Monthly Archives: February 2016

What’s My Lunch?

Posted on February 26, 2016 by | Leave a comment

Painted in Waterlogue

We’re having dinner tonight with a friend of mine who’s in town working on a new game show. I hope the conversation won’t turn too Inside Baseball for her comfort. My friend is hoping to find a way to hire me for the show, but even if we can’t work it out he’s excited to share details of his new project.  We can talk games for hours. She likes them well enough, some more than others of course: she’s a big Jeopardy! fan, but she’s especially fond of What’s My Line?, the long-running show in which panelists try to figure out the occupations of strangers. In the final round, the panelists wore blindfolds and tried to guess the identity of a celebrity. Of course she likes that one, especially the oldest episodes in which the male panelists wore tuxedos and the ladies wore gowns. Everyone was exceedingly polite, and any jokes were at the expenses of the panelists or celebrity guests, never the civilian contestants. It was very classy.

She’s probably seen a few episodes of Pyramid, the show my friend is working on, but probably couldn’t name its best-known host or hum its theme song. That’s fine with me. She knows plenty of pop-culture references that I don’t, and she doesn’t belittle my affection for this genre. We’re all musical, too; we’ll have plenty to talk about. I’m excited to introduce the two of them, since they have something in common that they may not realize: I’d been on-line friends with them both for a long time before we met in person. And in both cases, it’s worked out well since.

I worked at home this morning, writing and recording a vocal arrangement for my choir. When lunch time arrived, I realized I hadn’t made any plans or packed anything for myself. I opened the fridge as if to welcome tonight’s Mystery Guest or reveal the Big Deal of the Day. It’s Friday, so a ham sandwich was not an option. (“1 down and 9 to go…Miss Kilgallen?”)

I found some leftover pasta and shaved a little cheese over it. I broke up a few spears of asparagus and some green beans and put them into the bowl, along with some grape tomatoes (halved, the better to let their juices contribute to a makeshift sauce). Two minutes in the microwave, and everything was toasty.  Here we are, on the third Friday of Lent, and I still haven’t had to resort to a tuna sub or a take-out fish sandwich. I felt good about that.

After dinner tonight, we’re going to see a Broadway show in which another friend is appearing, and staying in a hotel near her office. Tomorrow morning, we have tickets to a taping of another game show—a new version of What’s My Line?, of all things!

The noodles in my lunch, by the way, were bow-tie shaped. Appropriately classy, wouldn’t you say?

 

Leave a comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Grownupable

Posted on February 24, 2016 by | Leave a comment

Painted in Waterlogue

“Any lunch requests?” I asked, as she started toward the shower.

“Bits and pieces,” she said. “So I don’t have to wait for the microwave.”

Her office has a pretty big staff and a pretty small kitchen. And one single, temperamental, microwave oven. It seems to take several tries to get a dish heated through, at which point the temperature might go from “still mostly cold” to “this will blister your soft palate.” And since there’s often a line of other busy people waiting to use the machine, she’s beginning to find the whole thing more frustrating than it’s worth.

So, okay. Something she can eat at room temperature.

We went to the theatre with friends on Saturday evening: the performance was a late-afternoon matinee of The Great Gatsby. We planned pre-theatre snacks and dinner after the show. Okay, she planned the snacks: our friends poured the wine and seltzer, while she laid our cabaret-style table with an assortment of olives, cheeses, sausages, and sliced baguettes. It was delightful, and so was the dinner that followed. (The production was good, too, though the play itself is a bit hard to follow, especially for someone like me who’s never read the book on which it’s based.)

For her lunch today, I packed up some of our theatre-snack leftovers. Cheese, crackers, vegetables, and cured meat slices and a hard-cooked egg; also little containers of lemon cookies and peeled-and-segmented clementine. It was hardly the most extravagant lunch I’d ever served her. It took no time at all for me to prepare–and, provided she remembers to take it out of the office fridge a little while before she’s hungry so it can come back to room temperature, it will be just what she asked for without much effort on her part either.  It looked a lot like the pre-packaged sort of thing kids might bring to school—though, befitting the diner, a little classier. Her very own grown-up Lunchable.

