Earth Day – One Day Is Not Enough

Earth day is in April.  It is a day intended to draw our attention to the beauty and the woes of our planet.  Given the steady stream of news reports highlighting some of the worst extreme weather events on record, the constant flow of data courtesy of our scientific community and the push to go “green” from a number of environmental groups, Earth day should be everyday.  I try to do my part.  It is a small part in the scheme of things.  I don’t have the funds nor the time nor the power and influence to contribute all that I would like to contribute.  But I do what I can and I rely on everyone else to do what they can.  If a lot do a little, it adds up you see.  It will make a difference.

Each month I encourage – no, I demand – that my kids give back to the community in one way or another.  I orchestrate some sort of project, event or chore in which I fully expect them to participate with great enthusiasm.  They are kids though, and sometimes my demands are met with a bit of resistance in anticipation of whatever it is that we (and by we, I mean I) plan on doing that month.  But it never fails… once they are knee deep in it, they enjoy it!

Our community services are meager in the scheme of things.  We have packed food for Feed My Starving Children, we have run through the neighborhood to collect shoes for Share Your Soles, my kids have requested donations for a particular charity in lieu of birthday gifts, we’ve baked for bake sales that benefit a local cause, etc.  But in April we always focus our attention on the litter in our neighborhood.  My kids and I take our recycle and garbage bins and we wander through the neighborhood and adjacent park and pick up trash.

My kids are good sports about this.  In fact, this year we took one of their friends along on our grubby, potentially embarrassing adventure.  Grubby is self-explanatory, but potentially embarrassing may warrant an explanation.  You see, as we saunter down the sidewalks, we draw attention to ourselves with our noisy bins.  As we pass the homes of classmates, friends and acquaintances, my kids are forced to smile and wave at them with their filthy, gloved hand while the classmates, friends and acquaintances look on with obvious confusion (did you get in trouble and is this your punishment?) or ridicule that is either implied or expressed (ha ha, you have to pick up trash while I play basketball).   My kids have yet to protest and/or respond to such things.  Either they are oblivious or they have risen above caring what other people think.  I would like to believe the latter to be true.

Every time we do this, I find myself dumbfounded at the lack of care and responsibility some people take with regard to their own property.  We have picked up garbage out of people’s yards that I know has been there for weeks.  I drive past it everyday wondering when they might finally pick up the crushed Gatorade bottle that has been laying in their front yard forever.  This year was the year of phone books.  Our neighborhood had phone books delivered in about February.  Now I cancelled our phone book in an effort to be green.  To me, they are obsolete and a waste of paper.  But, some people may not be aware that they can simply call a number inside the front cover of the phone book to cancel it.  I realize some people still utilize their phone books, but there were three houses in our small neighborhood where we found the phone book still laying alongside their mailbox posts.  The grass underneath them was dead and brown and despite the plastic bag it was in, the pages of the phone book were soggy and illegible.  Now, how hard is it to bend at the waist, grab a hold of the plastic bag, lift and then deposit the bag and its contents in the recycle bin?  I mean, they are there daily checking their mail anyway, right?  There were two teenaged boys playing basketball in their driveway when we picked up their phone book and two newspapers.  I asked them, as I held up the dripping phone book, “Do you guys care if we toss these?”  They said no and that was it.  Not even a thank you.  Not even a shameful glimmer in their eye.  I chalk it up to complete and utter disregard for curbside appeal and pride in ownership, let alone being a good neighbor and friend of the Earth.

I also find myself cussing under my breath when we walk along the main thoroughfare (on a walking path of course – I would never risk walking on, near or alongside a road, especially with kids).  I can’t count how many McDonald’s bags, beer cans, cigarette packs and butts, beverage containers, etc. that were obvious refuse missiles launched from passing cars.  Grrrr.  And every year thus far, we have found at least one bag full of dog crap laying in the weeds or alongside the curb or sidewalk that someone left behind (they went through the trouble of picking it up, but didn’t want to carry it apparently).     I DON’T GET IT!  Are we that averse to inconvenience that we  seek conveniences in careless and thoughtless behaviors?

