polenta dish topped with... blah, blah, blah. We loved all our experiments.
But we decided to surprise ourselves on Halloween. I am going to attempt my first gluten-free pizza, made with a store-bought mix from Bob's Red Mill. I've been missing pizza, and it makes me sad to be sad, so I'm getting over it.
If you think I'm decorating the pizza with pepperoni slices in the shape of a jack-o'-lantern face, you'd be...
right.
By the way, I also know what I'm having for supper on Thanksgiving. Boo!

And Then She Grew Up. No, She Didn't.

This dish comes from my childhood. We ate it about once a month when I was little: pork chops atop rice, all cooked together in a skillet with decorations of onion, lemon and chilli sauce.
When I scooted off to college, my mom compiled a batch of beloved family recipes to take with me so I wouldn't starve on a dining hall diet, and I'm sure this one was among them. But you wouldn't really need a recipe at all if you'd eaten it so many times as a girl.
I doubt this is even interesting to you, but if you want to be seduced, read this: The rice (which is added to the skillet raw, along with the requisite water) sucks up all the browny pork fat, lemon drippings and tomato goo. It is EVIL, and I mean that in a good way. Sticky, evil rice. Just shoot me now.
So, if you want sticky evil rice, brown your chops in a skillet with oil until they're — brown. Pull them out, and dump in rice (a cup is too much for two people) and the appropriate amount of water. Put a lid on the skillet and let the rice cook about halfway. Then lay the chops on top, cover with one slice each of lemon and onion, and drizzle with chilli sauce. I don't know what chilli sauce is. I used homemade tomato sauce infused with bay leaf, garlic (powder! c'mon, it's retro), salt and chile flakes. Lid back on; cook until meat and rice are done.
Your pork will probably be overcooked; mine always is. But it's juicy and fragrant and... Well, if you were me, it would remind you of being a kid.
Come on over. I'll cook you supper.

Big Mistake

I have never been a huge fan of Gourmet magazine, though I've appreciated its verve under the editorship of Ruth Reichl.
But this I know. Gourmet is classic. Historical. Essential. It is the original food magazine of America.
And its publisher announced today that it will be closing Gourmet. (The publisher, Condé Nast, also owns Bon Appétit, which sucks rocks and is not being shut down. Explain, please?)
I'm not easily shocked, but I gasped aloud when I heard this news. Sure, the economic environment is hostile, but... Wow. I was shocked.
I'm thinking the publishers might be "hearing" from readers, know what I'm saying? Even I might drop a line.

*Sniff, sniff* Not Hungry

But I still love the smells.
Today I squirted a little bit of pear and cucumber on my bosom after my shower.
The immediate scent in my chestal region was a blurred, sweet aroma; neither fish nor fowl.
After a few hours, though, the brilliant individual notes reasserted themselves, and I found my poitrine to smell of both cuke and pear, mellowed and matured. Fruit and veg. A veritable compote on my private hoo-hoos.
I have an exquisite orange cologne I can add to this if I'm feeling like ambrosia salad, but this is fine for now.