Failure

After I thought that I had conquered my battle with yeast I seem to have merely replaced with a battle with starter. I have just produced a “loaf” that is not only flat but stuck to the pizza stone. So I tweak again next week and return to a tested recipe for our bread this week…and maybe not believe everything I read on the Internet.

Drinks, dinner, and hockey

My hands smell of the thyme I just touched. Steve has flatly refused all help with dinner (other than the occasional direction to a pantry item or recipe clarification), so in a strange twist I sit watching the hockey game while he slices and dices. And the strange twist in that statement is that I have developed a profound enjoyment of this sport. It helps, I think, that we have a good team to root for (they’re from the South Bay and are named after the sea predators with very distinctive theme music). So here I sit with my Canadian cider watching a Canadian sport and write this mostly to fight the urge to jump up and help. He picked mac and cheese – and not the kind that involves a blue box. He’s sauteeing onions and making a roux and a five cheese sauce. Depending on his confidence there may be bacon involved (for him only, of course).
After midnight Saturday he will almost certainly be on strike and we begin an indeterminate waiting period. No plans, no trips until it’s over. I worry about this. I will be back to full salary just in time but for how long? He assures me the strike won’t last forever – and being the amazing person he is has enough socked away to cover expenses for quite a while but I’m tired of feeling like a financial burden and want to help.
It appears that the constant worry that has plagued me all winter will not disipate with the coming of spring. It seems that the old adage proves true- what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’m sure I would have eventually tumbled to the realization of how extraordinary a person he is, but I wonder if finding myself in financial and emotional need helped catalyze and cement our love. I have found the guy who genuinely wants to sweep me off my feet and his sole motive in doing so is making me happy. Because of him I’m almost a bit grateful for the insomnia and loopy stomach that has become a constant. Because now when I wake up in the middle of the night and lie there with all my worries running through my brain, he reaches over and pulls me close, quieting my demons.

The return of the silent one

So this is a test while I wait for my honey to return with the drinks. I haven’t tried this ap yet, though it was one of the first things I downloaded when I became the proud owner of this magnificent phone.
So what’s up? Loads. I am officially smitten – he even comes to dance class. We are cohabitating and I’mmedting his parents this weekend. The cats are shedding, furloughs are ending, for now, and I am exhibiting all the symptoms of extreme job stress (insomnia, over eating, lashing out at others). I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands – I am now determined to marry and spend the rest of my life with this man and don’t want to drop dead of a heart attack two days after the wedding. So I am taking 3 10 minute walks every work day (another reason to love this phone-I can have my iPod, timer, and pedometer running simultaneously on the same device), and we’ve developed a bedtime routine – reading to each other and relaxing music. I am sleeping better and calmer at work.

I’ll be back

…soon.  I promise.  I’m just overwhelmed with life right now!

Crossing

While I was in Arizona, I crossed the border into Mexico (on Memorial Day), something I had not done for years.  For the first time in my life I was walking into Mexico with a proof of citizenship requirement, a concept I found utterly bizarre.

I grew up in San Diego and crossing into Mexico was pretty much a weekly activity.  We would go to dinner in Tijuana or go to Ensenada for the day.  One of my first memories is attending one of my dad’s concerts in Mexicali and discovering that Mexico had pretty good Chinese food (there was also a horrible incident with an anchovy, but I digress).  We had a beach home in Baja for most of my childhood.  We RARELY carried citizenship papers with us.  I’m not even sure such a thing was required.  But, these days they technically are, and I had nothing on me that met the requirements.  The fact is, I don’t even have a current passport, and my birth certificate was barely legible the last time I saw it – which was years ago.  We decided to go anyway and chance it.  I figured that if they actually had to go through the process of verifying my citizenship it wouldn’t take very long. 

So, I followed my dad through the labrynthine foot crossing at Nogales, listening as he pointed out where he had an office and whether or not they were actually using the biometric device he had worked on.  We poked through the stores.  My dad bought Controy; I found some knick knacks.  Then we headed out.  As we waited in line, I noticed many people had their passports out and ready.  When we were next my dad told me to move far enough forward so that he could get through the gate too.  I handed the agent my drivers license.  He gave me a slightly annoyed look.  He looked at my dad’s passport and dismissed us without a word.  I didn’t even get the informational document about crossing requirements.

“Hasseling us would have been a hassle for him” was my dad’s logic, nodding his head at the growing holiday line.  I guess that’s probably true.  I certainly didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary, and was perfectly happy to walk back into the US.  I’m not sure if a year from now when the requirements become more stringent I will even attempt this.

I just can’t help wondering if the situation would have been differenet if I had been alone.  Or had less of a WASP name or appearance.  Was it really due to holiday traffic? If so , what’s the point of having requirements if they’re going to be blown off because someone seems a low “threat” and there’s a line? This sort of inconsistency happens all the time, and it does little to encourage me.  These are in place, supposedly, to make me feel safe (though I think many of them go overboard and really have a different agenda).  That they are so easily bypassed does little to make me feel comfortable.

Mothers and Daughters

The prospect of a reunion with my mom’s side of the family this summer has resulted in lots of time reflecting on the relationships women in my family have with their moms. 

My maternal grandmother lives in Florida.  I last saw her five years ago – in fact, by the time this reunion takes place that anniversary will have passed and been added to by a couple months.  My mom makes it out to see her maybe once a year.

I suspect my mom has issues with her parents (don’t we all?).  Somehow, I have inadvertently gotten stuck in the fallout.  I freely acknowledge that I don’t make nearly the same effort to visit Florida as I do, say, Arizona.  There’s no logic in this: I enjoy spending time with both grandparents.

I’m beginning to fear that my family line is one of matrilineal grudges.  My mom and grandmother have a distant relationship as a result.  I’ve noticed that I’m sliding down the same slope with my mom.  I barely make an effort to see her.

So I am taking a stand.  I am ending this reign of silence and good intentions but bad interpretations.  I am brushing away my indifference so that I can begin to fill the moat that is slowly engulfing my world. 

Neither my mom nor my grandmother will be eternal.  My goal now is to ensure they know that they know they have a daughter and granddaughter who loves them.

Because You Asked

Briefing the Ball

I’ve had several requests for pictures of my dress on me…here’s the best I could come up with.  Sandra snapped the pic, catching me frantically cramming for the next dance I was to brief.

A Ball of Treats

I spent this afternoon baking (and will continue through the week).  The ball is next Saturday, and members are requested to bring desserts for the supper following and munchies that will be put out during the workshops.

Since our theme is “Spirits of the Dance”, I will be making a couple batches of bourbon balls.  This afternoon was spent making Peanut Butter and Jelly Muffins (a double batch), which are now freezing so that they will be fresh next Saturday.  These will be put out during the workshops and registration.

This morning I decided that I would also bring in some cupcakes.  I am quite fond of the little cakelets – I almost always prefer them to a piece of cake.  I received some really cute silicone mini bunt cake “tins”, and have been dying to use them.  So, here’s my plan: Tuxedo Cakes. (Dark) chocolate cake batter swirled with yellow cake batter (I know I should probably go for white for the true tuxedo look, but I’m just not that fond of white cake), with a bit of cream cheese in the middle, topped with chocolate ganache frosting.  I’ve decided to use cake mixes for a couple reasons: the main reason is that I don’t have a yellow cake recipe I’m fond of, and don’t have time to experiment.  At least with a cake mix, I have a reasonable expectation of the end result.  And if the experiment flops, I haven’t put a whole lot of effort into researching and making cake batters from scratch.  Because of the cream cheese, I expect I will be making these later in the week because I’m not sure they will freeze (I had already intended on not making the ganache until Friday).

Thanksgiving Leftovers, 2006: The Preparation

I thought I would spend the next week sharing my memories of some Thanksgiving pasts.  There is a purpose to this, one that is hopefully therapeutic for me.  This will be the second Thanksgiving in a row that I’m facing after having lost someone important in my life in the previous year.  So I look back in an effort to move forward.  This first post turned into a monster, so I decided to split it in half.  I present, here, part I.  It is a series of events that feel germane to a badly written sitcom, but I swear they’re true.

Last year was my first holiday season after Mark left me.  We always celebrated our ”anniversary” on November 21st which, of course, meant that it often fell around Thanksgiving.  Realizing that I would likely be feeling depressed and lonely, I actively arranged someplace to be for the day of thanks.  This involved a certain amount of somersaulting because my original plan involved spending it with my mom.  I love my mother dearly, but it can be very difficult to “make plans” with her.  Her household tends to operate on a certain amount of spur of the moment mentality.  I, however, am a planner, and particularly last year, wanted to know, for sure, that I would not be alone that Thursday.  So, I called on my friend and former roommate Cathy.  If my mom was unavailable, I would spend the day with her husband, Jason,  and her.  As it turned out, my mom decided to host the dinner and Cathy and Jason would join us.