Before I go on a tangent, I will conclude this post on a positive note.  I am super proud of my kids for  putting up with me and my causes.  I am trying to instill in them a sense of community, responsibility, philanthropy and self-respect as well as respect for others and things – like our planet.  And I am doing this by example and by immersing them in experiences.  I hope these experiences will inspire them to be good people so that when they mature and develop their own views and focus on their own causes, they will do so with ACTION.  And I would like to note that my intention for posting on this topic is not to toot my own horn or boast about the good deeds we do.  Instead, I am hoping to motivate others to do the same.  Sometimes we just get caught up in the routine of our busy lives and we just don’t think to dance outside of our daily groove.  It happens to me too, but I am on some email lists that keep me on my toes;)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not to Beet a Dead Horse, But Beetween You and Me, Getting to the Root of the Problem is Unbeetable.

So, I schedule all of my physicals around my birthday. Happy birthday to me!  I recently had my physical with my GP and all was well. Woot woot! My next medical destination was my annual visit to my gynecologist. Good times, good times. I got up that morning and went to the bathroom and my urine was red. I thought to myself “Crap, I must have a bladder infection.  Good thing I have a doctor’s appointment today.”  So when I got to my doctor’s office I alerted him to the fact that I had a pigment issue with my urine, and he ordered a clean catch and a culture. Aside from the sanguine hue, I was asymptomatic.  Not typical, but whatever.  I opened up and said “Ahhh.” and then headed home.
When I got home I texted a friend of mine to tell her how much I enjoyed the baked beets I ate the night before.  She had suggested them as a veggie side. They were fabulous.  Per her instructions, I just wrapped them in foil and baked them for an hour in a 350 degree oven. When they were done, I peeled them, diced them, put a little salt on them and pigged out.  Aside from pickled beets, I never really tried them before.  Yum.  Anyway, her response to my text was “Did they turn your pee red?” I litterally laughed out loud (a guffaw really) at the sudden realization that the beets were the culprit with regard to what I perceived to be blood in my urine. I told her that, as a matter of fact, they did and my doctor was investigating. I called my doctor to explain, but the nurse I spoke with never heard of beeturia (yeah, there is a name for it).  So they went ahead and processed the lab anyway. The next day there was more evidence of the beetroot pigment, except it wasn’t in my urine if you know what I mean. Thank goodness my friend alerted me to the apparently little known side effect of beetroot consumption.  Had she not, I would have thought that I obviously had an internal bleed going on.  Had she not, I would have rushed myself to the ER.  Had she not I would have demanded an MRI of my abdomen at that point.  Had she not, panic would have certainly set in.  But all is well that ends well and we all got a really good laugh about it.    The homophone jokes and puns flowed for days.  I’m fine with being the butt of jokes.  If it makes people laugh, it makes me happy.

“Every Child is an Artist”

I am inspired by many things, my kids being one of them.  My kids are a huge inspiration for me. They inspire many things in me: how to be a better person, how to be patient, how to inspire others, to laugh like a kid again, and the list goes on.  My younger daughter, who is now eight, asked a question one day while pondering the absence of bugs during winter. That innocent, simple question inspired me to be creative in a way that I had never experienced before.  It was the impetus for what became a series of three children’s books that I wrote – my first books.  My goal was to make a book for my daughter as a gift. But the project grew and I began to solicit it to publishing companies. The lack of illustrations was problematic, however. I was hoping that an artist representative would see value in the text and align my work with a staff illustrator. Ideal situations rarely come to pass, however. I had two co-publishing offers. I was thrilled, but they wanted a complete project, which meant illustrations. I am not much of a visual artist. But my daughter, the one who conceptualized this whole project, is quite talented in that realm. Certainly I am biased, but her drawings and paintings are very charming in my opinion. And more importantly, she loves it! A friend suggested that we become a mother/daughter team. I chewed on that for a while as I had to separate myself from the vision I originally had. But once I wrapped my head around the idea, I went with it. My daughter and I have become a team now. She draws the main character, Ronnie Jean, and I draw the bugs. I then superimpose the drawings onto a realistic background. It is still in the experimental stages, but we are having a ball. As Pablo Picasso said “Every child is an artist.” With that being said, I can take pride in knowing that I have a very talented, true artist illustrating my books.

