I’d eat you if you weren’t made of plastic.
More weekend cat blogging:
Kiri at eatstuff
Tanuki and Yoshi at a cat in the kitchen
Meow Meow at masak-masak
Nic’s hungry kitty at bakingsheet (No! Not the pie!!)
Bella at a few of my favourite things
and Edith (and her cute tongue!) over at anne’s food
Wheee! New playmate! Aw, whaddya mean we only get to visit her once a week??
It’s meme time! This one’s the Five Childhood Food Memories You Miss meme, and this time, we were tagged by Ruth from the lovely Once Upon a Feast blog out of Toronto, Canada. Chopper and I got quite a kick out of our reminiscing fest, though I have to say that if anything, this meme should make two things abundantly clear. One, we sure as heck weren’t raised as foodies, and two, is it any wonder we’re both a little weird now?
1. My Mom’s Welsh rarebit. When I was growing up my family never had much money. So, dinner was, for me anyway, a choice of weevils… er, I mean evils. Oh the agony of having to choose between foods that you know you’re not going to like. But, this was one particular dish that my mother was able to get me to eat at my young age simply by telling me, “this is Superman’s favorite food.” ‘Nuff said, though in retrospect I should have been more skeptical of the idea of Superman eating bland cheesy sauce (with water instead of beer) spread on a plate of, not toast, but crushed saltines.
2. My Grandmother’s Hamburger Country Gravy. One of my most fond food memories. My grandmother was the classic 50s housewife. She could cook anything, as long as it was “brown, hot, and plenty of it.” She also had a knack for baking as well; her buttermilk biscuits were the stuff of legend, especially when she combined them with the amazing, rich and flavorful country gravy, spiked with hamburger instead of sausage. I still yearn for that sometimes, and I only wish she’d shown me how to make it before she passed away :-(
3. My Grandfather’s Fried Grits. The ONLY thing my grandfather ever cooked, but tasty none the less. When I saw him break out the blue box of white grits in the mornings before I would go help him at his hydraulic shop, I knew a great day starter was on the way. He would boil them up, and then put them straight into the freezer. Fifteen minutes later, just enough time to make and have his first cup of coffee, they would come out — a solid mass of coagulated cornmeal. With a few passes of a sharp knife they became perfect little cakes that he would then toss onto a hot, oiled pan. A few minutes later we had an amazing breakfast, especially when combined with butter and honey.
4. My Dad’s artichokes. I know, I know. How hard is it NOT to make a good artichoke? But, my dad has a way with them that even I have yet to duplicate properly. I don’t know if it’s something he added to the flower itself, or to the water it’s cooked in, or even the special butter/mayo sauce he made for dipping the petals. Either way, it was amazing, and it still remains one of my personal challenges to emulate. I know I’d order it if it were offered by a restaurant.
5. My Sister’s Tuna Casserole. A strong memory if for no other reason than the trauma of it. The casserole wasn’t “bad” per se, but it was the only thing we got to eat if our mom ever had to work late, which was all too often. There are still stories about it in my family; how mom would tell us that she had to work late on a given night, and the first thing out of my mouth in response was, “oh no! Tuna casserole again!?” This always brings a chorus of laughter.
1. Mom’s Cottage cheese and shrimp blintzes. Mom doesn’t cook anymore. In fact she insists now that she loathes cooking (which explains why the kitchen in her house is so tiny and non-functional; she had it built that way so it could make the statement “don’t you dare make me cook in here”). In my childhood, she cooked, though we never had the budget for much extravagance. Instead, we enjoyed simple meals — beef stroganoff, meatloaf, and something I vaguely remember as Poor Poet’s Chicken. My favorite dish though, was cottage cheese and shrimp blintzes. I asked her recently what the filling contained and she couldn’t quite remember. What I remember is this: dollops of cottage cheese mixed with cans of shrimp, chopped celery (I always hated it when she added too much of that), and I think some other kind of creamy binder as well, perhaps sour cream. This was, I should note, long before my gut rebelled and decided to go lactose intolerant on me.
