You know those crisp, early fall evenings when you just want it to be Thanksgiving already? It's as though, practically overnight, a little button switches inside my brain, sending my body into a pumpkin frenzy. I start burning pumpkin candles, eating Kaddo Bourani and making Pumpkin Custard--my "healthy" version of pumpkin pie, which is actually pretty healthy already. Just follow the Libby's recipe, substitute brown sugar for white sugar, and forgo the pie crust. Instead, bake it in a glass baking pan and scoop out the sweet filling. A pan of Pumpkin Custard in the oven fills the house with a divine, homey smell. A friend came over for dinner once, just as I had taken one out of the oven, and the first thing she said was "it smells like a home in here." In the midst of one of my periods of pumpkin overload, a roommate suggested Rachael Ray's pumpkin pasta. "I made a ton of it last year," she said. "I can't remember what it was for, but I made a ton and it was really good."
This particular young lady rarely cooked anything fancier for dinner than a bowl of pasta with butter and parmesan cheese, while, several days a week, I cooked delicious, gourmet meals for myself that were large enough to last through 4-5 meals. Seeing her simple meals always made me feel like I overindulged, and I was slightly miffed by the way she worded her suggestion. "Wait," I thought, "what do you mean 'what it was for?' Why not for yourself?" I hadn't seen the recipe, but it sounded like it would be cheap to make. Pasta, a can of pumpkin...maybe some olive oil or butter? None of those ingredients struck me as any sort of delicacy. They did strike me, however, as inexpensive, everyday ingredients put together in a way that would add variety to one's sack lunch or dinner-for-one-in-front-of-the-TV, especially if that person wasn't so inclined to put a whole lot of effort into their meals.
In fact, when I looked up the recipe, I learned that it's full name is "Penne-Wise Pumpkin Pasta," and that it was created to be a tasty, healthy meal for those on a budget. Granted, there's a little bit more to it than dumping a can of Libby's and some pasta together, but I still resented the idea that, for some people, tasty meals were reserved only for dinner parties, impressing men, or eating out. What is so wrong with cooking yourself a nice meal and having it to look forward to when you come home from work, or to bring in a sack lunch to heat up and enjoy during a break from your soul-sucking job? Doesn't it make everything so much more pleasant?
When I started reading Giulia Melucci's I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti a few days ago, which is a memoir of Melucci's life long search for romantic love, failed relationships, overarching love of the culinary arts and how those two areas of her life have always intertwined. At first, I thought Melucci to be a kindred spirit, but I was shocked when I read her admittance that, during a dating dry-spell, her cooking "slowed down outside of relationship and domesticity," and that cooking for others (i.e., a man) is part of its appeal. I've always thought it of utmost importance to do stuff, to have interests and hobbies--to build my life around things that I actually like doing. Things that I do for myself, rather than to impress others. Cooking for myself is chief among those things that I like doing, and I like that it also seems to say "hey, look at how good I am at taking care of myself."
My point is, if you like doing something, why not just do it? Why wait around for someone to do it with? As someone who has never been in a relationship, it probably comes naturally to do nice things for myself--I mean, what's the alternative? Being bored all the time and waiting for someone to walk into my life so that I can finally start living it? Ugh, no thanks. It saddened me when Melucci reluctantly admits that she doesn't begin cooking for herself until later in life, and that doing so is part of her acceptance that "being alone" is probably her destiny. She fills the chapter in which she discusses this with self-deprecating quips like, "if a single girl cooks a fabulous meal, and no one tastes it but me, does it really even exist?" and mentions how saddened she is by those delicious, impromptu meals made to keep leftover ingredients from going bad. You know, the kind that no one but she will ever taste because they can't ever really be re-created. But, what on God's green earth is wrong with that? Not that I care all that much what men think these days (No, I haven't turned into a lesbian, I just literally don't care anymore--take me, or leave me.) but aren't people who respect themselves enough to eat well, have hobbies and do things just ridiculously attractive? After all, I can't recall anyone ever saying "I married her because she was the most boring woman I've ever met!"
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Importance of Salad Dressing
I've been known to, on occasion, go through periods of eating nothing but salads. For about a year in college, I ate from the cafeteria's salad bar at least once a day, if not twice. Weekends were the worst part, because I could always count on some vital ingredient being left out all together or looking too suspect to eat. However, an offense far worse than wilted looking spring leaves was when they didn't have the right salad dressing. Being the food snob that I am, there are some things that I simply refuse to eat, and ranch dressing (except with the occasional carrot stick) is chief among them, followed by anything from McDonald's and any Budweiser, Coors or Miller brand beers. The only "acceptable" dressing my school's little cafeteria had to offer was a raspberry vinaigrette, which was quite tasty, although I'm certain it was high fructose corn syrup in disguise. Back then, though, it was good enough for me. Apparently, the other students thought so as well, as it was often missing from the spread, and after it had disappeared, no amount of begging the cafeteria employees could bring it back--one woman even deigned to tell me that they never had such a thing! Anytime they didn't have it, the Rolling Stones "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" played in my head as I allowed my day to be ruined by my failure to obtain the key ingredient to the salad I had spent the entire morning daydreaming about. I would curse every dime of tuition I paid to the institution and settle for an inferior sandwich, or, on some particularly maddening days, a burger, and eat it, stewing alone in the corner seat of the dining hall.
It was then that I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Back then, I enjoyed going to the grocery store just about as much as one does having a root canal, and went to great lengths to avoid it. I ate a lot of leftovers, scrambled eggs and occasionally made meals out of Pop Tarts, but when those ran out, I was faced with the dilemma of eating the dregs of my pantry, which, for years, included a box of rice noodles whose origins were unknown and a box of Saltine crackers purchased by a friend when I had food poisoning. One evening, on the way home from school, I decided to avoid the grocery store once again, and prayed that maybe I would get too involved in that night's episode of Lost to get hungry. Since there was a fat chance of this happening, and I knew that I had already finished all the eggs, Pop Tarts, packets of oatmeal and pancake mix (breakfast foods for dinner were also a college staple) days ago, I realized, as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, that I would probably have to have to eat the rice noodles, if I wanted to avoid the grocery store one more time. I consider what happened next to be my finest act of culinary heroism, because I marched into the small kitchen of my apartment and, as if by magic, pulled out a box of cous cous and a yellow onion. I never figured out how the onion had materialized in my pantry, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? A simple meal of grilled onion and cous cous kept me away from the grocery store for two more days, and serves as a lifelong reminder that, yes, one often can make something out of nothing.
Suffice to say, in those days, it usually took an act of God to get me into a grocery store, so I took myself and everyone around me by surprise when, in the middle of the day on one of those wretched, no-dressing days when the world and all it's inhabitants were against me, I drove straight from the salad bar to the grocery store and bought a five year supply of Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut dressing and a package of 8 Mini-Round Gladware containers. From then on, I slept the peaceful sleep of a human being who knew that her day would never be ruined by an incompetent lack of salad dressing again.
Every morning, I would fill up one of the Gladware containers with my dressing of choice, seal the lid tightly and enclose it inside a Ziploc bag to avoid any mishaps, and drop it into my backpack or purse. My college experience happened to be blessed with professors who cared very little about formalities, preferred to be called by their first names and could not give less of a shit whether we ate lunch or got up to go to the bathroom during class. The semester that I started bringing my own salad dressing to school, I usually ate my lunch during the first few minutes of my grant writing class, impressing both my professor and peers with my salad dressing ingenuity. Secretly, I hoped that I would become known around campus as the Girl Who Brings Who Her Own Salad Dressing to School and that, maybe, a Facebook fan club devoted to me would pop up one day. As far as I know, this never happened--more evidence of the fact that the world is so much less interested in you than you might think (a fact of life that can be comforting, especially during embarrassing moments, like when you show up to a conference in dirty jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes and realize that you failed to get the memo about business casual attire). But, it did allow me to live in relative culinary peace, brought the price of my salad by weight down to a very reasonable amount and, most important, taught me that, very rarely, does the world provide what you want. You've got to go out there and find it yourself.
Meredith's College Salad
2 large handfuls leafy greens
Chopped red onion, to taste
4 yolks of hard boiled eggs, crushed
Chick peas, to taste
Shaved cheddar cheese, to taste
Raisins, to taste
Croutons or toasted walnuts, to taste
2 tablespoons Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut Dressing
Fill the bottom of a large, styrofoam to-go container with the lettuce, and sprinkle the following ingredients on top, making sure to end with the salad dressing. Pour the dressing lightly over all areas of the salad, making sure to reach all corners. Close the lid and shake.
It was then that I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Back then, I enjoyed going to the grocery store just about as much as one does having a root canal, and went to great lengths to avoid it. I ate a lot of leftovers, scrambled eggs and occasionally made meals out of Pop Tarts, but when those ran out, I was faced with the dilemma of eating the dregs of my pantry, which, for years, included a box of rice noodles whose origins were unknown and a box of Saltine crackers purchased by a friend when I had food poisoning. One evening, on the way home from school, I decided to avoid the grocery store once again, and prayed that maybe I would get too involved in that night's episode of Lost to get hungry. Since there was a fat chance of this happening, and I knew that I had already finished all the eggs, Pop Tarts, packets of oatmeal and pancake mix (breakfast foods for dinner were also a college staple) days ago, I realized, as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, that I would probably have to have to eat the rice noodles, if I wanted to avoid the grocery store one more time. I consider what happened next to be my finest act of culinary heroism, because I marched into the small kitchen of my apartment and, as if by magic, pulled out a box of cous cous and a yellow onion. I never figured out how the onion had materialized in my pantry, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? A simple meal of grilled onion and cous cous kept me away from the grocery store for two more days, and serves as a lifelong reminder that, yes, one often can make something out of nothing.
Suffice to say, in those days, it usually took an act of God to get me into a grocery store, so I took myself and everyone around me by surprise when, in the middle of the day on one of those wretched, no-dressing days when the world and all it's inhabitants were against me, I drove straight from the salad bar to the grocery store and bought a five year supply of Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut dressing and a package of 8 Mini-Round Gladware containers. From then on, I slept the peaceful sleep of a human being who knew that her day would never be ruined by an incompetent lack of salad dressing again.
Every morning, I would fill up one of the Gladware containers with my dressing of choice, seal the lid tightly and enclose it inside a Ziploc bag to avoid any mishaps, and drop it into my backpack or purse. My college experience happened to be blessed with professors who cared very little about formalities, preferred to be called by their first names and could not give less of a shit whether we ate lunch or got up to go to the bathroom during class. The semester that I started bringing my own salad dressing to school, I usually ate my lunch during the first few minutes of my grant writing class, impressing both my professor and peers with my salad dressing ingenuity. Secretly, I hoped that I would become known around campus as the Girl Who Brings Who Her Own Salad Dressing to School and that, maybe, a Facebook fan club devoted to me would pop up one day. As far as I know, this never happened--more evidence of the fact that the world is so much less interested in you than you might think (a fact of life that can be comforting, especially during embarrassing moments, like when you show up to a conference in dirty jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes and realize that you failed to get the memo about business casual attire). But, it did allow me to live in relative culinary peace, brought the price of my salad by weight down to a very reasonable amount and, most important, taught me that, very rarely, does the world provide what you want. You've got to go out there and find it yourself.
Meredith's College Salad
2 large handfuls leafy greens
Chopped red onion, to taste
4 yolks of hard boiled eggs, crushed
Chick peas, to taste
Shaved cheddar cheese, to taste
Raisins, to taste
Croutons or toasted walnuts, to taste
2 tablespoons Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut Dressing
Fill the bottom of a large, styrofoam to-go container with the lettuce, and sprinkle the following ingredients on top, making sure to end with the salad dressing. Pour the dressing lightly over all areas of the salad, making sure to reach all corners. Close the lid and shake.
Friday, May 22, 2009
My Dirty Little Secret
I did something this afternoon that I once vowed I'd never do. Looking back, I realize that I probably set myself up weeks ago, when I began a ruthless assault against the stacks and stacks of "stuff" piled high in my room, including the books, which, for many years, I've refused to weed out. After all, one can never have too many books, right? Well, when it gets to the point where you start to seriously consider constructing furniture out of them, then the answer is probably yes. Anyway, I should have known yesterday that I was just a few steps away from counting them entirely when I was struck with the brilliant organizational idea to divide them into two piles, one of those that I've read, and one of those that I have yet to read.
I come from a long line of book lovers. No, scratch that--I come from a long line of people who have a sickness and can exert absolutely no control when it comes to buying books. In my family, Knowing exactly how many books you have is like counting the calories in a piece of cheesecake--you're better off just not knowing. But, this afternoon, standing above those books in their neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, I couldn't stop myself from counting. It was as though the devil drove me to do it--tentatively, at first, and then obsessively going over them three times to make sure that my numbers were exact.
Ok, are you ready to hear the grand total? I'll tell you as long as you promise not to tell anyone else. Without counting a fair number that I have on loan to a friend right now, I own 295 books. Yes. Nearly twice my body weight. Actually...even that estimate is a little bit padded, because that is actually just the number of read-able books I own, and does not include textbooks, cookbooks, photography books, reference books and travel guides...or the two sitting next to me on the desk that I'm getting ready to send to a friend. (I promise I wasn't trying to further pad the number, I just forgot about those two.)
Out of those 295 books, I've read, from cover to cover, 84 of them. Out of the 211 remaining, unread books, I have partially read 36 of them. The even dirtier secret is that, just last week, maybe because I subconsciously knew that I would soon feel compelled to find out the number of books I own and publish it on the Internet, I filled two extra-large LL Bean boat and tote bags full of books and sold them to Half Price Books. Without re-filling the bags or searching for the sale receipt, both of which I am much too lazy to do, it is impossible to say how many were sold, but I think that, for the sake of everyone involved, that is a number better left unknown.
I doubt that I'd feel as guilty about admitting the total if it weren't for the fact that the number of books that I've read isn't even half of the number of those that I haven't. I'm not sure if the fact that I read non-fiction, which typically takes longer to get through than fiction accounts for anything, because it seems to me that this would cause a sane person to simply buy fewer books. However, the fact is that honestly, I don't feel that guilty about it. I love books. God, I love them so much. Each book is an opportunity to learn about life by sharing someone else's experiences. I tend to feel lost when I don't have anything to look forward to--when I'm not planning a fantastic trip or a fabulous dinner, and I often feel overwhelmed by my desire to experience, well, everything, and knowing that there's not nearly enough time for it all. It is a great comfort to me to know that I have more than my body weight in unread books, each of them bound to fill my soul with new adventures. And, even now, in the bleakest moments following the realization of my addiction, I still swear that there is nothing, absolutely nothing in this world better than a brand new stack of unread books.
I come from a long line of book lovers. No, scratch that--I come from a long line of people who have a sickness and can exert absolutely no control when it comes to buying books. In my family, Knowing exactly how many books you have is like counting the calories in a piece of cheesecake--you're better off just not knowing. But, this afternoon, standing above those books in their neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, I couldn't stop myself from counting. It was as though the devil drove me to do it--tentatively, at first, and then obsessively going over them three times to make sure that my numbers were exact.
Ok, are you ready to hear the grand total? I'll tell you as long as you promise not to tell anyone else. Without counting a fair number that I have on loan to a friend right now, I own 295 books. Yes. Nearly twice my body weight. Actually...even that estimate is a little bit padded, because that is actually just the number of read-able books I own, and does not include textbooks, cookbooks, photography books, reference books and travel guides...or the two sitting next to me on the desk that I'm getting ready to send to a friend. (I promise I wasn't trying to further pad the number, I just forgot about those two.)
Out of those 295 books, I've read, from cover to cover, 84 of them. Out of the 211 remaining, unread books, I have partially read 36 of them. The even dirtier secret is that, just last week, maybe because I subconsciously knew that I would soon feel compelled to find out the number of books I own and publish it on the Internet, I filled two extra-large LL Bean boat and tote bags full of books and sold them to Half Price Books. Without re-filling the bags or searching for the sale receipt, both of which I am much too lazy to do, it is impossible to say how many were sold, but I think that, for the sake of everyone involved, that is a number better left unknown.
I doubt that I'd feel as guilty about admitting the total if it weren't for the fact that the number of books that I've read isn't even half of the number of those that I haven't. I'm not sure if the fact that I read non-fiction, which typically takes longer to get through than fiction accounts for anything, because it seems to me that this would cause a sane person to simply buy fewer books. However, the fact is that honestly, I don't feel that guilty about it. I love books. God, I love them so much. Each book is an opportunity to learn about life by sharing someone else's experiences. I tend to feel lost when I don't have anything to look forward to--when I'm not planning a fantastic trip or a fabulous dinner, and I often feel overwhelmed by my desire to experience, well, everything, and knowing that there's not nearly enough time for it all. It is a great comfort to me to know that I have more than my body weight in unread books, each of them bound to fill my soul with new adventures. And, even now, in the bleakest moments following the realization of my addiction, I still swear that there is nothing, absolutely nothing in this world better than a brand new stack of unread books.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
