The Holiday Grind

So spring has rolled around again.  I love it!  All of the beautiful colors awakening after a barren winter.  New hope emerges with the opening of the buds.  For me, springtime marks the beginning of my entertainment season as well.  It’s time to get the house and deck in order to welcome all of our guests in the coming months.  It is also time to get my kitchen in order, washing the art glass in the bay window, scrubbing the floor and reorganizing the cabinets.

Cleaning out the cabinets, I am reminded of how much I love my kitchen tools. The sauce pan which is the perfect size for the amount of gravy I usually make.  In any other pan, it never comes out exactly right.  I love the knife my sister brought back from Alaska.  It has a round blade with a wooden handle.  You rock it back and forth and it breaks down a pile of fresh herbs it just a few minutes.

Last week I came across my electric meat grinder.  This grinder I inherited from my parents.  Those blades have seen more vegetables pass through its rivets and tunnels than meat, though.  My parents used it every summer making chow-chow and hot sauce. Oh how our eyes would sting from the onions and peppers.  The tang of the vinegar would make your jaws ache as soon as you entered the front door of the house.  They would process gallons of sauce every weekend as the vegetables ripened throughout summer.  The space under every bed in the house served as storage for the cases of pint jars filled with the bounty from those hot summer days.

The times I remember this grinder grinding meats the most was around the holidays.  In my family one thing that big holidays meant was lots and lots of food.  This also meant plenty of leftovers.  The real chore was to use the leftovers in ways that kept the food interesting. One of my favorites was meat salads.  This could be turkey salad, roast beef salad, and so on.  Generally speaking the method was to put the meat through a grinder along with assorted vegetables, seasonings and dressing. 

I loved cooking with my mother and grandmother, especially at the holidays.  These are some of my happiest and richest memories.  The kitchen was full of conversation, laughter and sometimes tears.  I learned so much about my family history and myself during those kitchen sessions.  One year the Easter ham was extremely tough.  Not much of it was consumed during dinner, so you guessed it, we had an abundance of ham left over.

After the dishes were cleared and everyone else had left the kitchen, Grandma and I decided to work on the ham salad.  We all thought that this ham was a perfect candidate for the grinder.  As Mom was finishing the last few dishes at the sink, Grandma and I set ourselves up at the table across the kitchen.  I started assembling the electric grinder and chose the appropriate size bowl and the matriarch of our family was cutting up onions and deciding on the other ingredients.  This time, she chose a combination of dill and sweet pickles, mayo instead of miracle whip and maybe a little horseradish.  Not much, just enough to make you think “what‘s that zing?”.  She was expounding on her philosophy of cooking.  “You don’t want to overwhelm the palate, just tease it a little.”

Now, the trick is to alternate the ingredients as you are putting them into the grinder so it will be easier to mix at the end.  We would start with the meat, then some pickles, some onions, then a few eggs and seasonings.  After cycling in this manner a few times you will end up with a nice big bowl of layered ingredients.  At this point it just takes a bit of effort to add the dressing and stir well blending all the ingredients into a beautiful, spread able salad.  Divide it into manageable portions and freeze for some wonderful treats at a later time!

When we got everything all set, we commenced to grind.  It was my job to hand the different ingredients to Grandma as she asked for them.  “Ham, onion, a little more ham, now some pickles.  No, let’s start with the dills.”  It felt like I was assisting a great surgeon in a life saving procedure.  I giggled a little at this, so I had to explain what I thought was so funny.  Grandma looked at me with a furrowed brow and said  ”This IS very serious business!”  Of course, that just made my giggle turn into a belly laugh which really got us both going for a little while.

Then we were back to business at hand.  Things were flowing pretty well, “more ham and what about those garlic dills we put up last summer?”  I turned to the refrigerator to retrieve the requested pickles and I heard a grunt from my grandmother.  I turned around to see a deep frown on her face as she studied the bowl which was beginning to fill with the layers of ingredients.  “We seem to be stuck”  she stated flatly.

I went over to the table and sure enough the grinder was grinding away (remember it was an electric grinder), but nothing was coming out.  I looked at the surgeon as she was studying the problem.  She added a pickle spear.  She added a chunk of onion, an egg…some more ham.  All her efforts were to no avail.  The grinder was still grinding and nothing was coming out.

I considered this woman who had overcome so much in her long life. She had lost a son to the horrors of war and raised three kids during the depression.  This ham was not going to get the best of her.“Hand me a slice of bread…more ham….another pickle…that egg” pointing to the last hard boiled egg in the bowl.  The grinder was still grinding and still, nothing was coming out.  I looked towards my mother still at the sink oblivious to the pressure mounting.  I turned my attention back to Grandma who was now beginning to get frustrated.

“Honey, let me have that bowl of ham.”  I handed over the ham.  Some pickles were next.  I could feel the tension in the room rising.  This was not fun anymore.  That damn grinder just kept on grinding and nothing was coming out!  Then just when I thought I would burst from the pressure, the food let loose from the grinder.  A pink fusion of juicy sludge spewed out of the grinder at a speed hard to imagine.  It shot across the kitchen, splattering the back of my unsuspecting mother.  Grandma and I gasped in unison covering our mouths in shock then almost collapsing in laughter.

At first I thought my mother was going to be furious.  Her kitchen she had been spending all this time getting back to its normal spotless condition was now spattered with a pink gory mess!  And all we could do was laugh.  Laughing so hard I could barely breathe, my sides began to ache.  Finally, as we fell into the kitchen chairs, we began to catch our breath.  I looked over at mom and she was at last laughing too.

I must admit, I’m not sure I have used this grinder since it has been mine more than a time or two.  Nonetheless, it has a special place in my kitchen and remains one of my favorite kitchen tools.

The Mother's Day Flood of 1993

Ms.  Grace.  I still miss her so much!  She was such a big part of my life for such a long time.  I was just coming out, my mother had passed, I got a new job and moved from Norman to Oklahoma City.  It was a lot of changes for someone who enjoys the comfort of sameness.  I met Grace because she owned a rent house I was considering.  She was in her late 80’s and was just as suspicious of me as I was of her.  I wanted privacy to explore my new life as a lesbian, and she wanted someone responsible who would take care of her property.  Her house and the rent house shared a back yard, so I wasn’t sure of the privacy, but is was priced reasonably and very close to my new job.  It wasn’t long and we bonded over shared wine and food.  Grace loved her wine and food.

Grace was a fiercely independent woman.  Her Jimmy had passed many years before and with no children, she made her life about her friends.  Her memory was clear and she was very intelligent.  She always said that playing bridge kept her mind sharp. When she turned 90, she decided it was time to sell her car and give up driving.  Only after one last trip to Chicago, though.  As I said, she was a remarkable woman. Back then, I would host a dinner once a month or so for my newfound friends.  It was a wonderful way of getting to know each other.  Often, Grace would be the guest of honor.  She loved my friends and they seemed to love her, too.  She told me once, “Your friends, they all seem so…natural!” 

I remember one particular Sunday afternoon.  We were feasting on a roasted turkey dinner with all the trimmings, though it wasn’t Thanksgiving, I think it was springtime.  There were 10 or 12 of us gathered around the table with Grace seated at the head.  The conversation came around to politics.  I can still vividly picture Grace saying “The problem with the world today is that we’ve allowed the men to make all the decisions for us.  We need more women in politics!” You can imagine the response from my new friends.  That meal ended with all of us chanting “Grace Adams for President” over and over.

Grace particularly loved her Port Wine and her rib eye steak.  A woman after my own heart for sure.  There were many summer evenings that would find us on the patio sipping on wine waiting for the grill to heat.  We shared our favorite meal together more times than I can count.  It is now as it was then still one of my favorites. 

I begin by preparing the baked potatoes.  I set the oven temperature to 425 and scrub the potatoes absolutely clean.  The skins are an important part of my baked potatoes.  I rub each one with olive oil or butter and sprinkle all sides liberally with kosher salt and cracked black pepper.  I place the potatoes directly on the oven racks for 45 minutes to an hour.  The result is a crispy skin with the crunch of salt and pepper.  With the potatoes in the oven, I get the steaks out and after seasoning them with salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper and garlic powder.  I cover them and just let them rest until I’m ready.  This gives the seasonings time to thoroughly flavor the meat and for the steaks to come to room temperature.  It also gives time for a glass or so of wine to entice the taste buds, whet the appetite and lubricate the conversation.  Grace and I solved many of the world’s problems during those times.

While enjoying our drink, I turn on the grill so it can get blazing hot.  I want it to get to 550 degrees or so.  When the potatoes are almost done, I bring the steaks out.  This is one of the few instances of cooking that I really use a timer.  I place the steaks on the grill and time two minutes.  Give them a quarter turn and time two minutes more.  Flip the steaks and wait two minutes, another quarter turn and again two minutes.  Then they come off the grill onto a clean platter and promptly covered with foil.

While the steaks are resting for about 10 minutes, I tear some green leaf lettuce into a bowl, dress with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.  Shave some parmesan cheese over the top, a sprinkle of finishing salt, a few grinds of pepper and you have a perfect simple salad to accompany the perfectly simple meal. The steaks should have a nice crust on the outside with the center being medium rare. Ms. Grace could eat a whole steak.  She certainly did love her meat.

As the years went by, Grace’s health declined and she was forced to depend on others for help more.  I felt quite protective of her and would keep a close eye on those caretakers.  On the Saturday before Mother’s Day in 1993, her caretaker was out running errands.  It had been raining for days and the rain came back in with a vengeance.  Our houses were across the street from Lightening Creek in Oklahoma City.  I was busy working in the garage and had just come back from checking on Grace, she was napping.  I looked across the street and saw the park filling with water, at the same time, water was seeping into the garage.  I was amazed.  I had never witnessed this before.

I began putting things on higher shelves to protect them from the rising water.  It was all happening so fast!  The next time I looked out, the creek had risen over its banks and had totally flooded the park.  The water had started rushing into the street.  It was beginning to look scary.  I remembered Grace was alone, so I went to check on her again.  By this time, the water was rushing through our garages, which made crossing to her house more difficult.  I woke her.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  It was already too late to take her outside.  I wasn’t sure I would be able to manage getting her to safety through the rushing water.  It was already above my knees outside and though I could’ve managed myself, I was reluctant to leave Grace alone.

She was so disoriented.  She refused to believe there was a flood, as there had never been one there before.  I called 911.  They were able to offer no help.  They could not get to us.  By this time, the water had risen into the house and was ankle deep.  I got Grace out of bed and into the kitchen.  I managed to get her up onto the counter which was the highest point I could see.  The water now was about 3 feet deep and rushing through the house.  The washer and dryer were floating in the garage and constantly buzzing.  The tornado sirens were sounding.  I could see the street through the kitchen window and it looked like the river rapids, full of debris.  The smell of gasoline and sewage filled the air.  I called the sheriff’s department, they could not help.  We were stuck

.

The water showed no signs of slowing, so I began to pray.  I refused to leave Grace and was not at all sure what was going to happen.  The electricity went out.  The buzzing from the dryer stopped.  The tornado siren silenced.  The only sound left was the sound of rushing water.  The force of the water had opened the front door.  Pieces of Grace’s life were swirling about us and out the door into the river that used to be Santa Fe Avenue.  Sheets of music passed by, swirling with the rhythm of a song.  Her pink bed pan floated out the door, getting caught in the whirlpool on the porch before tossing and turning its way down the river.

Then I heard someone calling my name.  There was an alley along side of the house and the voice of an angel was calling me.  

The angel turned out being a friend of mine who had parked a few blocks away and made her way to the side of the house crawling along the fences.  She made it into the house.  With my friend’s help we tied Grace into her potty chair and between the two of us, were able to carry her out of the house through the rushing water and up the alley.  Debris carried by the current was hitting my legs and the stench of the water offending my nose.  We finally made it to safety.  I was amazed that dry land was only a couple of blocks away.

We took Grace to a friend’s house, and I stayed in a motel that night.  I had lost almost everything.  The next week, I lost one of my best friends, as Grace passed away.  The experience was just too much for her. 

I think I will go make a dinner in honor of my 95 year old landlady who loved her steak.  I will drink some wine salted with my tears as I remember another example of a strong, independent woman I have had the great opportunity to know and love.

Falling In Love

Falling in love is such a mysterious event to me.  Is it simply a combination of circumstance and opportunity?  I think you could meet the person of your dreams, but be in a bad mood that day and totally miss it.  Or is it destiny or chemistry?  For some it seems instantaneous, for others, something that develops over time.

One evening back at the end of 2003, I had plans to go to a friend’s house and cook dinner for him.  After work, I began gathering the ingredients for the night’s feast.  First stop was the wine store.  He and I shared a passion for wine.  The plan for dinner was shrimp and pasta, so I settled on a bottle of chardonnay.  My tastes are much more varied now, but back then this was a good choice.  Then on to the grocery store for the shrimp, pasta, garlic, olive oil, fresh parsley and a loaf of  bread.  With the groceries in hand, I gave my friend a call to let him know I was on my way.  There was no answer.  This wasn’t the first time I had been stood up by him, and I was more than a little perturbed at having already bought the food and now no one with whom to share it.  Then I remembered a new friend.

I had met Paula several weeks before and we were just getting to know one another.  I decided to give her a call and see if I could borrow her kitchen to prepare dinner for the two of us.  She was just getting off work, so a late dinner was perfect timing for her.  We both arrived at her apartment in the Paseo Arts District at about the same time.  As she went to the other room to change out of her uniform, I set about making myself comfortable in her kitchen.  It is always a little strange cooking in someone else’s space.

I found a pot and filled it with water. I put in on a back burner and lit the flame.  I finally located the salt and put a big palm full in the pot of water along with a bit of the oil.  While the water was heating, I poured myself a glass of wine and began the tedious task of cleaning the shrimp.  Meanwhile, Paula came into the kitchen and I could see the dark circles around her eyes and the crease in her forehead revealed that maybe this had not been a stellar day.  She was transgender and had recently transitioned while on the job as an Oklahoma City police officer.  I poured her some wine and assured her dinner would be ready soon.  After rounding the corner into her living room, she sat heavily into her recliner, the obvious weight of the day still upon her.

I finished cleaning the shrimp and put it in the fridge until I was ready for it.  I crushed 3 or 4 cloves of garlic and chopped the parsley.  I love the freshness the parsley brings to this dish.  Then I went into the living room and sat with Paula while we sipped our wine waiting for the water to boil.  She shared a little about how tough the day had been.  Back then, she was still having a difficult time on the job and her fellow officers were less than supportive.  She was on a special assignment and had spent a long, lonely, miserable day, with no one talking to her.  With a heavy sigh, she asked if she could just “chill” for a bit.  I freshened her wine and went back to the kitchen leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The water came up to a boil and I dropped in the pasta. I put the bread in the oven and heated the olive oil with a little butter in a skillet before adding the garlic. As the garlic started to sizzle, I added the shrimp.  When the shrimp was pink on the first side, I flipped them, added the parsley, salt and black pepper then turned off the heat.  By this time, the pasta was ready, so I drained it and put it in the skillet with the shrimp and oil.  I added a bit more oil and loaded our plates before topping them with a flourish of parmesan cheese.  I tore off a generous portion of bread for each of us and placed it on top of the pasta.  Not my most inspired presentation, but fine enough for an evening in front of the TV.

As I took the plates into the living room, it seemed Paula’s spirits had lifted some.  We ate, watched a movie and visited about nothing in particular.  This night didn’t particularly stand out for me.  Pasta and shrimp is one of the easiest and quickest meals you can make.  It all comes together in the amount of time it takes the water to boil and the pasta to cook.  I didn’t feel like I had done anything very special.  Later, Paula revealed to me that this was the night she started falling in love with me.  She had come home from an awful day to the surprise of me preparing a meal for her. 

For me, it was a circumstance born of a miscommunication with a friend and an abundance of perishable food needing shared.  I didn’t plan the evening, it just happened.  I believe that God brought us together.  If I had been choosing my perfect mate, I would never have thought of a transgender cop with two kids, emphasis being “cop with two kids”.   However, our union is perfect for us.  I cannot imagine my life any different now.

I remember my first moment of falling for Paula.  We were sitting in a Chili’s having dinner.  The way she flipped her hair back as she spoke made me smile.  I fell into her ocean blue eyes and have yet to come up for air.

Why Does It Cost More to Eat Healthy?

Once again, with the changing of the seasons, I am remembering the big vegetable garden of my childhood.  What I wouldn’t give today to have that same opportunity for fresh vegetables.  I do try to eat locally and mostly support a more holistic approach to my shopping and cooking.  It is unfortunately true, though, that it costs more to eat healthy.

I have been so excited to see the recent opening of more health conscious food markets in our area.  I hope it makes everyone up their game in providing alternative choices to highly processed foods so full of additives that should never have been intended to reach our bellies. I love walking into the produce section and seeing rows of fresh, colorful fruits and vegetables.  It is a great comfort to shop with the assurance of quality, in spite of the impact on my pocketbook.

I notice that as the dollars in my pocket become fewer, my choices at the grocery store lean more towards carbohydrates.  I wonder if it is more a result of the economics of the situation or a response to the stress of a financial crunch.  For me, pasta and potatoes are not only inexpensive, but very comforting as well.  For less than $15, I can make my French Oven full of one of my family’s favorites giving us enough for a hearty meal and lunches the next day.  We call it “Italian Potato Soup”.

I start this soup the same way I do most, with a sauté of chopped onions, garlic, salt, black pepper and a modest amount of red pepper flakes.  As the onions soften, I add about a pound of mild or sweet Italian sausage.  I like to get the kind that is made in-store, but you can also use the links, just remove the casings from around the meat.  The sausage has a lot of seasoning in it, so this does a lot to flavor the soup.

While the sausage is browning I get the potatoes ready.  Using a combination of Idaho potatoes and either Red or Yukon Golds gives this soup a great texture.  I peel the Idahos and leave the skin on the others.  The Red potatoes and Yukon Golds are both a waxy potato and will tend to hold their shape during the cooking process while the Idahos will break down and help the soup to a nice rich, thick texture.  I cut the potatoes into 1 to 2 inch pieces.

The sausage is so fragrant, that it will be no secret what’s for dinner tonight!  When the meat is nice and brown, I deglaze the pan with white wine, chicken broth or plain water.  Remember those crusty brown bits in the bottom of the pot are little power pockets full of flavor.

With the deglazing complete, I add the processed potatoes to the pot with enough liquid to barely cover them.  After bringing the soup to a boil, I turn it down to a fast simmer and let it go until the potatoes are almost soft.  While the potatoes are cooking, I remove the stems from a bunch of kale and slice it into about ½ inch strips.  I add the kale to the pot and by the time the potatoes are finished cooking the kale will be nicely wilted and tender.  To finish the soup, I add some cream.  You can substitute half and half or milk.  I grate in some fresh nutmeg and check the seasoning to make sure there is enough salt and pepper.  Bring it back up to heat and you have meal pleasing both to the palate and the pocketbook.  With the addition of the kale, there is an extra boost of iron as well.  This is one of my step-daughter’s favorites and I love making it for her.

Why does it cost so much more to eat healthy?  It is difficult for me to understand how a product with less additives and less processing costs more than a more natural product.  I think I know at least part of the answer.  It is because the processing and additives add to the shelf life of the end product and at the agricultural level the chemical additives create a higher yield product. 

What about economically challenged families living in the inner city?  What is their access to healthy food?    It is less expensive to go to the corner fast food restaurant or convenience store than to the local grocery store.  I mean, if I’m in this situation and I have 3 kids and $10 in my pocket with no transportation, what are my choices?  The fast food place is down the block and I can easily feed myself and the kids for $10.  The grocery store is a few miles away so how do I get there?  What can I buy for the four of us with $10?  And then, I have to make my way home with the groceries in tow before I even begin cooking.  Yes, I would probably choose fast food, too. 

I am on a quest to learn more about this subject, so expect to hear more.  I welcome your comments.