(Mine too. I’m packing the same for my train-ride-to-town lunch.)

Maybe I should make some chocolate pudding in case we want the same thing tomorrow.

IMG_0097

 

Leave a comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , ,

Not So Casual Day

Posted on February 22, 2016 by | Leave a comment

Painted in Waterlogue

She wore jeans to the office on Friday. No big surprise there; she often does that, and sometimes on mid-week days when she doesn’t have meetings planned. Even in jeans, she looks professional, put-together, and not a bit sloppy: she looked, as she always does, classy.

I was wearing running clothes, as I usually do for breakfast-and-lunch prep and ferrying her to the train; I usually run or exercise or do whatever semi-messy chores the day-start requires after she’s on her way. I didn’t have time to run on Friday, though; I had to get to church for a funeral service.

I’d never met the deceased, a woman in her 80s who’d been in a nursing facility for the past few years; I’d only spoken with her husband a couple of times. He’s a trim, well-spoken fellow, who was holding himself together, just. During the service, his brother-in-law told the story of they met, how his sister had plenty of suitors but this skinny guy somehow won her heart, and as they dated and even long into their marriage he looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Others told stories of their entertaining, her gardening, her love for books; how classy she was.

At the reception after the service, I saw some photographs of the two of them in younger days, including the wedding portrait that had been displayed at the front of the church. I’ve seen plenty of old photographs, and lots of wedding portraits that make me think, “Well, that was how people looked then.” Not this time: this lady was beautiful for any generation. And classy. And he had that same, “Me? Really? With her?” look. (I suspect you’ll recognize that same look on my face in photos of us.)

I hadn’t planned it this way, but was glad for the lunch I’d packed us both: plenty of crunch, a little salt, and a little sweetness.

Roasted Beet and Clementine Salad

2 roasted beets, peeled and sliced or chopped into bite-sized wedges.
1 small package of soft goat cheese, crumbled
2 teaspoons pecans, toasted in a dry sauté pan until fragrant.
2 cups of assorted salad greens
1 clementine, peeled, sliced in half, and segmented (but not squeezed)
1/2 tsp each balsamic vinegar and olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Toss all in a large bowl, then plate or package into to-go containers.

Serves 2, who would rather be dining together.

I didn’t loosen my tie as I finished my day. I wanted to look good when I picked her up from the train. I was careful not to spill salad on my shirt.

 

Beet and clementine salad.png

 

Leave a comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , , , ,

His and Hers

Posted on February 16, 2016 by | 2 comments
IMG_0095.jpg

We got a late start this morning, so I didn’t get a photo of her lunch before she had to leave.

As we pulled into the market to gather some greens, I noticed the giant electronic sign displaying specials.

“You really don’t like tuna,” I said with a bit of a sigh.  I meant the good stuff, not the canned kind that might be suitable for glopping up with mayonnaise or feeding to the cats; Not only was it a terrific price, the fishmonger was cutting it to order.

“No,” she said apologetically, “but you should get some for you. I’ll be happy with boxed macaroni and cheese.” I frowned at that thought. I don’t want to cook something for myself that she won’t eat.

But by the time we reached the seafood area, I had an change of heart. I picked up a cod filet for her, and a tuna steak for me–two portions worth: dinner, and a near-future lunch for each of us. We continued our afternoon of errands and chores, starting to clear out the rented storage unit and bring the things we really mean to keep into our newly-finished and convenient-to-use attic space.

Half an hour before dinnertime, I portioned the cod and made packets for baking, each filet resting on a little bed of trimmed green beans, sprinkled with some dill, salt and pepper, a bit of olive oil and a slice of lemon. 20 minutes in a 400F oven, and it would be perfect. Meanwhile, the tuna hung out on the counter to come to room-temp.

When the cod had 5 minutes to go, I heated a skillet and set an inch of salted water to boil in a saucepan. I sprinkled the tuna with salt, pepper, and chili powder, and cleaned some broccoli. The stems went into the water first; a drizzle of oil went into the skillet. The florets joined the stems, and the tuna started searing–a minute-thirty on each side and it was just the way I wanted: blackened outside, rare inside.

