Four seniors were eating lunch in the half booth next to me. One wished for ice cream. Another voted chocolate chip cookie. They left to retrieve their sweets, and five minutes later, returned instead with generous slices of chocolate brownie, outlined in thick frosting. One looked anxiously down at the plate, while the other three peered at each other, nodding slightly and counting under their breath. Then:
“Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Ted
Happy birthday to you!”
I don’t know how I should feel about this. At first I’m happy, to see this ritual of the young being performed by those who usually regard birthdays not as occasions to celebrate but to fear: another notch in the increasingly carved up bed post of life, soon to be woodchips. But these spirited four were exuberant. Ted was even joining in the song, not just passively allowing the day (and thus, recognition of his waning days en masse) to be acknowledged, but actively partaking in the revelry. The five-year-olds in attendance should’ve been taking notes.
My joy for these four soured, however, when I recalled my most recent birthday party. I was similarly among friends and family, but within the warm confines of my home, surrounded by not only plaster and brick, but memories, a past worth being nostalgic over. This mortar was thick; these walls were secure, as was I that day. Among those with whom I share more than genes, in a house I could walk through blind-folded, I was content.
My nostalgia dissolved to the scene in front of me. These four had sung with enthusiasm, yes, over gargantuan pieces of rich brownie, sure. But they were ringing in this special day not at their home, but at a chain restaurant. They were not surrounded by shared consciousness , but with businessmen on their lunch break, and divorced fathers taking their sons out for their weekend treat, and a ballerina class just out of their afternoon session.
It didn’t seem right, having this ritual take place in the public sphere. But perhaps I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe their brick-and-mortar houses have been sold off long ago, and their families have moved away, or visit them only on holidays, the twice-a-year visitation rights of the lonely and burdensome. The building in which they live might have a name that tries too hard to comfort: a Shady Pines, a Sunset Ridge. Maybe by surrounding themselves with all this vitality, this seething mass of book clubs and dramatizing teen girls and ringing cash registers, they immerse themselves in something like home: the human condition.
No one really eats alone. Sometimes, the table just isn’t big enough.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Perfect Meatball Sandwich
I know the Meatball Sub (or Hoagie, or Grinder, or Hero, or however you refer to the idea of putting meatballs between bread) is not new. Still, I feel like I've come upon a particularly exciting new sandwich combination. Here me out. Try it for yourself. Then, write your local Meatball provider and share with them this tasty, warm, hearty lunch idea.
Garlicky Meatball Sandwich
But first, the sauce.
The Sauce
Combine equal parts Concord Grape Jelly (cheapest you can find) and Chili Sauce (the red, smooth kind, not the brown, beany mixture that goes on Chili Dogs) in a small saucepan. Heat on low while stirring.
This mixture will, at first, shock you. Do not worry. The Jelly will become less jellified as it heats, and the red chili sauce will coalesce with the purple to create a smooth, beautiful deep maroon. This is the time to drop in your meatballs.
I recommend the frozen kind, as they're easy to have on hand, and they're fun to juggle at parties. Continue to stir every so often. Ladle the sauce over the meat. Rotate each meatball so the outer surface is covered. While the meatballs + sauce simmer, prepare the sandwich elements:
-Two slices bread (Multi-Grain, Honey Wheat, or Potato -- save that Health Nut for morning toast)
-Two butter-knifefuls of Garlic Lover's Hummus, Cedar brand.
-Enough Sharp White Cheddar to cover one slice of bread.
Now: Slather one slice with hummus. Top other slice with cheese. When meatballs are done (the air above the saucepan will smell like old roses), remove about 4 and slice them 1/4" thick. Place the meat slices over the cheese. Spoon over extra sauce to cover unsauced cross-section of meatball. When fully covered, top with Hummus-coated bread, hummus-side down. Slice in half, horizontally (if you must, diagonally, but consider this carefully before doing so).
Eat while meatballs are still warm. Each bite will burst with delicious contradiction: the tangy of the sauce, the warmth of the meat, the chill of the cheese, and a creamy, garlicky finish from the hummus... I dare say this might be the perfect cold weather meatball sandwich with hummus and cheese ever. Let me know what you think.
***
ADDENDUM! The above is good. This alternative version is, possibly, great.
-Substitute the Garlic-Lover's Hummus for Lemon-flavored Hummus. (optional)
-Fry an egg, until yolk is soft, i.e., not runny but not hard and crumbly, either.
-Make sandwich as above, but place egg over meatball slices.
-Once top slice is added, flip sandwich so that heat from the just-cooked egg and meatballs flows upward, beginning to melt the cheese.
-Eat at leisure.
Garlicky Meatball Sandwich
But first, the sauce.
The Sauce
Combine equal parts Concord Grape Jelly (cheapest you can find) and Chili Sauce (the red, smooth kind, not the brown, beany mixture that goes on Chili Dogs) in a small saucepan. Heat on low while stirring.