A Side of Veggies

A healthy meal always comes with a side of veggies… or fruit as the case may be. Now let me clarify something here. What are commonly referred to as veggies are often times actually fruit. It is a common misnomer to refer to a tomato or an eggplant as a vegetable. You see, there are two definitions – the botanical definition which classifies these things scientifically and the culinary definition which erroneously inflates the breadth of this food grouping. Not that it matters really. But let me provide a brief explanation. Botanically speaking, anything that develops from a flower and has seeds is a fruit whereas vegetables are roots, leaves and/or stems of a plant. So squash, peppers, tomatoes, beans and cucumbers are technically fruit. In culinary terms, however, fruits and vegetables are defined by their flavor: vegetables are typically savory while fruits are typically sweet. With that being said, I will stick with the culinary definition in order to avoid confusion and because it goes along with the theme here. This is a food post after all, not Botany 101.

A meal, to me, just doesn’t seem complete without a serving of vegetables. Now I’m not counting French fries or onion rings as vegetable sides, although I know some people who do. Don’t get me wrong, I love fries and rings, but I don’t come out of that experience feeling healthier. On the contrary. I feel bloated, greasy and guilty. For me, a side of veggies is usually steamed and it often looks as it did when it was harvested. A little salt and a little butter is all I need… and sometimes a bit of shaved Asiago. Yum! Vegetables add color to a meal and they abound with nutrients. It completes the meal.

I grew up this way. My mother always served a side of veggies regardless of the main course. She is all about veggies. Her personal pizzas are a veritable salad – it’s as if she dragged them through the garden. They are loaded with peppers, onions, broccoli, mushrooms, spinach and artichokes. An added benefit of such a pizza is that all of that fiber is sure to counteract the effects the cheese is sure to have on your bowels (insert a snicker and a wink here;). And my mom’s salads look like the horn of plenty: a bountiful mountain of fruits and veggies and nuts. At parties her contribution has always been a vegetable tray full of fresh broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, peppers and green onions that we dip into a delightful dill/ranch dip. To this day, we request that she brings her veggie tray and dip to all of our occasions. It is all about veggies with her.

My mom cooked meals every night, and good ones at that. But there were times when busy got the best of us and she would throw something together that was quick and easy. Tuna casserole was a staple for us when busy got the best of us, but we could rest assured that there would be a side of asparagus or broccoli next to what was essentially a fishy mound of mac-n-cheese. My mom’s veggies were usually steamed, but she was a crackerjack creamer. She could cream anything: potatoes, corn, peas, tomatoes, spinach, etc. Creamed spinach was, and still is, my favorite, but her creamed tomatoes served over biscuits is a close second. Us kids always ate our veggies. I don’t recall my mom ever having to harangue us to eat our vegetables. We just did. I can’t really credit that to the notion that we ate them and liked them simply because we were raised eating vegetables. We were raised eating meat as well, but I can vividly remember chewing on the same piece of meat in utter disgust for a half hour after the table was cleared and then finally washing it down with a gulp of tepid milk. Thankfully, I have since outgrown my aversion to textures and most meats.

So if I inherited my propensity to eat and serve vegetables with every meal from my mother, then where did she get it? From her mother, of course. Not only was my grandmother a wonderful cook, but she was a green thumbed gardener as well. Practically her entire back yard was a vegetable garden. She also grew plenty of fruits as well. What’s more is she had an old musty cellar where she canned, jarred and pickled. Anytime we would visit, my siblings and cousins and I would challenge each other to a harvest. We would bombard my grandmother in the kitchen and vie for the biggest piece of Tupperware and then head out into her garden and pick anything and everything that was ripe or nearly ripe. Once her garden was picked clean, we would meet in the cellar and boast about picking the most. We were sweaty and excited and dirty and all of our fingers were stained with raspberry or blackberry juice. It was rare that the berries we picked ever made it to the cellar. Yum! Surely my grandmother intentionally slacked off and abandoned her gardening chores days before we would arrive because that first day harvest was always so incredibly bountiful. The grand prize always went to the kid who picked the fruit or vegetable that grandma prepared and served with dinner that first night. And by grand prize I simply mean the license to gloat while the others sneered and gave the winner the stink eye. Ah, good times – great memories.

