Archive for April, 2009
Most people mark the milestones and memories of their lives in terms of events: first kisses, graduations, job promotions, marriages, births, deaths…the list is as endless as those happenings with which humans associate meaning.
I, on the other hand, measure my days and decades by recalling what diet I was on when something happened. Junior prom, cabbage soup. Wedding, hi carb/low fat . Post pregnancy, low carb/no fat. First job, Slim in 6. Second job: Atkins. Third job: South Beach. Grad school graduation…
You get the idea. If a diet has been created or even hinted about, I’ve been on it. I can’t remember a time after 7th grade, when I was one of two size Ls on the order form for volleyball shorts, that I wasn’t looking for some mystical, magical way to lose weight.
Actually, I can. The last three weeks I’ve been dietless and feeling a strange, unfamiliar longing for food boundaries to break. The boys went to Florida three weeks ago and left me alone to purge my soul with half-a-dozen cream-filled babies from Jolly Pirate. The week after, Vegas. From that point til now, it’s amazing I haven’t gnawed off the finger of some innocent bystander along the way. I need food structure.
I’ve been contemplating going back on the diet wagon. I even know which one I’ll follow (Flat Belly Diet by Prevention, again). I even have thoughts of planned exercise and exertion to help aide my efforts. I just hadn’t figured out that perfect starting point, until this weekend.
I turned 38 on Saturday. That’s pretty close to 40. No, I didn’t realize this until my birthday dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Somewhere between the end of the Chicken Marsala and the beginning of the Lemon Raspberry cheesecake, my mental gears clicked into action and the subtraction was finished. Every day past 38 is one day closer to 40. Maybe it was something in the Marsala sauce* that sharpened my rusty-dull math skills, but 40 kind of freaks me out. Is that middle age?
Lost in whipped cream mounds (the boy doesn’t eat his. I swear he’s adopted), I decided that I want to hit 40 with a body I’ve never had. Something in a size 10 (or, god forbid, an 8, please.) I’ve never been in single digit sizes, unless you count that brief interlude of time where I started at 6X and ended at ten, bypassing everything in between. I think that was 4th grade, but I digress…
So, long story short, I’m back on the diet wagon. This time, I’m hoping public humiliation, aka blogging, will help shame me into doing what I know I’ve got to do to lose this flab once and for all. If not, Jolly Pirate is on my way home….
*must get that recipe…after diet succeeds, of course
Growing up in a small town (with equally small grocery stores 8 miles away), there wasn’t a whole lot of food adventure going on in mom’s kitchen (unless you consider the times she and dad went to town and my sis and I used that time for our own kitchen kamikaze antics. More on that another time…). There wasn’t anything even remotely unMidwestern in the kitchen except an occasional soy-based veggie patty or faux oriental stir-fry seasoning packet.
After getting married and moving to the city, I was given an amazing gift: cable TV and the Food Network. From the comfort of my living room, I could learn about food, cultures and everything culinary around the world. I started getting one or two new food items each time I went to the grocery store for a bit of variety and found lots of terrific tastes.
One of my absolute favorites–one I can no longer live without–is capers. So simple in appearance yet so amazingly flavorful, I love them so much I have been known to eat them straight from the jar. While I prefer my brine more salty than vinegary, the way I really love them is fried.
It’s hard not to like anything fried, but even the most anti-caper soul has to love the crispy-salty-slightly smoky taste of capers quick-fried in a beautiful mixture of brown butter and golden olive oil. I just fried about half a bottle and have a craving for the rest…like to join me?
Fried Capers
1-2T capers, drained on folded paper towel
1-2T butter
1T olive oil
Heat butter and oil in a small skillet at scorching high heat. When butter begins to brown, add capers and stir briskly until capers pop open and soak up the butter/oil as they crisp. When most of the butter is gone and the caper buds blossom, drain for a moment on a paper towel. Make a double batch to start with…you won’t want to share!
Excellent on pan-fried chicken breast, grilled fish or eaten right off the paper towel.
I’ve been a little screwed up these past two days. Not like that–unless you listen to my mother–but at the moment, I’m referring to my internal clock. Whenever I come west, it takes me about a day or two to get settled into the time difference. During those times when Ohio time (5am) wakes me in Vegas time (2am), I turn on the TV and catch all the stuff I (think I) miss while I’m fast asleep back home.
Ok, I admit it. I turn it on for the infomercials. Long story about my infomercial fascination. Let’s just leave it at the fact that once I’m reeled in, I’m stuck. And being on the losing end of so many bakery battles resulting in a donut overload in my life, I’ve always been more Marilyn Monroe than Marilyn Manson (with all my ribs, thank you). As a result, I get a special kick out of the weight-loss promises available for the low, low price of $19.95 plus shipping & handling.
Last night, I got the treat of my life in terms of true buy-it-now entertainment. Deeply engrossed in another flaky guarantee of a smaller booty in 30 days, I watched the money shot (geez, the part where they pitch it to you seven times like you’re incapable of seeing the number to call without being told, “But wait! There’s more!” Get your minds out of the gutter here!) three times, knowing the fourth and final time was right around the corner.
It was at this point, the wrap-up, where the most ludicrous, ridiculous statement in the history of infomercials hit the airwaves. One slender, petite woman whose waist measured smaller than my thigh and probably had a piece of popcorn stuck in her teeth to register her weight gain in her perfectly fine, albeit sad-faced ‘before’ photo, proclaimed in an unnatural, tinny voice, “It’s so much fun I forgot I was working out!”
Really. Forgot you were working out? Over the years, I’ve forgotten more things than I’ve remembered. I’ve forgotten my phone number, forgotten how to get on the interstate in Florida, where I parked at the movie theatre and whether it’s one or one-half teaspoon of baking soda in chocolate chip cookie dough to make them rise best (one-half, should I need reminded again). I’ve forgotten my checkbook, forgotten how to do algebra, forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and which hand is best in poker. (Thank god it’s posted on the slot machines.)
One thing I have never, ever forgotten, and don’t imagine I ever will, is that I am working out while working out. It’s impossible to ignore ‘the girls’ (you know who they are if you’re female, you’ve got your own matching set) leaping and bounding to my chin and back to my bellybutton with every Jane Fonda-esque jumping jack. I can’t imagine I’d forget the shortness of breath that leaves me clutching my ribs and swearing revenge on Richard Simmons’ Q-tipped, cottony, white-boy afro. I’m pretty sure I’d not forget the fact that being in exercise mode leaves far less time for sleep mode. I’m damn sure I’ll never forget that for thirty minutes of my life, I must hop around with the grace of a baby elephant on hot coals in order to get this fat-girl’s body into something society will deem appropriate and not appalling.
Yeah. Exactly. You really forgot you were exercising? How lucky for you. If I grab my phone right now to call for your ridiculous program, maybe I’ll forget how much I hate the sound of my Asics pounding the pavement at 5am (Ohio time), and how much my body revolts when physical activity is introduced into its happily sedentary, margarita-infused world. Doubtful. Go pick the popcorn out of your teeth and miraculously lose five more pounds, skinny wench.
Now that I think about it, I just realized I forgot something important myself. Vegas is a 24-hour city. Even better, there’s an open Dunkin’ Donuts downstairs to the right of the elevator. And since I won a couple bucks on the video poker machine tonight, donut run* is on me.
Don’t wait up. I won’t be back. There’s an infomercial promising I can make millions and retire next year. And shipping is free!
*“Run” as a figure of speech, not a verb. No physical activity is implied by this statement.
Top 5 Billy Bob Thornton Weirdnesses I actually tolerated and attributed to common, typical celebrity weirdness…
5. A fear of antique furniture, mostly French (wonder if that includes French-Canadian dining room tables with spots of mashed potatoes?)
4. Fear of flatware (I hate washing forks, but I’m certainly not scared of a steak knife…)
3. Five marriages. Really, after about #3, I’d take a serious look at myself. When does marriage/divorce become a hobby and not a meaningful activity?
2. The whole blood-around-the-neck thing. I know you claimed they weren’t vials but instead “lockets with a drop of blood”. Is there a difference? Blood around the neck is blood around the neck. Majorly creepy.
1. Suggest that mashed potatoes should be eaten WITHOUT gravy.
This one is the topper. I just can’t imagine why a man in his right mind (loosely speaking) would ever disrespect one fan (you know, those crazy people who make you popular by buying your music and watching your movies), let alone an entire nation of them. Luckily, I’m an American country music fan and can eat potatoes in whatever way I chose without being labeled, but I still feel he’s unfair to my Canadian friends.
The worst part of his digression suggests that mashed potatoes should be (or physically CAN be) eaten without a topping. Most times, I’d rather eat a spoonful of gravy without potatoes. It’s like eating bread without real butter, or peanut butter without chocolate…or donuts without sprinkles. Mashed potatoes without gravy…it’s just unAmerican.
And obviously unCanadian as well. Long live gravy, the Maple Leafs, Canadians with their cute accents & country music all around the world.
I’m off to Vegas for the week tomorrow morning, bright and early at 6am. (Not so early considering I get up around 4:30 most days to write, but early to be functioning in public.) My attempt yesterday to get things together to pack fell short when I decided to conserve energy by watching soaps. In order to prioritize my time, I created a to-do list in prep for my pending jaunt. Here are my top 5 to-dos before Vegas:
5. Find passport and confirmation number
4. Find cords for netbook, camera, cellphone, iPod and camera-to-netbook
3. Pack clothes & stuff
2. Run vaccuum & dust to be sure we still have white carpet
1. Make stock
Now, lest ye be thinking I’m joking, I’m not. Rummaging through the fridge last night, I realized I had a wealth of veggies that will be no good upon my return (since I know the boys use my being away from the kitchen as an excuse to stuff themselves with all things fast food and fried). I’ve saved a turkey and chicken carcass in the freezer (thanks to my kitchen hero Alton Brown’s suggestion) and have no remaining tubs of frozen stock-sicles in the basement upright.
Homemade stock is really one of the most simple things in the universe to create (besided microwaved peeps). After the first time I made my own, I resolved to only buy stock when in dire straits (Money for Nothin’ and Chicks for free…or was it checks?). There’s such an amazing depth of flavor with your own stock that can’t be replicated, even from the cool septic flip-top stock boxes.
Feeling adventurous, I wanted to shake up the stock-making process. After surfing through a number of sites, I found my idea: roasting the veggies before simmering. (Thanks to the WellFed blog for this idea). I tossed all my fridge findings into the largest pan I (currently) own (because I’ve ordered a huge sheet pan from one of my students at school…finally a fundraiser I can get into…Pampered Chef!): carrots, celery, onions, tomatoes (never tried those before but love them roasted), half a can of baby peas I didn’t finish this week & garlic. Tossed on my favorite herbs including rosemary, sage, thyme, fresh cilantro (again, a new addition…it will go to waste with me gone this week since the boys chop nothing in my absence) pepper mix and a little salt to draw out the moisture from the tomatoes, then gave the whole lot a thorough virgination with olive oil.
Here’s a group shot in their Sunday best:
They’re in the oven now, roasting and toasting their way to carmelized goodness. It’s just starting to smell homey (as the boys would say, “smells like Thanksgiving”. I don’t think so, but it is a lovely aroma), which will give me about an hour to get myself cracking on the other 4 items on my to-do list.
Being gainfully employed (and grateful to be, given these economic times) at a job that robs me of nearly all the functional daylight hours of my life, daytime TV holds a great deal of mystique for me. In the days I’m home, I always have plans to write, cook, and sleep. As it ends up, I find myself captivated by idle chatter on topics that numb my mind.
Today is no exception. After wolfing down two Friday Donuts, I had to step away from the Jolly Pirate box for the safety of all involved and found the remote pointed in the direction of Regis & Kelly. (My only explanation is that the batteries in the remote are nearly dead and I needed a bit of recoup time after the frosted devil’s food/coconut combo).
Imagine my pleasure when Regis pulled out a plate crammed with yellow Peeps and shared a few facts. Nothing I didn’t already know (32 calories in a Peep, Kelly). Unfortunately my enjoyment was short-lived when Kelly squealed in her annoyingly sorority-girl way and proclaimed to the daytime tv-viewing world that fresh Peeps were the best.
WHAT?!
As much as I adore those marshmallow beasts, there’s just nothing to them until they’re chewy (or, as Kelly wrongly termed, “stale”.) Luckily, one evening without the protective cellphane wrapper turns those sugary babies chewy. 8 hours to pure Peep heaven is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
All this talk of Peeps reminded me of one thing: sugar. And the thought of sugar reminded me of one thing: donuts. How the heck did I get on this couch when there’s an open box of donuts on the counter?
Cybele over at CandyBlog has it goin’ on. Love this girl’s foodventures. And considering I’m a massive Peep-a-holic, her post on Peeps Mash Ups had me cracking up this morning! I wonder if she fell down the stairs with a glass jar of green beans and knocked herself silly when she was three, too….hmmm….
Most of my life, I’ve been the odd girl out. I hate shopping, own barely 10 pairs of shoes, would rather spend an evening with a book and a glass of wine instead of at a bar and I find Brad Pitt utterly disgusting (especially with a five-o’clock shadow). After doing some genealogical research to figure out where my branch of the family tree went horribly wrong, I discovered that my weird ways have no correlation to the strange pocket of Heinz-57 relatives but to an incident at the age of three involving home-canned green beans, a slippery staircase and a desire to win the race to the bottom of said staircase. (I have the scar to prove this).
Most disturbing of all my quirks is my constant, continual (they aren’t synonyms, by the way. Learn your grammar rules!) unending fascination and lust of all things food. As a young girl, I loved birthday parties. Not for the presents and balloons, but for the CAKE. (Yes, cake makes me shout. Obviously you‘ve never had my mom‘s cakes). One of the few payoffs of religiously attending church (pun intended), aside from the chance to absolve my sinning, teenaged soul (I did steal the off-brand strawberry lip gloss from Hart’s Department store once in 6th grade but that sin was immediately punished because the flavor was more cheap wax from China and not the coveted Bonne Bell signature strawberry…note to self…next time, steal the real stuff) was the amazing array of food in the musty, paneled church basement on those wonderful Potluck Sundays. My one year away at college was a glut-fest, beginning in the morning with two topped-off bowls of Froot-Loops (since my baby bro is diabetic, we were a non-sugar household, which may explain my obsession to this day with buying a dozen clown-head topped cupcakes and licking the crappy store-bakery frosting while tossing aside the heads with no remorse) and ending with visits to study tables not for the camaraderie but the popcorn and other snacks. Waking up doesn’t trigger worry with all the tasks I must accomplish in the day ahead of me, it triggers me with breakfast anxiety: sweet or savory? Fried or poached? Sugar or Protein? (damn Dr. Atkins and his brainwashing.)
Like Ryan Buell of the Paranormal Research Society (best A&E ghost show ever), I know I’m not alone in my quest (for food as well as the supernatural). Unlike the PRS, I won’t be driving away evil spirits but enticing them with my food adventures, culinary exploits and general need to take at least a bite of everything life throws in my path. I’d love it if you’d join me…(and BYOD…because I don’t share donuts.)