This mixture will, at first, shock you. Do not worry. The Jelly will become less jellified as it heats, and the red chili sauce will coalesce with the purple to create a smooth, beautiful deep maroon. This is the time to drop in your meatballs.
I recommend the frozen kind, as they're easy to have on hand, and they're fun to juggle at parties. Continue to stir every so often. Ladle the sauce over the meat. Rotate each meatball so the outer surface is covered. While the meatballs + sauce simmer, prepare the sandwich elements:
-Two slices bread (Multi-Grain, Honey Wheat, or Potato -- save that Health Nut for morning toast)
-Two butter-knifefuls of Garlic Lover's Hummus, Cedar brand.
-Enough Sharp White Cheddar to cover one slice of bread.
Now: Slather one slice with hummus. Top other slice with cheese. When meatballs are done (the air above the saucepan will smell like old roses), remove about 4 and slice them 1/4" thick. Place the meat slices over the cheese. Spoon over extra sauce to cover unsauced cross-section of meatball. When fully covered, top with Hummus-coated bread, hummus-side down. Slice in half, horizontally (if you must, diagonally, but consider this carefully before doing so).
Eat while meatballs are still warm. Each bite will burst with delicious contradiction: the tangy of the sauce, the warmth of the meat, the chill of the cheese, and a creamy, garlicky finish from the hummus... I dare say this might be the perfect cold weather meatball sandwich with hummus and cheese ever. Let me know what you think.
***
ADDENDUM! The above is good. This alternative version is, possibly, great.
-Substitute the Garlic-Lover's Hummus for Lemon-flavored Hummus. (optional)
-Fry an egg, until yolk is soft, i.e., not runny but not hard and crumbly, either.
-Make sandwich as above, but place egg over meatball slices.
-Once top slice is added, flip sandwich so that heat from the just-cooked egg and meatballs flows upward, beginning to melt the cheese.
-Eat at leisure.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
There's a Life in My Soup: Observation #1 (Panera Bread)
“We’re having fun now, huh!?”
A man asks this rhetorical, enthusiastic question to his mother, or mother-in-law. He’s older, in his early 60s; the woman might be 90 if not more. He speaks to her as if to a child. Before ordering, another woman, this one younger, possibly the man’s wife and the old woman’s daughter, told her not to go anywhere, pointing out the window and suggesting that she look through the glass and admire, presumably, all the parked cars. She obliged, staring at the distant, recently snow-dusted roof ornaments aligned in orderly rows.
The question in question was in response to their food. More specifically, to the old woman’s soup, which she apparently loves. “She can’t stop saying how good it is,” the wife tells her husband. This repetition, I imagine, is not due to her dementia, of an appearing and reappearing of the soup, each new mirage necessitating another proclamation of goodness. She says how good the soup is because it is good. She can taste the broth, feel the giving crunch of the barley, absorb the warmth of its vapors. Even if her sensory faculties have long since past, I believe her words would be warranted by her past experience with the soup, and not merely a learned knowledge of what to say when given a spoon in front of a bowl of liquid.
Looking at this woman, I could not fathom her having the physical capacity to lift the .2 ounces of Chicken Noodle to her mouth. But she had life enough not only to do this, but to judge it, effusively, as something worthwhile. This soup was not just lunch. It was an affirmation of life.
Her own existence, this grey-haired, stooped-over, breathing carcass of a woman, was nearing its last, china-scraping spoonful. But this soup—Oh, this was tasty. And observing her gives me hope that even the frailest of us can digest sensation.
A man asks this rhetorical, enthusiastic question to his mother, or mother-in-law. He’s older, in his early 60s; the woman might be 90 if not more. He speaks to her as if to a child. Before ordering, another woman, this one younger, possibly the man’s wife and the old woman’s daughter, told her not to go anywhere, pointing out the window and suggesting that she look through the glass and admire, presumably, all the parked cars. She obliged, staring at the distant, recently snow-dusted roof ornaments aligned in orderly rows.
The question in question was in response to their food. More specifically, to the old woman’s soup, which she apparently loves. “She can’t stop saying how good it is,” the wife tells her husband. This repetition, I imagine, is not due to her dementia, of an appearing and reappearing of the soup, each new mirage necessitating another proclamation of goodness. She says how good the soup is because it is good. She can taste the broth, feel the giving crunch of the barley, absorb the warmth of its vapors. Even if her sensory faculties have long since past, I believe her words would be warranted by her past experience with the soup, and not merely a learned knowledge of what to say when given a spoon in front of a bowl of liquid.
Looking at this woman, I could not fathom her having the physical capacity to lift the .2 ounces of Chicken Noodle to her mouth. But she had life enough not only to do this, but to judge it, effusively, as something worthwhile. This soup was not just lunch. It was an affirmation of life.