So, like most time-honored traditions, what I deem as a complete and acceptable meal is an ideal that has been passed on from one generation to next. And aside from the nostalgia, one of the most valuable aspects of this tradition is the tendency to cook with fresh fruits and vegetables. I will use frozen vegetables now and again, but I rarely use canned and frequently use fresh. I also tend to shy away from convenience foods – unless busy gets the best of me, which it tends to do now and then. But overall I tend to cook like my mother who cooks like her mother who cooked like her mother…. It tastes better, it looks better and it is better for you. Thanks mom. Thanks grandma.

Clean Up In Aisle Three!

So I was setting my daughter up on her new laptop and was inspired to clean up my own computer.  You know, organize my files, clean up my desktop, etc.  I keep a journal and in the process of organizing I thought that I’d scroll through some entries.  After all, what’s the point of a journal if you never look back.

So I came across an entry about my beloved lab, Sam.  At one point, not too long ago, he had a pretty nasty infection in his anal glands.  It was a costly one as the first round of antibiotics didn’t get to the infection.  So they did a culture and, of course, he had the expensive bacteria.  So I had to bite the bullet and purchase the most expensive antibiotic ever!  After all was said and done, his ass cost us about $500.

Our final ass check with the vet came about 5-6 weeks after the initial diagnosis.  His anus got the “all-clear” finally.  But (a lot of buts in this post) I was instructed that I still had to wipe his butt twice a day AND apply hydrocortisone once a day to relieve the irritation that all of this had caused.  Yay for me!  I had been powdering his a-hole during this whole ordeal so at that point I just shrugged and said “OK.”  Better that than potentially throwing more money at his ass.

So Petco is right across the street from the vet.  I decided to pop in to pick up crickets for my son’s lizard.  I also made the ill-fated decision to bring Sam in with me.  Keep in mind, he had never gone into the store with me before.  We are three aisles in when he decides to empty his bladder.  And it wasn’t just a tinkle.  It was a flood.  So I meekly approached an employee and asked for a mop or something and he points out a cleaning station.  Of course.  This happens all of the time at Petco so why wouldn’t there be cleaning stations?  So I grabbed a roll of NON-absorbant brown paper towels and began sopping up the mess.  The problem was that those paper towels didn’t sop.  I am about half way through the industrial sized roll when Sam decided that it would be a good time to poop.  Now mind you, he had just pooped at the vet, so this was completely unexpected.  This was not just any poop either.  Apparently he had snacked on a periodical of some sort and the remnants were half in and half out if you know what I mean.  He was hunched over like a Halloween cat and he was walking around on his tippy-toes in an attempt to separate himself from yesterday’s news.  I did what I had to (ew) and then picked up the rest of his stank off of the floor with the itty-bitty courtesy bags that Petco offers for their most unfortunate guests.  They obviously never met a dog as big as Sam.  To say that these bags were inadequate is a huge understatement.  So I continued to mop up the floor.  I could not get it dry.  Those paper towels sucked!  They also had a product called Nature’s Miracle that was expected to be used as the final touch.  I sprayed the soiled, slippery, wet floor with it fully expecting or at least hoping for a miracle.  But alas, the floor became even more soiled and treacherous to boot.  I was almost out of paper towels and the itty bitty trash receptacle was overflowing.  I gave up at that point.  I asked the employee if they had a wet floor sign.  Instead of helping me out and at least retrieving it for me, he pointed to the back room and told me “There is one in there.”  The guy wasn’t busy.  There was only one other customer in the store.  Sheesh.  I dragging my frisy dog (you know how they get after unloading or after a bath) to the utility room and grabbed the sign.  I aptly placed that friggin’ sign in the middle of my mess, grabbed my crickets and high-tailed it out of there. What a crappy day.  The shit really hit the fan.  It really was a pisser.  And that employee didn’t really give a shit.  What a load of crap.  But, I guess shit happens.  Ba dum bum!

 

An Attempt at Being Green and Economical Turned into a Five Hour Debacle.