My company gives away turkeys to all employees for Thanksgiving.  Or rather, they give certificates that can be exchanged for a turkey.  We stopped being able to buy frozen turkeys directly from a grocery store because they couldn’t accommodate such a large order so close to Thanksgiving.  I was not sad about this – by the time 50 frozen turkeys had spent the day defrosting on our operations department carpet, the entire office smelled like a butcher’s counter.  And, inevitably, someone always forgot to pick up their bird, which involved trying to find space in the company fridge for it.  The exception was the last year we did actual birds – people took more than one and so we ended up short.  That was the last straw and we moved over to certificates the next year. Since I’m a vegetarian, I often don’t take mine, but this year I sent my certificate to my mom.  If I was “forcing” her to host, I might as well help provide the main course.

The three households planned the menu via email.  My mom, who’s not quite a technology virgin, was delighted with the ease of the process.  A couple emails in which we cc’d everyone, and the menu was set and we all knew what we were responsible for.  I was responsible for the veggie main course; Cathy and Jason were bringing a salad and some baked goodies (she is an amazing baker).  I also suggested that they bring some wine as they’re more wine literate than I am, and the last time I looked at the wine rack at my mom’s there was something growing on it.  My mom would provide the rest.

I drove over Wednesday evening with my quinoa stuffed eggplant and found the prep work well under way.  When I expressed my amazement (the stock was done, the bird was brining, the pumpkin pies were finished), my mom replied, “I’m retired now! I didn’t have to work today.”  Of course.

Thanksgiving arrived.  I wandered out to the kitchen to find mounds of celery and onion waiting to be added to the stuffing and the bird wide open ready to be, well, stuffed.  “Did I tell you about the turkey?” my mom asked as I poured a cup of coffee and snagged a chestnut out of the bowl. 

I eyed the bird and took a small sip of coffee.  My heart began to race instantly – my mom is quite fond of strong coffee.  “What about the turkey?”

“Well I went to Safeway, and they didn’t have the brand that the certificate was for.”

Oh god, I thought.  Please tell me she didn’t buy a turkey.  “OK, but the store’s supposed to let you swap out for a different brand if they don’t carry it.”

She began emptying stuffing mixture into two bowls.  “Right.  So I went to Linardi’s and they didn’t have it either.  So I looked through the fresh turkeys and found one for 17.99 pounds and convinced the checker to accept the certificate for it.  After all, it was under 18 pounds.”

I stared at her.  “But, the certificate was only good for frozen turkeys.”

“It doesn’t say anywhere on that piece of paper that it is only good for a frozen turkey.  It says it’s only good for a turkey up to 18 pounds.”  She dropped two sticks of margarine into a pan of turkey stock.

“Wow.”  I snagged another chestnut, amazed yet again at how well my mom is able to negotiate bulldoze wheedle the unsuspecting public.  “Linardi’s is going to be pissed when they only get reimbursed for the cost of a frozen bird.”

She handed me a bowl.  “That’s not my problem.  Here’s some vegetable stock; start mixing your stuffing.”

I must pause here to wax rapturous over my mother’s stuffing.  It is this fabulous mixture of sweet and savory, crunchy and chewy.  It has the basic celery and onion, but she also throws in roasted chestnuts, sauteed mushrooms, and dried cranberries.  Then she douses it with sage, oregano, and thyme.  I can eat the stuff by the plateful!  It is always the first leftover to disappear.

Since becoming a vegetarian 13 years ago, I have spent only a few Thanksgivings with my mom (this has less to do with my eating habits and more to do with our schedules).  She always buys extra stuffing mix and has a veggie stuffing made.  Last year I made it, imitating her to the best of my ability, as she stuffed the bird.  By 10, it was in the oven, which was doing its best to smoke us out of the kitchen.  Cathy and Jason were coming sometime between 2 & 4.  Dinner was on course.  We set ourselves to the tasks of the remaining side dishes.

At two o’clock my step-brother, Evan, arrived.  My mom began to diligently check the turkey.  She changed thermometers and checked again  And again with a third.  My step-mother, Margaret, turned to me.  “When are Cathy and Jason arriving?” she asked. 

“Sometime between two and four – probably closer to four,” I replied as my mom dug through the drawers for another thermometer.

“Two and four?” Margaret exclaimed.

I muttered something about that being the time frame I was given.  Evan sat down at the counter.  “You can make clam dip, Mom.  It’s not Thanksgiving without clam dip.”

As Margaret began to gather the ingredients for the bi-valve concoction her entire family loves, my mom pulled The Joy of Cooking out, checked it, pulled the original edition out, consulted it, and visibly began checking her math.  She looked at the clock and shrugged.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Turkey’s cooking slow,” she said.  “But we should still be in our estimated time.”

At some point, I was put in charge of the mashed potatoes.  I should mention at this point that I live in a fairly modern complex.  Read: my plumbing works and is of this century.  Mom and Margaret live in a funky, old ranch house that is pushing the century mark.  It is falling down about their ears a bit, and minor “repairs” tend to lead to substantial remodels.  The kitchen is really awkward in many ways, particularly for multiple people, and for cooking large meals.  As an added bonus, it is often the warmest room in a house that averages 63 degrees, so people are always congregating in it.

So, back to the potatoes.  I grabbed the vegetable peeler, and without question began peeling the potatoes into the sink.  When I finished, I whisked them down the garbage disposal and turned to the next task.

Within 20 minutes, the opposite side of the sink began to back up.  I didn’t think too much of this; I ran the garbage disposal for a few more minutes, assuming it would grind up whatever was causing the back up.  I was wrong.  Not only did it not grind up the clog, it increased the water level on the clogged side.  “Um, guys,” I said.  “We seem to have a bit of a problem.”

Margaret looked over my shoulder.  “What did you do?” she asked.

“I peeled potatoes.”

“Into the sink?!”

“Yes, into the sink.  I do it all the time at home.” 

Evan left the kitchen, returning with a plunger.  “This should clear it.”  He plunged.  He reached into the disposal (and came up empty).  He plunged some more.  “Hmmm,” he muttered and stuck his head under the sink (my mom, due to the incredibly awkward set up of the kitchen has been trapped in the pantry with the oven since I first noticed the clog).  Evan got up and left again (my mom took the opportunity to escape the pantry), returning with his tools and a plumber’s snake.  He undid the trap (also empty) and began to run the snake through the drain.  Several times.  When he tried to put the trap back together two problems emerged.  The first was that the washer snapped; the second was that the pipe into the wall had been cross-threaded, and he could not get it to seal.  Oh, and the sink was still clogged.  Realizing that nothing was going to get fixed that day, he stuck a bucket under the drain.  It was now four.  My mom declared victory on the turkey and pulled it out of the oven.  “Where are your friends?” Evan asked. 

At that point I placed a phone call.    I got her voice-mail, which I took to be a good sign.  “I think they’re on their way,” I announced.  Meanwhile, Mom had four meat thermometers in the turkey and was taking comparative readings.  She sighed.  “I don’t know.  It says it’s done.  It just took really long.”  We began to put everything that needed to be heated into the now empty oven, and quickly ran out of room.  With at least four more side dishes the warm, we were faced with a logistical problem.  Fortunately, there were two other ovens on the property: one in Evan’s apartment, and one in the guest house they rented to a retired math teacher (he was elsewhere).  We decided to divide and conquer.  Within five minutes, all three ovens were filled to capacity.

Margaret pulled a third cookbook out and consulted it.  “Big birds always take a while,” she said sagely.  Mom glared at her.

At that point the doorbell rang.  Saved by the bell.  I threw open the door.  “Hi! Traffic?”

Jason looked taken aback.  Cathy said, “Well, not exactly.” 

“Oh well, you’re here now.  Ignore the voice-mail I left you.  The turkey’s out.”  I didn’t quite drag them into the kitchen.  “They’re here!” I announced.  If you’re reading this and thinking, She’s a might bit twitchy, well, you’d be right.  Extended periods of exposure to the “Mom and Margaret” dynamic cause that reaction in me. In many instances it’s unfair, but such is life.

Introductions were made, Jason was given a tour of the house (and had clam dip forced on him), wine was poured as we waited for the remaining dishes to reheat.  After such an eventful morning, our dinner appeared to be off to a good start.  Dishes began to appear on the table from the various ovens.  The turkey was destuffed and the slicing began. 

“I think we are ready to eat.”

Dies Irae, or rather Homine Irae

Every time I think about the oil spill in San Francisco I feel sick.  I mean, how clueless can you be to hit the Bay Bridge? The sight of the oil drenched, dead or dying wildlife makes me weep.  How do we make it right to them?