We frequently have different things for breakfast or lunch. When we’re at a restaurant, it’s not odd at all that we choose different entrees. I’m not sure why I was hesitant to cook different things for us at home. It might not be an everyday occurrence, but I won’t be afraid to do it again.

 

2 Comments

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , ,

Not So Fast

Posted on February 15, 2016 by | Leave a comment

IMG_0092Although my Lenten Friday lunch was delicious and made from ingredients-on-hand, it didn’t mean I had no intention of not buying groceries or cooking something wonderful, or even going out for dinner sometime. Especially since it was the Friday before our first Valentine’s Day as newlyweds–and doubly-especially since my Valentine’s Day itself was overscheduled with church, a condo association meeting, and a long evening rehearsal.

I left my office when she left hers, and headed out to do some marketing. (Her commute is much longer than mine; I knew it allowed for errands.) By the time her train was approaching the station, I had developed a dinner idea and sourced the few ingredients I knew we didn’t have–and found and installed a new bathroom shower-head (her real Valentine’s surprise).

While she decompressed from the workday and warmed up from the frigid outdoors, I cleaned a half-pound of shrimp, then tossed the shrimp with the juice of a lime, a pinch each of salt and chili powder, and a shot of tequila. While the shrimp marinated, I grated some cheese, chopped a handful of cilantro, mashed an avocado, and found a jar of her excellent salsa in the cupboard.

She made a salad while I gave the shrimp few moments in a hot cast-iron skillet–seriously moments; it was maybe a minute-thirty tops. I chopped the shrimp roughly and started making assembling quesadillas. A tortilla, some grated cheese, a bit of shrimp, a little more cheese, a second tortilla; flip carefully to lightly brown the second side and melt the rest of the cheese.  I slid the finished product onto a plate and stashed it in a warm oven while I repeated the process, then sliced each double-disc of cheesy, shrimpy goodness into wedges, and plated the wedges with dabs of avocado, sour creme, and salsa for topping.

She took a bite and mmmmmmmdd pretty expansively. I took that as a good sign. “Dinner’s okay?” I asked. “Omigod,” she said. Leaving theology out of it, I joked, “It’s just a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“It is not just a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“Well, no. There’s seafood. And a white sauce. It’s just a few breadcrumbs away from being a McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish!” She grimaced.

Of course, it wasn’t really that either. But it wasn’t much harder to make than it would be to get a fish sandwich from a drive-through. And it was much better.

It wasn’t fasting, and it wasn’t fast food. There wasn’t much of the sacrificial about this meal—abstinence in name only, but we never said we’d be ascetic. We were grateful to be well-fed, and grateful to be together.

 

 

Leave a comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , , , ,

Not Giving Up

Posted on February 12, 2016 by | 1 comment

IMG_0091My grandmother did not teach me how to cook brisket. But if she had, I wouldn’t be making it today.

This is the first Friday in Lent, the season leading to Easter that many Christians traditionally observe by fasting and abstaining from certain foods. “What are you giving up for Lent?” is a common refrain. The church in which I grew up focuses a lot on such food-based observance: meat is not eaten on Fridays in Lent.

Which means that, according to the letter of the law, one may not eat a three-day-old pastrami sandwich—but going out for lobster would be perfectly appropriate. That doesn’t seem like much of a sacrifice to me, unless one had a shellfish allergy.

I’m not here to argue theology or the rationale for food-based religious traditions. I just wanted to have lunch. I was running a little behind this morning, so I opened the fridge to grab something left over to take with me. But I couldn’t see anything meatless.

I honestly don’t think the creator of the universe cares if I have chicken salad on Friday. And for the first time, I’m working in a church that doesn’t have the same sort of restrictive traditions regarding Lent that I grew up with. Nobody would care if I brought a bacon-triple-cheeseburger for lunch. But it would feel strange to me.

I guess I could run out at lunchtime and buy a tuna sub.

And yet going out for lunch—even a modest one—seemed against the Lenten spirit. I looked in the fridge again.

