cooking

Pancake Children, Famous Grouse, Goddamn Leftover Pizza

I’ve heard that sometimes when parents are dissatisfied with something in their lives, they will actually try to correct their own deficiencies by imposing on their children. Interesting, because this morning my breakfast tasted a little off—pre-grinding the flax seeds was probably the mistake, so I imposed buttermilk pancakes on one of my children to make up for it. This is the younger one—have I mentioned him? Man is he grumpy in the morning, and, even by my liberal standards, too young for coffee or cigarettes. It worked, though. It was the first day in months he didn’t grouse theatrically about his options, even though on a given morning I might offer several choices, including, say, a bagel with a schmear, a warm homemade soft pretzel with butter from Vermont, a bowl of cereal of the kind I would have been allowed only when my parents were away on vacation, or a slice of goddamn leftover pizza.

Transition [editor, please finesse]: I’m a third child, but–I am always telling him—I can relate! I remember being grumpy too. For instance, I was grumpy when I got up a few minutes early to have a little peace and quiet before anyone else was up grumbling about why there were no croissants or bacon, and then I made myself a really nice breakfast, but it had this off, fishy flavor because, I think, of the flax seeds. So, birth order: I have two older siblings and they are twins. Who knows what that means in terms of their psychology, except what I can tell you, which is very little of course, because they can beat me up. I did read recently about the “pancake theory” of birth order, comparing first pancakes to first children. I guess the idea is that they are similarly goofy, greasy and misshapen. Wow, it sounds like some well-meaning parent was trying to make a third or fourth child feel good, the way my parents used to look at an A- and reassure me that I might still become, if not a computer scientist or an academic, maybe an artist. In a way, I think I am one. My first pancakes are often just as pretty as the others.

Blessings, Bivalves, Blame

Some of my timing was off—I have only two ovens. But I think I came into the Thanksgiving meal as open-hearted as I ever am (period,) and I felt like I meant it when I told the family— both sides, all siblings, all parents— that they were welcome to offer a blessing of their choice before I started around with the platter of turkey, as long as they said it silently, so we could all live and let live, man. I guess I got flustered anyway—I mean, even though my intentions were honest—because I remember being heckled a little, and then, as a result, not allowing people time to be introspective or thankful, and then hearing myself say “amen.” Grandmother Shippy is scolding me gently from wherever she believes she ascended/went/is. But mostly for the texture of the chocolate silk pie—I can’t find her recipe.

Maybe I should have given a toast instead. Not the kind where I lose a $40 bet because Cookie always keeps his wits, and ten minutes is a long time to let a nice Malbec go untouched when you’re eating a hamburger. Probably also not the kind Pete Evans gives at the end of every episode of Moveable Feast by Fine Cooking. (If that is the official name of the show, they just got the extra strong opinions equivalent of the Colbert Bump.) It was hard to imagine why anyone would want or need a non-competitive cooking show not starring Christopher Kimball, but I DVR’d it because I heard Marcus Samuelsson was going to be making his yardbird, and I wondered if I could cut any corners next time. (No.) Pete Evans’ huge, relentless smile, Alex DeLarge eyes, and fake Australian accent make it infomercial-addictive. Well, the internet says he’s fair dinkum Australian, but he sounds like an Outback Steakhouse commercial, and I don’t mind saying something a little biting, because he thinks the Paleo diet can cure autism. After raving to Kay about this guy, and trying out my own Australian accent on her—it cuts in and out, but I can do “nice carrot salad” consistently—I went back to see if I was remembering him correctly. He must go on and off his meds–it seems unlikely his enthusiasm for San Francisco chocolate is simply 1000 times greater than his enthusiasm for New England bivalves. Then again, I suppose the imperative to misappropriate Hemingway at the end of every show was likely not his decision. But if there’s one thing the holidays and family remind us, it’s that it doesn’t matter whom you blame, just find someone close to you.

Lance Armstrong, Casseroles, Not-Snobbery

This was going to be my Lance Armstrong entry, where I talked about DNF-ing in the NY Marathon, and quitting being forever, etc. I guess that might have sounded a little self-loathing. Even though I was not able to get my hands on any good blood transfusions, I finished the run on Sunday, so I guess if I’m going to be able to put anything new out there today, I have to try to do something with Billy’s suggestion, and talk about casseroles.
On Sunday afternoon, when I saw Billy for an unlikely second time in three weeks, I had just run a marathon, and then tried for about an hour in the freezing wind to find our hotel, which was only a few blocks from the finish line, while he, Brad and Ty watched a little dot track us on Stevie’s phone, laughing meanly as we walked several blocks in the wrong direction. Then I arrived at the hotel bar and quickly finished two tequila grapefruits, so I thought chances were pretty good I would forget he’d mentioned the casserole thing.  Well, all I wrote was

casseroles  blog

so I don’t remember if there was a context, and now I can’t ask Billy because he is back in Guatemala, dealing with what sounds like some very sordid business of the kind you probably already associate with Guatemala, I would have said unfairly. And, actually, in order not to perpetuate any stereotypes, I won’t say what it is, except it’s not gastroenterological in nature, and it doesn’t involve exploding helicopters either. I suspect, now that I think about it, that he was trying to goad me into revealing a little bit of snobbery, like the time he tried to suggest the burrito I was eating during the ALS Facebook challenge wasn’t from Taco Bell, or that I wasn’t even eating it, or, damn it Billy… I did the challenge, even after it stopped being cool.

I have two things to say about casseroles.

Thing one: When we were second years at UVA, I wanted to make something Sara Rydell would like. At the time, she didn’t enjoy lentils, for example, as much as Bridget, Jill and I did. We liked to share mini packs of M&M’s #covertbailey #insidejoke #deliberatemisuseofhashtags, but otherwise our taste in food didn’t overlap all that much. So I decided to make Sara Grandmother Shippy’s Heavenly Hamburger, because I knew she liked hamburgers! But she did not–as it turned out, at the time, as it turned out–like tomatoes, sour cream, onions, cream cheese, garlic powder, onion granules, egg noodles… Sara, please edit. She was really sweet about it. I bet we grabbed a fro-yo after.

The second casserole thing: I was introduced to a Sandra Lee semi-homemade chicken enchilada casserole at some point while I was pregnant. It had cream of mushroom soup in it, which I left in. I adapted it to include real cheese, corn tortillas, and some plants, like cilantro and scallions.  And pickled jalapeños. It still felt like cheating, but lots of people have eaten it and not complained. I haven’t made it lately because the Cooks Illustrated recipe for chicken enchiladas seems more defensible.

But it turns out I’m still very lazy in the kitchen. The other day, I came across a recipe for harissa, and I realized I have been buying prepared harissa. Which reminds me of the other thing Lance Armstrong says: “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.” That was him, [sic] right? I don’t know of any casseroles that call for harissa, but I bet they’d be flavorful.