I loved the taste of these blintzes, but just as much, I loved the packaging. I loved seeing them all lined up on my plate with a toothpick holding each blintz together. The best part of the ritual? At dinner’s end I’d count my toothpicks to determine how many blintzes I’d eaten. Chances were I had more toothpicks than anyone else.
2. Mom’s home made granola. My dad was a granola nut. He loved granola back when it wasn’t easy or cheap to find at the store. So, we made ours at home. Mom never put anything extra fancy in it — the main ingredients I remember were Quaker oats and cashews — but I loved the roasted nutty smell that filled the kitchen when she pulled the baking sheet out of the oven.
After a bad batch (I think the oats had gone rancid) and complaints from Dad about the flavor, Mom quit making granola for good. I’ve tried, in the intervening years, to get her to resume the practice, but I’ve always failed. The other night though, I caught an episode of Good Eats that included Alton’s homemade granola. Now I’m inspired. It’s time to revive a tradition.
3. Royal Anne Cherries from the tree. Not just from the tree, but in the tree. And this ritual didn’t just include eating the cherries; it included spitting the pits at my next door neighbor while she sat high in the branches of the Bing cherry tree just ten feet away.
Trouble was this: The Royal Annes tasted better but the Bings left one hell of a stain. I didn’t care. I’d go for taste over cleanliness every time and end the meal with dark purple stains all over my legs, arms, face, and clothes. Pits stuck to my ratty hair and in the creases of my cut-offs. I had a whopper of a tummy ache from over-eating, but boy, those cherries tasted good and those pits traveled far.
4. The Christmas Cookie Decorating Extravaganza. Our family had odd Christmas traditions. First off, we lived in an old farm house on half an acre, so if we could find a corner of the property to stick a live Christmas tree in, we’d do it. This meant no endless run of cut Douglas or Noble firs, but instead an odd assortment from traditional to the decidedly off-beat Alpine fir that ended up taking a place in the lawn just up the slope from Dad’s tiny, man-made pond. Because we bought live trees, our window for decorating was quite short: decorations went up on Christmas Eve and down New Year’s Eve. This prompted little in the way of store-bought ornaments: what was the point when we’d only see them for seven days? Instead, our tree was all about the food. Candy canes, rosettes, and the most elaborate part of it all: hand carved and decorated Christmas cookies with a new theme each year.
The alpine fir? All hippies. Our gingerbread men had long hair, love beads, and tie-dyed shirts. In Junior high, I went rock star on the tree, turning all the cookie men into members of The Who and the Rolling stones. Then — high school it might have been — when, as the youngest of seven and with everyone else out of the house and me ensconced in the position of Cookie Theme Designator, I declared it British History Season and went over-the-top, hog wild with everything from images of Queen Elizabeth, Henry V, Henry VIII and Richard III, to characters from the Bayeux tapestry. And this time, I documented it. Not only that, somewhere in our basement among all the old family belongings, I’ve got a box of carefully packed cookie tins, all labeled “Archival Christmas Cookies.” So much for our edible tree!
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5. The Retro Candy Machine Next Door. Despite living on a scraggly half acre with veggie garden, chicken coop, and dueling cherry trees, we were, on the north side, just a short walk from a highway overpass, a steep parking lot (that iced over in the winter and made for great sledding), and an office building with the World’s Greatest Candy Machine.
It wasn’t that the candy machine contained the world’s greatest candy; it was that this candy machine was always behind the times by at least ten cents. Pack of Juicy Fruit gum elsewhere: 20 cents. Juicy Fruit here: 10 cents. Uno bar elsewhere: 35 cents. Here: 25. Is it any wonder I developed a serious sweet tooth? My neighbor (that same cherry pit rival) and I would sneak into the building with pockets full of change at least three or four times a week. I don’t know if Dad ever noticed the depletion in his change jar, but if he had, he probably would have been quite content to see my liberties excused by an occasional pack of 15 cent Necco wafers on his desk.
How the meme works:
Choose Choose 4 bloggers to tag (none of whom are obliged to take part):
Note: I haven’t a chance to check if any of these bloggers have completed the meme already. If you have — ignore me! Oh, and if you didn’t get a taggity tag tag email from me and you’re reading your name below, it’s because it’s 1:43 am and I have to be on the 6 am ferry tomorrow morning and then drive seven hours to a freakin’ wedding in Newport. So there! I promise I’ll email upon my return. If I still have a brain.
1. cookiecrumb of I’m Mad and I Eat
2. the mage of Kitchenmage
3. boo_licious of masak-masak
4. Melissa of the Traveler’s Lunchbox
Now, remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump every one up one place; add your blog’s name in the #5 spot; link to each of the other blogs for the desired effect.
1. Station Gourmande
2. Tasca Da Elvira/Tarzile.com
3. Pumpkin Pie Bungalow
4. Once Upon a Feast
5. Belly-Timber
(Since we, the notoriously last minute, broke our record for tardiness during Dine & Dish #3 and posted a full two weeks late, for Dine & Dish #4 we offer up this Three Act Drama as an apology, and plead forgiveness for any past transgressions. As for our current transgressions, let us just say that we kid because we love. Honest, we do… Sorry, Rachael. We couldn’t help ourselves.)
ACT ONE
EXT. FARMER’S MARKET – DAY
MRS D. strolls down the main aisle. She has the look of someone on a serious java jive. CHOPPER DAVE follows, visibly perplexed.
(Obvious tip #1: Buying your meal at a farmer’s market or outdoor stand saves you even more money because farm vendors hardly ever bother to calculate meal tax!)
ACT TWO
EXT. DOWNTOWN FRIDAY HARBOR – DAY
Mrs. D strolls past galleries, even perkier than before. Chopper follows, lurking in doorways, always at least ten feet away.
Many of the best restaurants here open for lunch with smaller versions of their high-end dinner dishes, and while a lot of these places look great, most of them are just beyond my price range, and I want to stay in my budget and leave plenty of room for dinner. So, how do I find a perfect place for lunch on my budget? Ask the locals, of course!
CUT TO:
INT. ART GALLERY — DAY
A totally staged conversation
CUT TO:
EXT. GOLDEN TRIANGLE – DAY
Mrs. D pulls up a seat at an outdoor table. Chopper sighs heavily, sets two mugs of beer on the table and joins her.
Chopper buries his head in his hands.
(Obvious Tip #2: Don’t eat at expensive places if you’re on a budget!)
ACT THREE
EXT. MADRONA BAR AND GRILL – ROCHE HARBOR – DAY
Chopper is at the bar. He’s on his fourth pint.
Mrs. D flags a server.
Chopper chokes on a mouthful of beer.
The server points to an item on the menu.
Mrs. D jumps up from the table and takes a step toward the kitchen.
Chopper sits Mrs D back down at the table.
Mrs. D bursts into tears.
Chopper lowers his shades for a moment and raises an eyebrow. He flags the waiter.
San Juan Farmer’s Market
10 a.m. to 1 p.m.
Saturdays at the County Courthouse parking lot on Second Street in Friday Harbor.
Open May to mid-October weather permitting.
Golden Triangle
Spring St & 1st St
Madrona Bar & Grill,
Roche Harbor
2005 Hours:
May 1 thru May 19 open 4 p.m. to 10 p.m.
May 20 thru Sept 5 open 11 a.m. to 12 midnight.
It’s like this, see. First, my captors disappear for a weekend at some silly thing called a wedding which means NO PHOTO of me for Weekend Cat Blogging #11. Second, my female captor returns with a summer cold. The sniffles, of all things, and she claims that — what with work and all — she’s too tired to post! TOO TIRED TO POST?? I’ve got news for you, missy. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m seventeen years old. That’s a hundred and nineteen in captor years and here I am posting! Put that in your bowl and lick it, baby!
Oh, and did I mention my male captor has a new work schedule? (Yes, work: How sad for them to have to work while I dodge that evil black fluffy thing all day!) Supposedly, adjusting to his new schedule takes time, and so he too is (yes, you guessed it) TOO TIRED TO POST.
Oh the tragedy of it all.
Well. Here I am at any rate, and I see that I am in fine feline company once again this weekend. For all the details and visits to others of superior intellect and agility, venture over to Kiri’s blog, where his captor, Clare, (who does have time to post, unlike some captors) has put up a nice collection of Weekend Cat Blogging links.