There were couple of hard-boiled eggs. And the leftover vegetables from last night’s dinner. And some brown rice. Heat the rice and veg, slice the eggs overtop, maybe a splash of soy sauce…

Give up chocolate but have the apple pie? No coffee but twice as much soda? No video games but unlimited TV? Not much gain on those plays. But modest discipline seems appropriate. It’s how I was raised. It’s what I was taught. I won’t feel a need to confess if I have a bite of turkey some Friday, but I’m not quite ready to give up all “giving up” yet.

As I ate my not-quite-bibimbap—which was so much better than than any tuna sub—I thought of my mom and my grandma. I hope they’d be pleased that I kept tradition.

Like a grandmother’s brisket.

1 Comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , , , , ,

Amazing Bowl-Grace

Posted on February 11, 2016 by | Leave a comment

IMG_0089The new job is going well, though it’s taking much more mental energy than I foolishly predicted.  There’s been plenty of Dinner at the Country House. There were great pies at Thanksgiving, and a wonderful Christmas Dinner, but neither of us has made time to write about cooking or eating or life.

As my tenure in the in the old job wore on, I felt less and less at home. That upset me more and more, especially since I was there so much of the time, and I’d loved the place for so long. As things got bad, I did what I could to make it feel more comfortable: I had a little bud vase on my desk; I had the coffee mug choir members had long ago given me, and I had my bowl.

The new office is well-appointed, and I was so thrown into the work that I hadn’t unpacked my things right away. On the day of my first staff meeting I was served coffee in a mug bearing the logo of a wine cooler I haven’t tasted in probably 20 years. The idea of that logo in a church office amused me so much I’ve been using the mug ever since, and took the choir mug home.

IMG_0090

On my first Tuesday afternoon before the second grade choristers arrived, I found my bowl and used it to heat some leftovers for lunch. I finished eating, washed and dried it in the little kitchenette, and put the bowl on the shelf with some other mismatched plates and dishes that were used by our staff.

Most days I don’t have breakfast and lunch and sometimes dinner in the office, so it was maybe a week later before I noticed that the bowl wasn’t on the shelf. No big deal, I thought; somebody else probably needed a bowl. It’s not like my bowl had my name on it. I used one of the random plates the next time I stayed in the office for dinner between rehearsals.

But my bowl didn’t turn up. I poked around in various cupboards and couldn’t find it. Maybe the somebody who used it dropped it and it broke. I was a little sad because my bowl and I had such a long history, but I’ve felt so at home in the new place that I’ve been perfectly happy to reheat my occasional working-supper in the container I brought it in.

Between services yesterday, the Rector and I were having coffee. Our spirited discussion of Ash Wednesday theology and comparisons of attendance at our services versus the ones in the old neighborhood eventually ran its course. As we rinsed our mugs in the little kitchenette sink, I asked, “Hey, here’s an unrelated question: you wouldn’t happen to have seen a big white bowl, would you?”

She hadn’t seen it. “But it’s probably in the kitchen,” she said.

The kitchen.

The kitchen where we had cooked 400 pancakes for a Shrove Tuesday supper. The one with the industrial-sized stove, the restaurant-quality dishwasher, the sinfully covetable prep tables.

And the dish room.

It never occurred to me to look there. I’d been working here for several months before I knew we had a kitchen. Shrove Tuesday was the first time I’d been in it, and we were so busy serving pancakes that it never occurred to me to look for my bowl.

I scampered off to the dish room, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves of plates and cups and salt-and-pepper set. And bowls. There it was: a big white dish that didn’t quite match the other big white dishes but was close enough that someone no doubt thought it belonged there.

“I found it!” I told her, with probably only a little more enthusiasm than the father displayed when his prodigal son returned home. She said I should take it to my office for safekeeping, but it seemed perfectly safe to me, proudly shelved among lots of other soup bowls and ready for use.

If, in the fullness of time, I have to leave this place, I’ll check in the dish room to collect it. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s got a new home. Meanwhile, the next time I want to heat some leftovers, I know where to find a good bowl.

IMG_0088

Leave a comment

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged , , , ,