Fatsgiving

We are hosting Thanksgiving dinner this week. 

We have been hosting Thanksgiving for the last 12 years; when Kes was born, we used it as an excuse to stop running all over hell's half-acre on holidays.  We typically get anywhere from six to eighteen guests.  We've done this meal so many times, I think we could prepare it with eyes closed.  Actually S does most of the shopping and preparation while I am at work.  So I never really gave much thought to the ingredients.  We typically buy a fresh turkey, so the actual bird won't be in the fridge until tomorrow night. 

This morning, however, as I went to get milk for my coffee, I actually stopped to look at what was in my refrigerator.  I made an important discovery.

It would appear that at my house, Thanksgiving is a celebration of milk fat.

Top shelf:

Yeah.  That's four pounds of butter. For starters.  Everything takes butter:  The turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the bread, the yams, maybe a bit more in the mashed potatoes...you get the picture.  If they eat it, my husband puts butter in it.

 


Next, we move down one notch on the Fat Continuum:

Apparently, we need not only heavy cream but also whole milk.  I haven't had a glass of whole milk in perhaps 35 years, let alone have I ever found a use for 2 full quarts of heavy cream.  But Daisy Mae wants to make Pineapple Delight, and S wants to make homemade eggnog, and we need a bit for the Macque Chou -- because nothing says traditional Thanksgiving dinner like a nice Cajun Tasso ham and corn creation. 

You may have noticed the Sour Cream in the last picture.  Two pints of it.  I have no idea what it's for.   S said bean dip.  Last I checked, we didn't have bean dip on the menu.  But you never know.

Not sure about beans, but we certainly have a lot of bacon!  Again, no foreseeable use for bacon in the menu, but I suppose it's always best to plan ahead just in case there is a global bacon crisis.

Eggs.  Ostensibly to go with the bacon, except that these are pasteurized.  I'm going to go with these being for the eggnog. 





About now I'm actually concerned that there are no actual vegetables or bread products in the house.  I consult the veggie drawer:

We reveal a rather forlorn package of celery, one apple, some green onions and a healthy wad of parsley.  At least we will have fresh breath.




But as I look up, apparently, we had a concern that two quarts of heavy cream would be insufficient.  Because I see this:

No pumpkin pie will go undressed in our house!!







I did a quick calculation on fat grams.  In total, we're looking at 2,497 grams of milk fat.  Or a little over 5 pounds of fat.  Divided by 24 expected guests, that is...well, it's a lot.  Plus the eggnog. And the gravy, the skin on the turkey, and Joyce's pumpkin pie. 

I'll plan for us all to do some jumping jacks after diner, I guess! 

I hope each of you has a peaceful, joyous and most blessed Thanksgiving. 

Pass the whipped cream, will you?

Intolerating

My Facebook status the other night:

So if I feel the need to counter your intolerance, does that somehow make me intolerant? Can I be tolerant and still tolerate intolerance? I'm so confused.

This post came as a results of an FB acquaintance, who had posted an article that purported that having drag queens and the transgendered in society was a form of discrimination against women.  And then she cited a homosexual co-worker's over-the-top advocacy of gender reassignment (he claimed that he had no need for women in his life) as justification for demonizing cross-dressers and the transgendered.  

This sat poorly with me for two reasons:  1)  I have several really lovely transgender friends who feel no more disdain for women than anyone else, and I hate to see TG's run down.  They struggle enough as it is, and 2)  I hated seeing the actions of one person being used to justify an already extant bigotry against TG's in particular and homosexuals in general.  She's not a bad person.  I actually enjoy her company in most instances.  But she does have a fairly black-and-white view of the world, as dictated by her religion.

So I spoke up.  I asked her not to paint with such a broad brush, pointed out the fact that discrimination against women is overwhelmingly perpetrated by straight men (and many women!), and remarked that I have TG friends.  And because she is also a creationist, I also reminded her that if she believes God created us, then He created ALL of us, not just the ones that make sense to her.  Not sure if it made much difference.

All that said, the interaction got me thinking:  if I am as tolerant as I claim to be, should I be prepared to accept all points of view?  To take everyone as they are?  Or do I have a responsibility to not tolerate intolerance?

If you Google "Bigotry and Tolerance", the top 2 pages are, in order, from the Southern Poverty Law Center and a web site called "Redstate".  The first is unequivocal:  When you encounter intolerance, it says, you must be prepared to fight it -- in a civil manner, but fight it nonetheless.  Or separate yourself from it.

The second states, "Evil Preaches Tolerance", and says that espousing tolerance is how evil gets us to undermine virtue.  Then, once evil takes over, it will silence good.

1 for, 1 against, with a wiggle clause if you're not successful.  Not much help.

The Dalai Lama says that we should look upon those filled with hate, and should feel compassion for them, taking on their internal suffering so as to reach enlightenment. That sounds like a drag, frankly.

There are a lot of other places to look, most of which are internally inconsistent.  Stamp out evil and non-virtue, but one person's virtue is another's non-virtue.  Better yet, just do what we tell you to do.  But think for yourself and follow your conscience and your heart.  Unless your heart leads you to tolerate non-virtue.  Then work to change yourself.

Aarrgh!

And then I realized: my moral compass is actually very strong; I know what I believe.  I believe that we each have the right to live our lives as we see fit, so long as we do three things:  

1)  Don't discriminate based on things that people cannot change (like gender, race, sexual orientation or physical and mental disability)
2)  Don't deny others the basic rights we enjoy (like marriage and health care)
3)  Don't be deliberately mean or greedy

When I see any of these three things happening and don't speak out, I find it's because I am afraid of being judged a "busybody" or a "know-it-all", or "holier-than-thou".  That's pretty wimpy, I guess.  If some people don't want to be my friends because I insist that they treat everyone with lovingkindness (which in my mind includes making sure they have a safe place to shelter, sufficient food and basic health care), well, maybe I don't need those people in my life.  So be it.

Glad we got that straightened out.

Writing, life, and my fundamental lack of maturity and discipline.

Testing...testing...does this thing still work?

Wow.  What's it been, six months?  Well, sometimes we need to take these little breaks. I had a friend ask me not too long ago about why I hadn't blogged in so long.  I posited at length about the effects of work-life balance, the hit-and-run, instant gratification of Facebook, the demands of my job, (which are substantial), my ongoing, low-level grief (which totally, totally, sucks)...

It came down to this, however:  I am undisciplined. 

Writers write every day.  Even when they don't feel like writing.  Me?  I write when the muse moves within me and the result is that I puke out a first draft and publish it.  I wonder why, really -- my job is to write stuff, and I almost never publish a first draft of anything I write at work.  I am exceptionally careful, diligent and thoughtful, engaging in multiple edits and re-writes until the words are pithy and shine with reason and wit.  So why don't I put that same dogged determination in my hobby writing?

(Has my boss stopped reading this yet?  OK, that's not really true -- I puke out a lot of first drafts at work, too.  Don't tell anyone)

Real writers?  They punish themselves through 500 words a day and they do it day in and day out and...well, that just sounds like WORK to me...

Anyway, so here we are.  It's autumn, the elections are over (because you seriously didn't want to hear my political rants this season -- for real), and we're sliding into the holidays.  And I thought it was probably time to start writing again.  Because maybe the effort is worth it.  I'm not feeling creative enough and being creative is important. 

So stay tuned. With any luck, I'll actually find something useful to say, instead of running all over this page like a puppy that slipped her leash. Only time will tell.


(I, I, I, me, me, me  -- good gracious!)

On Becoming Mrs. Haviland

Last night, for the second time in the last few weeks, Daisy Mae had a group of about 15 friends over for an impromptu party.  It hadn't started out that way.  It had started out with her wanting to invite over a new guy she was interested in, so they could "hang out" and "watch a movie".  I let her know that several hours together in a darkened room probably wasn't on the list of approved activities for the evening and suggested that he might be more comfortable for their first time 'hanging out' together outside of school if there were some other friends there.

She invited six friends.

Fifteen showed up.

Daisy Mae has nice friends, and their friends are nice too, so I wasn't too freaked out by the extras.  We'd thrown together a bean dip, some veggies, and a pile of hot wings, so there was plenty of food.  Several of them brought snacks.  One of them brought a bottle of tonic.  I let him know he would not be drinking my gin with it. These kids behave themselves in the house, don't sneak beer in, and sometimes let me sing lead vocals on Rock Band.  I like them.

Around 9:00, as most of the kids were playing Rock Band in the family room, three of the kids joined me in the living room watching Sherlock Holmes for the fourteenth time.  One of them had just lost his dog and was feeling subdued; another is adjusting to life in her new foster home.  A third had "come out" over the summer, and is still adjusting to his shift from resident heartthrob of every girl in school with a pulse to the guy nobody is quite sure how to deal with.  All were snuggled under blankets on the couches, sharing stories and jokes.  And it occurred to me:

I have become Mrs. Haviland.

My friend Jimmy Haviland was a year ahead of me in school.  He was a musician and an actor, and he had four younger sisters, one of whom hung around with my sister.  He perpetually wore an expression that suggested he had a sinus headache.  We proclaimed it his "I have four little sisters" face.  Jimmy's house was the default party headquarters.  Cast parties, choir parties, band parties, Halloween, New Years.  I had never been in the house that there weren't at least a half dozen people there who were not full-time residents.

Jimmy's mom was a caterer who always had party food on hand.  She also was perpetually worried about her son falling in with the wrong crowd, so her way of handling the situation was to always welcome Jimmy's friends over to their house.  There was a Mr. Haviland, too.  His job was normally to drive the van, which at any given time invariably contained at least two children who were not members of the Haviland household. He managed, always, to disappear when the house started getting crowded with kids.

Mrs. Haviland never let any of us in or out of her home without a hug, and she called all of us "baby" or "sweetheart" by default.  She maintained a permanent position at the kitchen island:  when she wasn't cooking, she was on a bar stool, drinking a coffee or a soda, or occasionally a glass of wine.  If you felt out of place with the crowd in the basement, you were always welcome to take up a spot at one of the kitchen stools, grab a snack and talk.  You would, of course, be pressed into cutting vegetables, frosting cupcakes, or helping one of Jimmy's sisters with a recalcitrant Barbie outfit.  It's not that there weren't rules; it was certainly not an "anything goes" kind of household.  She didn't brook fighting, bad behavior or underage drinking.  And she could lose her temper with the best of them.  But you always knew you were safe there.  She was always Mom Haviland.

Last night, one of Daisy's friends asked me if he could hang out here a bit more often.  "Things are awfully stressful at my house lately.  It's not my mom's fault; she's doing her best.  But sometimes it's pretty overwhelming there.  I feel like I can be myself here."  I didn't press him for details; there were too many other kids in and out of the room.  But I felt absolutely honored.  I just told him he was always welcome here, so long as his mom knew where he was.  Maybe next time, he will open up a bit more about what's going on.

Mom Haviland.  I could do a lot worse.  If I can do half as well at this as you did, I'll feel like a success at this parenting thing.

Chardon

I posted once before about how much it bothered me when I read some of the letters I received after the Bug left us.  They were from parents who had also lost their children and I recall that when I read their notes, the pain and grief in their writing was so palpable that it frightened me.  It frightened me that, years, or even decades after losing their children, their pain seemed so fresh that I worried I would never feel good again. 

This week, in a town not too far from here, the unthinkable happened:  A student walked into a high school cafeteria and opened fire, killing three students and leaving two others hospitalized.  I thought of those parents and the horrible, crushing, claxon-loud grief that was taking over their lives.  I watched the interview with the parents of the first child to be declared dead after the shootings and listened as they recounted, in heart-wrenching detail, last moments of their son's life.  I've heard some people criticize the television stations for recording and broadcasting that interview; their grief was so raw, the narrative so overwhelming that one might question whether they were being exploited. 

Perhaps they were.  But speaking from experience, I can tell you that there is a catharsis in telling those stories, in sharing that raw emotion.  We had TV cameras in our faces, and in the faces of our family, more than once in those first few days after the Bug died.  I thought it would feel like more of an intrusion than it actually was.  There was something strangely comforting in being able to tell the world exactly how much we were hurting.

And strangely, I find myself wanting to write to these parents.  To bid them a grim welcome to the club nobody wants to belong to.  To let them know we have far more members than any of us wants to admit.  To tell them that it's totally, totally OK to scream "Bullshit!  What the hell to you know about this??" when reading articles and books about grieving.  That it's OK to want to sleep all the time.  But mostly that they.  will.  survive. 

I won't do it right away.  If there is one thing I know, it's that you do not want the comfort of strangers in those first weeks.  You want to surround yourself with family and close friends -- people who have seen you in pajamas and who love you anyway.  People who will let you rage and cry and punch holes in your walls and won't try to stop you.  I hope these families have plenty of good support people in their lives.  They will need them.

But maybe in a few weeks, when the cameras have gone away and the friends have gone home and the house feels so cold and empty.  Maybe then I'll gather up the nerve to say, "if you need to talk to someone who's a little farther down this road, who can help you navigate the scary parts, call. You are not alone."

I just hope I don't sound scary. 

God Always Trusts Trojan

“Of course I know how to use a condom, Dad!  They taught us in health class last year!"

“Really?  And how did you practice this important skill?”

“We used a banana.”

“Great.  Show me.”

“Yeah, Dad.  Like I just carry condoms with me everywhere I go.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should!”

This is not an unusual conversation in my household.  My daughter, Daisy Mae, recently turned 17.  She looks older than her years and is, in a mother’s strictly unbiased opinion, a beautiful girl.  She has a tendency to attract boys a couple years older than she is, which means that Mr. Bean and I have our work cut out for us, if we intend to get through the next three years without becoming grandparents.

Daisy was preparing to go out with her then-boyfriend, Devon, a 19-year-old who seemed intent on living his entire summer at the beach.

“OK, well, look.  Mom and I have to run out for dog food.  We’ll be back around 6:00.  What time is Loverboy showing up?”

“I don’t even know for sure if we’re going out tonight,” Daisy scowled as she looked at her phone, “he just said he’s stuck helping his mom at the market.”

Mr. and I headed out to get dog food, followed by a stop at Chipotle for a quick bite to eat.  Chipotle was a popular spot that night, as we had about a ten-minute wait in line.

As we neared the front of the line, I looked down on the floor and was surprised to see that someone had dropped a wrapped condom.  

I nudged Mr. Bean, “Wow, Honey, look!  God had left us a condom!  Do you think it’s a sign?”

He looked to where I pointed and snickered.  “It appears that God wants us to quiz our smart-mouthed kid about her birth control.”

“And Lo, there did appear before them a,” I reached down and picked up the condom, “a Lime-green Trojan Twisted Pleasure, with a reservoir tip, and extra lubrication.  And the people took up the condom and declared it good.”  I slipped in and out of a bad Charleton Heston voice, giggling like a 12-year-old.

The woman in front of me looked over her right shoulder.  “OK, I just want to go on record saying that did NOT fall out of my purse, OK?”

“Duly noted.”  Mr Bean and I were laughing hysterically at this point.

When we arrived home, Mr. immediately summoned our daughter.  

“Oh, Daisy Mae!  Come here, sweetheart!  God has brought unto us an opportunity to prove your condom-sheathing skills.  Quick; grab a banana and come here!”

Daisy set down the Wii controller and leveled her very best “Really?” gaze at us.  “Seriously?  You two went out and bought condoms, just so I could prove to you that I know how to put one on?  You’re kidding, right?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “God sent us this condom.  He delivered it to us at the Chipotle by the mall, so that we could bring it to you!  It’s God’s condom.  It's a magic condom for all we know.  You can’t dis it.”  

“Oh for gawd’s sake.  What the hell is this?  A Twisted Pleasure condom?  Jeez!  It’s fluorescent green.  OK, that’s so wrong.  Gimme that banana...”

She tore open the wrapper, grabbed the condom by the reservoir tip….and shook it vigorously until it flapped about like a limp wind sock.  She looked at the banana.  She looked at the condom.  “Shit.  I did that wrong.  Oh, whatever!”  She started to drop it, but then looked at it again and started to laugh.  “Man, that would make, like, the best water balloon EVER.”

The condom, as is happened, was capable of holding an entire pint of water, with room to spare.  Daisy spent about 45 minutes playing with her new water balloon on the back porch until it finally burst.  

“OK, I will NEVER, EVER believe any guy who tells me that the condom is too small for him to wear.  That thing would have fit a horse!”   

Lesson 121.  Completed.

The next afternoon, I dropped Daisy off at the beach, where she was meeting Devon.  “Hey; have fun, Baby.  Behave yourself.”

She looked back at me as she got out of the car.  “Yeah, it looks like I won’t have a choice about that, as clearly, I don’t know how to put on a condom!”  She winked.

I love you, Daisy Mae.

You Can't Run Away on Bath Day.

Any of you who have ever been to my house know that I have the biggest, hairiest dog in the universe.  His name is Max.  He’s a Scottish Deerhound.  He stands 34” high at the shoulder.  He can reach all but the middle five inches of my kitchen counters without any of his four legs leaving the ground.  Despite his advanced age (he’s 90 years old, in dog years), he can still rear up on his hind legs and take things off the top of my fridge.  I have witnessed this.  He’s huge.

In addition to being physically tall, Max is heavy.  And covered, head to toe, in a double coat of five-inch long wiry hair.  Imagine having to conduct all of your daily requirements while wearing a Sasquatch suit; now you know what Max goes through.  I love him.  But he can get pretty fragrant sometimes. Oh, and he’s arguably the most neurotic dog in the universe.

In the summer time, we can put him in cross-ties and use a bucket of soapy water and the garden hose to get him clean.  Once the weather gets cold, this is no longer an option.  None of the local groomers have dog wash stations that can safely accommodate a canine the size of Mike Tyson with the temperament of Woody Allen.  He’s too heavy to lift in and out of the bathtub and besides, it’s too slippery in there for him.  

That leaves us with the shower stall in the laundry room/mud room.  Which is large enough for him to stand in, if he doesn’t move too much.  With the door closed, there’s scarcely enough room for me to get in there with him, and in order not to make a bigger mess of things than necessary, I am forced to join the dog au naturel for bath time.

This was how we began last Wednesday Bath Time Adventure.  The soaping up and scrubbing part went well enough; he stood patiently while I wetted all his fur, lathered and scrubbed all his various dignified and undignified doggy parts.  It was when we got to rinsing and brushing that things began to come apart.  Deerhound fur is a curious substance.  It clings to deerhound skin in a very tenuous manner, dislodging itself under with even the scarcest effort.  As I began to brush out Max’s fur, large clumps of it came off of Max, attaching itself to the shower tile walls, the floor…and to me.  Within minutes, I was disturbingly festooned with large expanses of thick, dark fur clods, until I began to wonder if this was what felt like to be Sean Connery’s back.  

I encountered a few mats that needed cutting out, and realized I had forgotten the scissors on the kitchen table.  I released Max’s head and he reacted as any self-respecting dog would:   He shook from head to tail, releasing a shower of extra fur that covered all my remaining exposed skin in a deerhound patina.  By now, I was well and thoroughly short of patience.  “It’s a good thing I love you, you hairy, stinky beast.”

My husband and daughter were out running some errands, so I was alone in the house and couldn’t yell for the scissors.  I looked at Max.  “I’m going to get the scissors.  Be a good boy.  Don't.  Move.”  Shutting the shower door, I emerged out into the kitchen:  nude, sopping wet, covered in hunks of dog fur, half of my hair sticking straight up from where Max had rubbed shampoo into it, and wearing a murderous expression.  I can only imagine I resembled Helena Bonham Carter half-morphed between Belatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter and Ari from Planet of the Apes.

It was then that I discovered my family had arrived home some time while I was washing the dog.

My daughter let out a horrified scream.  “Jeeezus, Mom!”  She fled the room.

My husband unsuccessfully hid his desire to burst out laughing.  “Um…snicker…well…snerk…So…how’s the bath going?”  He covered his mouth and snorted; his eyes started to water.  “You, um, wear the hot-n-hairy look well.”  He was now laughing openly.  

From the other room I could hear my daughter yelling, “Gawd!  I’m going to need brain bleach now!”

My voice came out as a strangled growl.  “Just give me the f*cking scissors.”

By now, Max had dislodged the shower door from its track and was sliding around the laundry room floor, where he upended the cat box and coated his recently-clean legs in used cat litter.

I returned to the shower, re-washed and re-brushed Max's legs, finished drying and grooming his fur and released him, now joyous and bouncing, back into the house.  I got myself cleaned up and collected all of the dog fur.  I intend to card and spin it; by winter’s end I should have knitted two schnauzers and a wire-haired dachshund.  My husband and daughter can wash them.

I hope there’s no more mud until summer.

Dear Bug

Dear Bug,

We've managed, somehow, to make it though another year without you here to help guide the sun and make it a little brighter.  Hard to believe.

A lot has changed.  Daddy is about to graduate and start his PhD program; I think he's finally realized that his moving on is about honoring you, not forgetting you.  Daisy Mae is working hard at being a Sophomore, and busy with her friends and studies and getting ready to move on to her associates program.  I'm just...well, I just keep on keepin' on.  It's normal life, and yet there is always the knowledge that something enormous is missing.  Nothing is the same, and yet everything continues on.   

We had a regular Thanksgiving dinner this year.  It was nice, but I think we all missed you a lot.  I was pretty sad after everyone went home.  And on Friday, I spent some time in prayer and thought, really focusing on your life and what it meant to me.  I think your daddy and I are going to set aside the day after Thanksgiving for you, rather than whatever day the calendar says.  That way, it's always your day, and it's never a work day or Thanksgiving.  Hope you are OK with that.

It's been a long time since I wrote to you here.  I think for a long time, I spent so much time here focused on missing you that once that wasn't the focus of all my attention, writing about other things seemed trite.  Maybe a little bit dishonest.  I know you want us to move on and be happy. And while we all have started to do that, it just seems strange to write about it.  I need to do it, though.  So much has happened.  So many changes.

I miss you.  I miss your sweet smile, your goofy laugh, the way you filled a room with all your noise and presence.  I miss holding your hand in the car.  I miss our bedtime conversations.  I miss listening to you sing songs in the bathroom (I'm singin' to the poop!). I miss listening to you do the Soba chant (So-ba!  So-ba!  So-ba!) I even miss hearing about the countless adventures of all your imaginary friends.  I look at your pictures, and I find myself surprised, always, that there are no new ones.  I still sometimes gasp with the realization that you are gone, that you are not coming back.  I know you are close by all the time, but I wish I could have more of you than the ephemeral brushes of your spirit against mine.  I want more.  I want my baby back.

And yet, I am still so grateful for the mark you left on my life.  Without you, I would never have learned how to love this deeply, this fiercely.  I would never have learned to take the time to see the good in every person I meet.  I would never have learned to see the good in myself.  I would never have learned to love, in equal measure, the good and the bad, the triumphs and setbacks in life.  To, as my friend Cathy says, appreciate the beautiful catastrophe that is life.  To know, absolutely, that there is something beyond the mortal coil.

Sweet Bug, thank you.  Thank you again for the beauty that was, and remains, your presence in my life.  You will always stay in my heart. 

Corn Tortillas!!!

Tap, tap, tap…is this thing on?

So it’s been awhile since I’ve been here.  And there’s a reason for that.  Because most of the major happenings in my life over the last several months have had to do with work, and as we know, blogging about things that happen at work is an almost sure ticket to blogging as a full-time job.  So I’ve elected instead to not blog.  But we’re now in week 22 of Stuff We Can’t Talk About On The Internet, and I’m tired of not blogging anymore, so I’m going to try something a little different.  

We’re going to indulge in a Food Post.

Really, all of this is my girlfriend Christy’s fault.  Last week, she posted a blog entry on my Facebook page about a woman who was making flour tortillas.  Christy thought this woman was all perky and funny and said, “I want you to blog about cooking.  You haven’t blogged about cooking since your potato salad recipe.  By the way, a very charismatic gay friend of mine made ten pounds of your potato salad for Independence Day this year because of your blog.  Ten Pounds.  That’s power, I tell you.  So tell me a story about cooking.”

So here’s the problem:  I really am not fond of flour tortillas.  They are cellophane-wrapped bits of dubious foodstuff that invariably become gummy and unappetizing in one’s mouth and every time I eat them, a little blob of white goo gets stuck in a crevice between my right incisor and the adjoining tooth.  That, plus, Christy is one of the many members of my circle of friends who has recently discovered (or decided) they are gluten intolerant.  I call them my Gluten Heads.  And flour=gluten.

Corn tortillas, on the other hand, are delightful bits of food-wrapping goodness.  Delicate in consistency, slightly sweet, small enough to cause one not to super-size the fillings, they are to flatbread what truffles are to mushrooms.

So I set out to find a good corn tortilla recipe.  I thought this might be a challenge.  Given that one rarely finds corn tortillas in the grocery store, and that even Mexican restaurants often do not feature them, I have lived under the impression that preparation of a good corn tortilla was complicated, and therefore restricted to the expertise of the Mexican Grandma-types who can be found in the windows of Old-Town San Diego eateries.  I have often equated the preparation of corn tortillas to be akin to Cuban Cigars that are “Rolled on the Thighs of Island Women”, as the stalls in Key West would have you believe.

Lo and Behold, the morning after I embark on this journey to find The Perfect Corn Tortilla Recipe, this month’s Fine Cooking arrives on my doorstep.  The feature this month involved Corn Tortillas, and the festooning thereof.  Quelle chance!  I eagerly ripped into the magazine, focusing on the recipe as though I had uncovered the secret to the perfect Krabby Pattie.  I zeroed in on the ingredient list to learn that the ingredients were:

Masa Harina (that’s corn flour, to the rest of us)

Water

Salt.

Now if you’re like me, you will stop at this point and look at the back of your computer to see if there are some words that may inadvertently have slipped off the screen and slid behind your desk.  I assure you, they have not.

Being trained in the sciences, I have been forced over the years to take a statistics class or two.  Because of this, I am able to make the following calculation.  Corn has an 87.94% chance of encountering both water and salt without any human intervention whatsoever.  With this in mind, let’s revisit the ingredient list: 

1)      Corn

2)      Stuff that exists in Corn’s natural habitat

In other words, Corn.  That’s it.  Just…corn.  Seriously?  How could I pass this up?

Challenge #1 is finding good quality Masa Harina.  I live in the epicenter of rural whiteness in north-central Ohio.  So I drove toward Lorain, which has the largest Puerto Rican population outside of Puerto Rico.  They also have some of the most bitchin’ foodstuffs in the universe.  The go-to brand for Masa Harina is Maseca

This is the stuff.

I set the iPod to play a little Rodrigo y Gabriella, and headed for the kitchen.  Following the recipe on the bag (the Fine Cooking recipe called for, like, eight pounds of masa and a truckload of water.  I wanted to make about a dozen tortillas), mix 2 cups of masa with a half teaspoon of salt and 1 ¼  cups of warm water.  Use your hand to knead it together for a minute or two.  You want to make sure it holds together but not let it get too wet.  

Here’s a good test of the water content:  Roll about two tablespoons of the mixture into a ball (it’ll be about 1 ½ inches in diameter).  Now flatten it slightly.  If it forms deep crevices in around the edges, it’s too dry.  If it feels wet to the touch, it’s too wet.  Think Play-Doh.

This batch should make about 16 dough balls.  Cover the dough balls with a damp towel until you’re ready for them

Now, the masa bag and the magazine both recommend using a tortilla press for this next part.  I have a very well-appointed kitchen but do not have a tortilla press.  I do, however, have a really big heavy cast iron skillet.

This frying pan weighs about 192 pounds.

Place a dough ball between two pieces of plastic wrap and flatten with your tortilla press.  Or if you’re me, whap it really hard with the skillet.  I sent cats flying to the four corners of the globe with this one!

 Alas, the result was a bit too small and too thick for my taste, so I fell back to my trusty old rolling pin for the finish.  The results were somewhat less than perfectly round, but still quite serviceable.

I used my pancake griddle for the cooking.  You can also use a good heavy frying pan.  No need to grease; they don’t stick.  I set mine for about 325-350.  That’s solidly medium-high for those of you on the stovetop.

Remove the plastic wrap and slap the tortilla down on the cooking surface.  The slapping thing ensures that no bubbles form under the tortilla.  I cooked mine for about a minute to a minute-and-a-half per side.  It’s done when it starts to dry out a little and maybe gets a bit brown.  

That’s it.  Cover them up with a damp towel until you are done with the rest of the tortillas, or until you develop tendonitis in your wrist from wielding that big heavy frying pan and all that tortilla-slapping.  

Daisy Mae proclaimed them too sweet and grabbed one of the flour bombs out of the fridge.  What do kids know anyway?  I thought they were delicious, and they seemed to have the right balance of flexibility and strength.  I’ll make them again. Especially now that I know how stupid easy they are.

Corn.  Who knew?

Whew!  That was, like, three entries in one, now wasn’t it?

Next time, we’ll explore white shrimp pizza with sun dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts.

Death of a Laptop: A Tech Support Tale in Haiku

One of the mixed blessings of keeping a public blog is that, while you can share your thoughts and activities with the world, your thoughts and activities are shared, well, with the world.  Which is fine, except when the main focus of your thoughts and activities is stuff going on at work.  And your colleagues know where you live.  Then it's best to keep your mouth shut.  Hence my recent silence.  Hopefully, we can resume our normal programming soon.  Because seriously: I love what I do and I like to share positive stuff when it happens. 

In the meantime, my trusty laptop decided to be not so trusty yesterday, which is to say that I re-booted it at 11:15 yesterday morning because it was being "tweaky" and it puked all over my desk and refused to work for the rest of the day.

Two things to remember about me:  1) I'm a geek; and 2) I'm a geek.

Being a geek, I engaged my tech support in the geekiest way possible, which is to say that I emailed my favorite tech support guy with the following support ticket explanation, and the ensuing conversation over the last 27 hours.  In Haiku.



All that which functioned
Now abides, silent, dark
config.sys?  Vanished

A screen, blue as sky
Returns again and again
I search for answers

Access to email
So long taken for granted
Now?  Prayers are needed

Diagnostics fail
No match for this new problem
Behold!  A doorstop!

Flaunting policy
My Carbonite back-up is
worth its weight in gold

Leaving town Tuesday?
Off to great adventures, but
your laptop won't be.

So I'm off to see if I can beg an extra machine off a friend for the next two weeks, scrub it, re-load all my files, and see if I can get it working from the road.    Awesome.