So, printer ink cartridges.  A sore subject for me this day.  We bought a new printer recently because ours was out of date, questionably compatible with my new computer, some features did not work and it was out of ink.  We sucked the utility out of it, so it was time.  We considered getting new ink for it but to buy new ink cartridges would cost more than a new printer.  So we went ahead with a new one that has a wireless option.  Yay!  And btw, we recycled our old one responsibly;)

So a few months go by and the ink cartridges that come with the new printer run dry.  We all know they give you the low capacity ink cartridges with new printers.  Of course they want you to have to buy new ones and soon.  If you know me, then you know I am frugal (not cheap, but economical) and I try to be as green as I can be.  So I decided to try refilling the cartridges at Costco.  I took them in last Monday.  I was feeling unsure about this so I asked a bazillion questions and was assured that refilled cartridges were as good as new ones.  Ok.  The wait was an hour and a half.  So instead of hanging out there and getting fat on pizza and refereeing the inevitable squabbling that would surely ensue between my girls out of sheer boredom, I opted to pick them up a different day.  So fast forward to yesterday.  I picked them up.  I brought them home.  I put them in my printer and run a test print.  What spits out is a veritable ink blot test.  I run a couple more tests thinking it would work itself out.  Nope.  Then I try to troubleshoot and the printer display is telling me that the ink is still low.  Hmmm.  Now I am a great DIY kinda gal,  but computer technology stumps me.  So I call Costco.  The guy explains that I need two sets of cartridges so that the spares can activate the refilled ones.  What?  What was the point of refilling if I have to buy some anyway?  What I failed to mention earlier was that I was helping my daughter with a school project and I needed to print some things for her.  So I am feeling pressured to rectify this situation.

I call Staples and inquire about the double cartridge possession rule.  I am told that the double cartridge possession rule makes no sense.  This guy believed that Costco over filled the cartridges.  Shit!  So I call Costco back and speak with a manager who is very nice.  His name is Dan.  He told me that he didn’t know anything about the DCP rule.  What he did tell was that HP manufactures their printers so they won’t accept refilled cartridges.  Well, that would have been nice to know from the get-go..  He also told me that there is some sort of patch you can download to your printer/computer that would open the refilled cartridge door so to speak.  So together we stumbled through the HP website and could not find this ghost patch.  I’m getting a little testy at this point.  It has been an hour and a half so far.  Dan then has me access the HP solution center via a shortcut on my desktop.  I get a message right away telling me that the function could not be completed.  There is an error message regarding my printer.  Um, yeah.  It doesn’t like refills.  Dan sighs audibly into the phone and laments about how these companies take advantage of us on the “back end” and then gives me an HP  phone number.  He didn’t know what else to do.

I call HP and ask them how to get the patch.  I explain that my printer won’t work with the refilled cartridges.  HP warns me that if I put refilled cartridges in my printer, then the warranty would be null and void.  Shit!  So I back pedal seeing as he already has my product registration information.  I explain that I was told that it wouldn’t work with refilled cartridges.  Of course, I didn’t install them yet.  What do think, that I’m an idiot???  This guys seems ok with my back pedaling and begins to speak techie.  He skirts the patch issue and wants me to uninstall my printer driver and try to install an updated driver.  I update regularly, but according to him, that doesn’t matter.  I say no thank you and end the call.  It was obvious that he was not going to give up the patch; that coveted, elusive patch that lingers in cyberspace somewhere… or does it?

Now I call Costco back again.  I asked for a refund on the refill and they oblige.  They also offer me a $20 cash card.  I gave them my refilled cartridges and bought new ones… it cost us almost $100.  Our printer cost us $128.  What a racket!  So I finally put the new cartridges in the printer and you would have thought that my computer had an orgasm.  It snaps out of sleep mode, lights up and a colorful message pops up that says “Thank you for installing genuine HP ink cartridges!  Click here for HP rewards.”  The rewards were discounts on HP products such as paper, etc.  Big deal!  Those savings don’t even come close to the savings a workable refilled cartridge would have given me.  After all was said and done, I spent about 5 freakin’ hours on this fiasco between phone calls, trouble shooting and traveling back and forth to Costco.  Now my daughter’s homework has become mommy’s midnight homework project.  Yay!  And what is equally irritating is that this cycle is NOT green.  How many plastic ink cartridges are buried in our landfills?

Apparently these companies have technologically blocked the use of refilled cartridges, but  public outcry prompted some, like HP and soon Epson, to make refills an option.  But it is not an easy option.  You have to jump through many technological software hoops in order to have your printer accept them.  They beat me on this one, damn it!  I am curious to know if anyone out there has been able to use refills on their printers.  And if so, how do you go about it?

A Bottom Squeezer’s Appeal to the Middle Twisters

My dear children,

Am I the only one who sees the problem here? Is it not clear that dispensing the toothpaste will be severely hampered by the random twist in the middle of the tube? You have created a dam, a mangled obstruction which will prevent the toothpaste in the bottom of the tube from flowing up and out. Furthermore, the cap is MIA and thus the remnant toothpaste that coats the opening of the tube AND the toothpaste that is inside the tube, near the opening, when exposed to the air for a prolonged period of time, will harden and clog the aforementioned opening. It makes me wonder how you are going about brushing your teeth.  I think I may need to conduct oral inspections asap.   Anyway, I took it upon myself to undo what is done.  I had to actually put some time and effort into cleaning up your little mess. I untwisted it, soaked it and snaked it. It took 3 minutes out of my day. So, multiply that by 10, and you shall give me 30 minutes of your day today with extra chores (insert evil laugh here).

And on a side note, please stop having toothpaste infused spitting contests in the bathroom. Whoever spit toothpaste on the mirror is clearly the winner. Whoever spat on the rim of the sink, you don’t have the distance, but you win with texture and consistency. That one took a little extra elbow grease.

Love, Mom.

Grandma Jeanette’s Bread

My grandmother was the epitome of all grandmothers.  She embodied everything that is so wonderfully typical of the perfect grandmother.  She adored her grandchildren.  She laughed heartily at their antics.  The grandchildren could do no wrong in her eyes.  She genuinely appreciated and cherished all of the crafty gifts that we made her.  She would spoil us rotten.  She had a bosom that swallowed you up whenever she hugged you.  Everything we did was worthy of retelling.  She had so many anecdotes filed away in that great big heart of her’s; anecdotes relating to our mischief, or our accomplishments, etc.  She absolutely relished the moments when she had the opportunity to talk about us.  She had a giggle that was ridiculously contagious.  She sang.  She sang with that exaggerated vibrato that seems to become more pronounced the older you get.  One of her favorites was “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong.  That song was released in 1968 – the year I was born… a bit of information I did not have until I wrote this post.  To this day I can’t listen to that song without welling up.

My grandmother was also a wonderful cook.  Her pot roast would melt in your mouth.  Her chocolate chip cookies were cakey and full of molten semi-sweet morsels and walnuts.  And her bread… oh my, her bread was divine.  When we would walk into her house, we would know right away if she was cooking or baking.  There were two smells that would launch us into a frenzy the minute we walked in the door – baking cookies and baking bread.  Like Pavlov’s dog, we reflexively began to salivate as we made a bee-line for the kitchen.  Our goal – to be the first to have a cookie or a slice of bread the minute it came out of the oven.   There is nothing better than hot, gooey chocolate or steaming slices of bread with a dollop of real butter slowly melting into the nooks and crannies.

My grandmother’s bread was something special.  It wasn’t that it was unusual, but it did have a unique flavor that I can only attribute to her.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t until she was in her 80’s that I thought to get the recipe from her.  By that time she hadn’t really cooked or baked in years and her memory wasn’t as sharp as it had been.  But, she gave me her best guess at the recipe.  If it isn’t exactly right, then it is pretty darn close.  I’ve made her bread four times now (not that I’m counting).  My first attempt was an epic failure.  And regrettably it was for a special occasion.  I was having my parents over for dinner to meet my future husband’s parents.  Something went horribly wrong with the bread.  The dough didn’t rise.  The yeast wasn’t working for me for some reason.  I baked it anyway out of desperation and the result was a small, very dense loaf of unleavened bread.  The taste of the bread was similar to my grandmother’s bread, but the texture was awful.  Everyone politely ate it and even complimented me on it.  But I knew, oh yes, I knew they were sparing my feelings.  It was years later when I finally tried to make it again and it was a success!  My kids devoured it, just like I devoured my grandmother’s bread.  What joy!  At that time I was determined to make grandma’s bread a staple in my house.