Her own existence, this grey-haired, stooped-over, breathing carcass of a woman, was nearing its last, china-scraping spoonful. But this soup—Oh, this was tasty. And observing her gives me hope that even the frailest of us can digest sensation.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Lies Your Gastroenterologist Told You
You've been lied to. All of your life, you've been told one thing, while the opposite is actually true. Your parents? White lies spouting out of their mouths like fake snow falling on a Hollywood sidewalk. Your friends? The ultimate fibbers. Your doctor? Mendacious as all the rest. The Surgeon General? President of the FDA? Liar, liar, patent-pending pills on fire. I am here to tell you the truth. And it is this:
There is no expiration date.
To some, food is good until it is not. You'll crack an egg and cook it sunny-side up and rejoice in the broken yolk as if spurred on by some Heliotropic pagan festival, but only until EXP 2/07. On February 8th, the cardboard henhouse gets tossed in the trash. And all of those unborn baby chickens die a second death.
But this does not have to be the way. Don't you know how many adult hens were brutally harrassed, living in excrement-stained confinement, a meager 10 centimeters of wiggle-room, to produce those eggs? Those eggs are tough. Ounce for ounce, they have more staying power than you do, my friend. Given the average weight of an egg is 56 grams, and an egg allegedly expires after four to five weeks, a 160 lb. man (72,574.78 grams) with the same lifespan as an egg would live to be 540 years old. But here's the thing--They can go even longer! Those white-, brown- and speckled-shell beauties keep on keepin' on like Sting on a tantric binge.
But my message to you doesn't solely concern eggs. My message goes deeper, is more purely satisfying than a simple Scramble or Fried. If messages were eggs, mine would be that most everlasting and tender of all preparations: The Poached. So read my words, allow them passage. Offer me a credence-filled ear. And listen again: There is no expiration date.
Don't believe me? I have evidence. I took leave of my apartment for twelve days over the winter holiday. Two days before my departure, I cooked some spaghetti, browned some ground turkey, heated a bit of Prego, tossed it all together and called it a meal. It was quite good. So I stored the leftovers in a Gladware plastic container, and left it in the fridge. The next night, I cooked brown rice in a roommate's rice cooker, boiled a bag of pre-prepared Indian food bought from a nearby market (a spicy, tomato-based mixture of shredded eggplant, onion and ginger -- post forthcoming), split the bag and let the heated goodness pour out over my fresh rice. I ladled it into my mouth on a pan-friend onion paratha, a sort of thin, flaky flatbread. A fine dinner, too fine to have but once. So I stored the remains next to my turkey pasta. Then I flew home to Michigan.
Cue film montage of twelve calendar pages flipping, dissolving into one another, until the final page flips, December 31st. I return. I spend a fine New Years celebrating with my ladyfriend companion. The next night, I open the fridge, looking for good eats, the first supper of 2008.
"How about this Indian food?" I ask her.
"That's two weeks old!" she answers.
"But it looks okay."
"No way."
"But..."
"No."
So, the following evening, with she of the frivolous taste-buds eating elsewhere, I took out again the Indian food first consumed a fortnight ago. The rice appeared stable, if a bit stiff. The red saucy eggplant portion, though, gave me pause. The sides had congealed, becoming orange. A plasticine film covered the middle. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, looking at this dish, smelling it, peering closely. It had been so good. I wanted to know that taste again. I prodded, delicately, into the aged mass, hoping for an answer within, somewhere next to the still-green peas and chunks of potato. My roommate said: "You know, the microwave will probably kill any bacteria that may be in there." And though I doubted her claim, facetious as it was, the eternal food-optimist inside my esophagus latched onto that faintest of hopes: safety-by-way-of-radioactive-short-waves. I forked the rice into a bowl, then the eggplant on top. Three separate sessions of 90 seconds on HIGH. I swirled the two components together, heating it one last time. I used a new fork, thinking the old food like uncooked chicken, and not wanting to contaminate the newly sanitized, microwaved version. And then I took my first bite. And a second. And a third. It was a tasty dish.
The next night, I found my old bin of turkey pasta. Heated it up in the micro. Buttered a fresh slice of potato bread to eat on the side. Another fine meal.
And so I came to my previously mentioned conclusion. There are no expiration dates. Only expired desires. So take another glance at that week-old meatloaf. Look anew at your forgotten farm-raised tilapia in a citrus-scallion medley. And those eggs? Feel free to get your Jules Verne on, and eighty days later, scramble away.