But success was fleeting because failure was lurking in my kitchen again.  The third time I made the bread, I was feeling confident.  I made the dough and then went to church while it rose.  When we came back, two hours later, there was no change.  I let it sit for another hour and nothing.  Argh!  I baked a loaf anyway, just to see what would happen and I got the same result as I did the first time around.  I was perplexed.  I asked around and my mother-in-law suggested that I may have dissolved my yeast in water that was too hot.  Light bulb!  I did warm my water in the microwave.  Ooops.  So I tried again two days later and, voila, success!  I didn’t realize how temperamental yeast was.  Now I know and now I’ve got this.

So here is the recipe as my grandmother told it to me:

What you need:

• 1 cup of milk (scalded)
• 1 cup of LUKEWARM water (NOT TOO HOT!)
• 1 package of active, dry yeast
• 1/3 cup of shortening (I tried butter too and there is no difference in taste)
• 1/4 cup of sugar (or honey which I have not tried)
• 2 tsp of salt
• 4ish cups of flour

 What you do:

• allow scalded milk to cool
• add salt, shortening (or butter) and sugar to lukewarm milk
• in a separate bowl dissolve yeast in LUKEWARM water
• once dissolved, add yeast mixture to milk mixture
• gradually add flour (I use a Kitchenaid mixer with a dough hook)
• once dough is stiff, knead by hand until it is no longer sticky adding flour as needed
• place dough in a bowl sprayed with a nonstick spray and cover it
• cross your fingers that it rises to about twice its original size
• knead dough again and then divide it in two and place in sprayed loaf pans
• allow dough to rise up to the lip of the pan
• bake in a 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes (top will be golden brown)

I hope this recipe works out for someone out there.  I am not a chef or a baker by any stretch of the imagination.  I am a decent cook though and I like to cook for my family.  I like to share recipes that hold some sentimental value to me or I share recipes that are a sure thing.  It’s all about sharing the love and/or my little conveniences and/or my sure bets with the kids.  Home cooked meals are the best for a lot of reasons… and they are usually healthier to boot.

Pressure Cooker Swiss Steak

Growing up I was always fortunate to have home-cooked meals almost every night.  No matter how busy we were, and despite the fact that my mother worked full-time, we were sure to have a good, hearty, stick to your ribs meal most nights.  But because we were busy and because my mom worked full-time, slow cooking and pressure cooking was usual and customary.  It was quick and easy.  A short cut to dinner.  One pot meals… and a side of veggies.  My mom was always sure to supplement our meals with a side of steamed vegetables regardless of the fact that many of the one pot meals were chock full of them.

Now, there are times when something arouses one or more of our five senses, thereby stimulating nostalgia.  You know, those pleasant memories that are otherwise lost and buried in the business of the here and now.  Smells do that a lot for me… although some of those memories may not be so pleasant if you know what I mean.  Sounds sometimes act as a catalyst for a resurgence of memories as well.  One such sound is the hiss and rattle of a pressure regulator on a pressure cooker.  My paternal grandmother was a pressure cooker aficionado.  I didn’t realize that until recently.  My memories of her are long and detailed, but sadly I don’t have many memories of her cooking.  I remember her meals.  They were wonderful.  But I must have been out gallivanting on the farm with my cousins whenever she was cooking.  Good times, good times.  Anyway, I am thankful that my mother made a point to jot down many of my grandmother’s recipes and those recipes became part of her repertoire when I was a kid.

That brings me back to the hiss and rattle of the pressure cooker.  Whenever I hear that sound, it takes me back to my childhood.  With that sound I can easily conjure up visions of my mom racing around our kitchen in all of its 1970’s glory complete with harvest gold appliances, textured wallpaper and linoleum floors.  Oh, and lets not forget the macrame towel hanger – a priceless gift for mom from yours truly.  Anyway, this sound floods my cluttered brain with images of days gone by.   Good memories.  Heartwarming memories.  When I hear it, I can almost smell her pot roast or pork chops or the ubiquitous cigarette smoke that hung in the air in our house.  You know, I never took a drag from a cigarette, but you might be able to classify me as a smoker considering all of the secondhand smoke I took in.  Any of us who are old enough may remember that people used to smoke everywhere.  There were very few restrictions and there was zero etiquette.  Yikes, I’m heading for a tangent – let’s get back on track here.   So anyway, I cherish that sound and once I started a family of my own I added a pressure cooker to my ensemble of cookware.  Whenever I use it, I have flashbacks.  I love it.  Nostalgia – what a delicious appetizer.

My best friend refers to my mom’s cooking as “all American.”  She’s right.  Pot roast, pork chops, meatloaf, various casseroles, sloppy joes, swiss steak… all of these main courses were regulars in my mom’s menu rotation.  The ingredients were simple and there was often gravy.  One of my favorites was her swiss steak.  We are not sure if this recipe is one of my grandmother’s or not.  Somewhere along the line we lost track.  But like my grandmother’s main courses, it has few ingredients and they usually consist of a Campbell soup, a condiment or a prepared flavor packet.  Swiss steak – yum.  This recipe produces such a sweet gravy.  And any meat cooked in a pressure cooker comes out so tender.  I thought that I’d share this recipe with everyone.  Now this is a pressure cooker recipe, but I presume that you could make it in a slow cooker or oven as well.  You would just have to experiment with the temperature and time.   If you are a novice with the pressure cooker, please be patient with yourself.  It may take a couple of mishaps or mediocre meals before you master the timing and the right amount of hiss and rattle.  You want the pressure regulator to rock slowly.  So, here it is.

Swiss Steak

What you need:

2lbs of round steak

3 cups of water

2 tbs dry onion

1 and 1/2 cup ketchup

potatoes (peeled and quartered)

carrots (peeled and cut)

What you do:

brown the round steak

mix the water, dry onion, ketchup

place round steak in pressure cooker

pour water mixture over round steak

seal pressure cooker and place pressure regulator on vent

heat until you hear the rattle and hiss

turn down the heat so the pressure regulator doesn’t dance around too much, keep it at a quiet, slower rattle and hiss

let it cook for 15 minutes

while it is cooking, prepare the carrots and potatoes

when the meat has cooked for 15 minutes, release the pressure by running cold water over the pressure cooker

add the carrots and potatoes to the meat and bring it all to a rattle and hiss again

cook for 10 more minutes

if the gravy is not the desired consistency, either thicken it with a mix of cold water and corn starch or thin it with just plain water

add salt and pepper as needed

Kids and Potty Talk

I don’t know about you, but my kids think that anything that is remotely related to flatulence or feces is hilarious.  I did too when I was a kid.  Heck, I find it a bit funny now at times.  I even have a fart machine to prove it.  But never mind me.  I’m an adult.  I am supposed to discourage such behavior, right?  Well, I try.  But it is usually with a snicker under my breath or a smirk on my face.  We have had many a dinner when conversation unexpectedly (or shall I say expectedly) turns to bodily functions.  Somebody’s new favorite song suddenly has new lyrics that involve excrement.  The last of the ketchup being forced out of the bottle produces a sound that instigates a round of mouth farts.  The question “How was your day?” is answered with “Poopy.”  I don’t dare serve beans because it always leads to the song Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot…  You get the picture.  My husband is king of potty humor when he is with his buddies or co-workers.  But when it comes to the dinner table, he prefers to keep the potty talk off of the table.  I agree.  It is important to instill good manners.  But it gets away from us every now and again.  It really cracks me up when “serious dad” is trumped by “sophomoric dad.”  We all have a silly sense of immature humor at times.  It keeps us light.  It is a good thing.  I wrote a poem that reflects many moments we have had at the dinner table.  It’s  a children’s poem – part of a collection that I hope to, one day, see in print.  I hope that everyone enjoys some good, family belly laughs at dinnertime – at least once in a while.

Potty Talk

“You’re a butt crack.”

“You’re pooh.”

“Can you smell my fart?”

“Did you hear me toot?”

“Stop!” dad says.

“I’ve had enough of this talk.”

“Mind your manners

and knock it off.”

Giggles and chuckles

and snickers and snorts

came from the children

in a garish retort

“Hey dad, knock knock”

mischief made them smile

“Who’s there?” dad asked

suspicious all the while.

“Ken.” “Ken who?”

and so the joke goes

“Ken we do some pooh

voodoo on you?”

Dad gave them a glare.

The kids fell silent and still.

Then dad’s lips quivered

and his cheeks began to fill.

He mused silently for a bit

to the delight of his kids.

And then he laughed out loud.

The joke was a hit!