But more than anything, do not throw away, but eat. Eat long, eat late, eat beyond the tiny date stamped on your plastic or paper bins holding what was once considered fragile, a taste to be sucked up with haste, as if fleeting and ephemeral. Do not label old food "leftovers," but instead, "lastforevers." That tin of peaches, marinating in syrup and its own juices for eight months? Imagine the flavor saturation! The floating scum of green fuzz needs merely to be scraped away, tossed aside like the undesired stowaway it is. What new tastes might be found in such undiscovered country as that which we can now explore: Bottom-Right Shelf, Behind the Pickles, Screwtop Sealed Shut with the Glue of Ages?
There is no expiration date.
To some, food is good until it is not. You'll crack an egg and cook it sunny-side up and rejoice in the broken yolk as if spurred on by some Heliotropic pagan festival, but only until EXP 2/07. On February 8th, the cardboard henhouse gets tossed in the trash. And all of those unborn baby chickens die a second death.
But this does not have to be the way. Don't you know how many adult hens were brutally harrassed, living in excrement-stained confinement, a meager 10 centimeters of wiggle-room, to produce those eggs? Those eggs are tough. Ounce for ounce, they have more staying power than you do, my friend. Given the average weight of an egg is 56 grams, and an egg allegedly expires after four to five weeks, a 160 lb. man (72,574.78 grams) with the same lifespan as an egg would live to be 540 years old. But here's the thing--They can go even longer! Those white-, brown- and speckled-shell beauties keep on keepin' on like Sting on a tantric binge.
But my message to you doesn't solely concern eggs. My message goes deeper, is more purely satisfying than a simple Scramble or Fried. If messages were eggs, mine would be that most everlasting and tender of all preparations: The Poached. So read my words, allow them passage. Offer me a credence-filled ear. And listen again: There is no expiration date.
Don't believe me? I have evidence. I took leave of my apartment for twelve days over the winter holiday. Two days before my departure, I cooked some spaghetti, browned some ground turkey, heated a bit of Prego, tossed it all together and called it a meal. It was quite good. So I stored the leftovers in a Gladware plastic container, and left it in the fridge. The next night, I cooked brown rice in a roommate's rice cooker, boiled a bag of pre-prepared Indian food bought from a nearby market (a spicy, tomato-based mixture of shredded eggplant, onion and ginger -- post forthcoming), split the bag and let the heated goodness pour out over my fresh rice. I ladled it into my mouth on a pan-friend onion paratha, a sort of thin, flaky flatbread. A fine dinner, too fine to have but once. So I stored the remains next to my turkey pasta. Then I flew home to Michigan.
Cue film montage of twelve calendar pages flipping, dissolving into one another, until the final page flips, December 31st. I return. I spend a fine New Years celebrating with my ladyfriend companion. The next night, I open the fridge, looking for good eats, the first supper of 2008.
"How about this Indian food?" I ask her.
"That's two weeks old!" she answers.
"But it looks okay."
"No way."
"But..."
"No."
So, the following evening, with she of the frivolous taste-buds eating elsewhere, I took out again the Indian food first consumed a fortnight ago. The rice appeared stable, if a bit stiff. The red saucy eggplant portion, though, gave me pause. The sides had congealed, becoming orange. A plasticine film covered the middle. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, looking at this dish, smelling it, peering closely. It had been so good. I wanted to know that taste again. I prodded, delicately, into the aged mass, hoping for an answer within, somewhere next to the still-green peas and chunks of potato. My roommate said: "You know, the microwave will probably kill any bacteria that may be in there." And though I doubted her claim, facetious as it was, the eternal food-optimist inside my esophagus latched onto that faintest of hopes: safety-by-way-of-radioactive-short-waves. I forked the rice into a bowl, then the eggplant on top. Three separate sessions of 90 seconds on HIGH. I swirled the two components together, heating it one last time. I used a new fork, thinking the old food like uncooked chicken, and not wanting to contaminate the newly sanitized, microwaved version. And then I took my first bite. And a second. And a third. It was a tasty dish.
The next night, I found my old bin of turkey pasta. Heated it up in the micro. Buttered a fresh slice of potato bread to eat on the side. Another fine meal.
And so I came to my previously mentioned conclusion. There are no expiration dates. Only expired desires. So take another glance at that week-old meatloaf. Look anew at your forgotten farm-raised tilapia in a citrus-scallion medley. And those eggs? Feel free to get your Jules Verne on, and eighty days later, scramble away.
But more than anything, do not throw away, but eat. Eat long, eat late, eat beyond the tiny date stamped on your plastic or paper bins holding what was once considered fragile, a taste to be sucked up with haste, as if fleeting and ephemeral. Do not label old food "leftovers," but instead, "lastforevers." That tin of peaches, marinating in syrup and its own juices for eight months? Imagine the flavor saturation! The floating scum of green fuzz needs merely to be scraped away, tossed aside like the undesired stowaway it is. What new tastes might be found in such undiscovered country as that which we can now explore: Bottom-Right Shelf, Behind the Pickles, Screwtop Sealed Shut with the Glue of Ages?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
