Author Archives: Him

Not Giving Up

Posted on February 12, 2016 | 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.

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Amazing Bowl-Grace

Posted on February 11, 2016 | 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.

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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.

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Lunch for the Lost

Posted on November 5, 2015 | Leave a comment

It was 7:53 AM, and the house smelled wonderful.

Onion, carrot, pepper, pork, soy greeted me when I returned from morning errands: dropping her at the train and picking up the dry cleaning. “Wow, this place smells great,” I thought for a moment, before remembering that it ought to; I made it smell that way.

Daylight Savings Time ended on Sunday. You can call the Winter Solstice the longest night, but I think the first few autumn days of Standard Time are the darkest week of the year. She takes a while to adjust to the time change–most of us do, I guess, but she says it’s like jet lag.

I was at rehearsal when her train arrived last night, so I asked her to let me know when she got home. She found the car I’d left for her, on an unfamiliar block, at an hour that’s much darker than she’s accustomed to. She drove to the polling station to cast her first ballot as a Country House dweller, then decided she wanted fried rice for dinner. Even with the voice of Google Maps chirping from her iPhone, she couldn’t find our favorite Chinese restaurant. She was disoriented and a little night-blind, and fumbled around until she found a landmark, and fumbled more until she her way home from there. I finally received a string of texts:

I am the only person I know who can get lost in my own town.

Now I know where I am. But for quite a while I didn’t. In between Stew’s and the house. Head desk!

It’s laughable. Now.

I got home to find a pot soaking in the sink, an empty bowl and spoon on her nightstand, and my pretty wife sprawled in bed and sound asleep. She’d had boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner. I kissed her good night, turned off the lights, and squeezed in to what was left of my side.

This morning, amid the late-rehearsal haze, I knew the fridge was well stocked:  chopped-up vegetables, leftover pork tenderloin, egg, peanuts, chunked pineapple and lime wedges, soy and sriracha sauces. She wanted to take a slightly later train than usual, so I had time to use them: rice only takes 20 minutes, after all. The veg got a little stir-fry while tea and coffee brewed; the pork and pineapple just needed a little warming and a chance to take on a little splash of sauce; the egg cooked in the residual heat from the savory bits and rice.  Lime wedges went on top for garnish and a squeeze of freshness at serving time.

I can’t always help with navigation, but I can give her pineapple fried rice for lunch. And, when I get home from my morning errands, I get a wonderful-smelling house as a bonus. And, maybe, an un-traditional breakfast.

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The Honeymoon Is Not Over

Posted on November 4, 2015 | Leave a comment

I’ve started a new job, and spent extra time setting things right at the old place. I’ve also had auditions and early rehearsals for a new show. Her job has been busy as ever–or maybe moreso, since she had to plan ahead before leaving for a vacation.

And then, of course, there was the matter of a wedding.

It was blissful and gorgeous and moving and all the things you’d want it to be. It was untraditional and very traditional. The bride was radiant and the groom cleaned up okay. Our friends and family sang hymns to shake the chapel’s rafters. The honeymoon that followed was great fun. And we’re well into the second week of marriage without either of us having second thoughts.

There are lots of stories to tell, and we’ll keep telling them here–maybe not on a daily basis, but as often as we can. My new job is close-by, so we have decided to stay in the Country House for the time being.

There’s no cake in the freezer; we didn’t have cake at our lunch reception. (We’ll tell you about Chef Jarrod’s frozen chocolate mousse another time.) There is, however, a meatball in the fridge, the last of far-too-much food we ordered for our we-didn’t-have-a-rehearsal-dinner.

I figure while there are still leftovers from before the wedding, the honeymoon can’t possibly be over.

It still won’t be, even if I have the meatball for lunch today.

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The Best Reason to Be out of Plates

Posted on September 6, 2015 | Leave a comment

We’ve done a very good job of reducing our kitchen–well, the whole house–to its essentials.

It might, of course, be argued that an ice cream maker is not “essential,” but it would only be so argued by someone who didn’t taste the incredibly intense vanilla goodness that came out of that churn on Friday night.

And for the two of us, or even the occasional dinner guest, our essentials are perfectly adequate. But good heavens, a long weekend with company means the dishwashing turnaround is something ferocious. Dinnerware for 6 when you’ve got 5 adults in the house means we’re washing all the dishes a couple of times a day, and we’ve run out of kitchen towels more than a time or two.

I’m not complaining. Her parents and beloved Nana are welcome any time. We have a loud, loving houseful, and I look forward to their next visit with great eagerness. (Especially since the next visit is likely to be the one for the wedding.)

But I am considering that maybe another couple of place settings would not be an imprudent investment–maybe a set we keep in on the small-appliance shelves and bring out when we need extras. We’d put them behind the ice cream maker; even as summer winds down, I think it’s going to be in heavy rotation.

The Easiest Ice Cream I’ve Ever Made
adapted from The New York Times

2 cups half-and-half
2 cups heavy cream
1 vanilla bean
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt

Split the vanilla bean lengthwise, and scrape the seeds from the pod with the blade of a knife. Add the vanilla to the half-and-half and cream in a heavy saucepan and bring to a simmer.

Remove from the heat; add the sugar and salt; stir until dissolved. Strain and refrigerate until very cold (at least four hours; overnight, if you are prepared enough to have done this the day before you want to serve it).

Churn in the ice cream maker according to its directions. (Mine takes about 20 minutes.) Serve immediately as soft ice cream or freeze in an airtight container until hard.

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Sprouts and Spies

Posted on August 25, 2015 | Leave a comment

She worked late, with a plan to pick up dinner for herself to eat on the train. I hoped that meant she hadn’t skipped lunch, but she’s a grown-up; sometimes that happens.

I wasn’t called for either of the rehearsals I’d been expecting, so I worked a while longer on a church-music project, and then headed for the market. There wasn’t much we needed, but if she wasn’t going to be home for dinner, there would be Brussels Sprouts. Or broccoli, if the sprouts didn’t look good.

They looked fine; they came pre-shredded. I would have been happy with whole ones, which I would have halved, steamed lightly, and then sautéed with some olive oil, lemon, salt, and pepper. But the shredded ones would be good, too; I could skip the steaming and make a sort of hot slaw.

I heated two pans–one cast-iron, the other non-stick–fed the cats, and put away the rest of the groceries. Our market makes great burgers studded with cheddar and bacon, but they’re too big; I bought a pair and reformed them into three. Two went into the freezer; one went into the now blazing cast-iron pan. My prep also included opening two windows and cranking the exhaust fan to its “jet engine” setting. I was determined to properly cook a burger without setting off the smoke detector.

When the burger was seared, I stuck it in the oven and turned my attention to the sprouts. Their skillet had a little oil in it; as they started to brown, I added a few drops each of soy sauce and lemon juice, tossed them a bit. I drizzled on a little maple syrup, a teaspoon of water, turned off the heat and lidded the pan. The market suggested sautéing onions and bacon with the sprouts, but my burger had bacon and I didn’t feel like onion.

By the time two slices of crusty bread were toasted, tomato was sliced, and our next-door neighbor had debriefed me of her kitchen-tile purchase, everything was ready–even a lovely cocktail of grapefruit juice, seltzer, a splash of gin, and a few drops of bitters.

She would be better company than an old TV show, but when I’m alone I’ve been making my way through the Jennifer Garner series Alias, which I haven’t seen in years. She watched the first couple of episodes with me, but the show didn’t really catch her interest–it’s too suspense-filled for her taste. She tries sprouts now and again, but they’re not her style either. That’s okay; we don’t have to like the same things, and we certainly aren’t going to impose our tastes on each other. The idea of giving her nightmares and indigestion–well, that’s what it gives me. 

So I’ll wait ’til she works late. Sprouts and spies, a burger and a beverage. It could be worse, but I’m ready for her to come home.

  

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Certainly Not the Last Supper

Posted on August 23, 2015 | Leave a comment

It’s been a year.

The Country House looks very different than it did a year ago. There are beautifully painted walls, shiny flooring, and plush-though-hard-to-keep-clean carpet. There’s no clutter–mostly because we want to live that way, but also partly because we can’t have personal items on display while the house is on the market.

I didn’t think it was possible that we’d post here less frequently in the second half of the year than in the first six months, but I’m sorry to note that we have. It’s not from lack of interest, or lack of stories to tell, and certainly not from lack of good food. It’s just been awfully busy. Shows and meetings and rehearsals and late work nights followed by early work mornings, and, of course, preparations for our wedding. Even a simple, small wedding takes plenty of preparation.

The last two Dinners at weren’t even cooked at home: perfectly adequate Tex-Mex after we finished cat-sitting duties for friends, and chicken sandwiches and fries from the drive-through that was just about to close after a tumultuous evening of theatre and the re-claiming of a lost wallet. Last night, the Dinnerversary, was leftovers. I don’t think either of us remembered the date. (And the leftovers–Moroccan-spiced skirt steak over hummus, served with warm pita bread, farmer’s-market-fresh grape tomatoes and sliced cucumber–were excellent.)

Skirt-steak and hummus, the first time around.

Skirt-steak and hummus, the first time around.

It’s been a year since that first overcooked burger, a year since she fell asleep on the couch the movers just delivered. Well, it hasn’t been a year since she fell asleep on the couch; that still happens now and again. Burgers get overcooked from time to time, too, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Romance isn’t gone. Good cooking isn’t abandoned. We do what we can with the supplies we have, with the time we have, with the energy we have.

We took a break from commuting and rented an apartment in New York during my busiest month. It was the home of an acquaintance of mine, a composer and music director who was working out of town and visiting his family. That temporary City House was nowhere near as lovely as her former apartment–and certainly not as beautiful as the suburbs were on weekends. Sadly, it wasn’t even as convenient as we hoped it would be. It’s giving us reason to think maybe we shouldn’t move after all. Even if we do, we’ll still update this journal, at least from time to time. Even if we don’t have a Country House, we’ll still have Dinner.

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Not Another Pizza Night

Posted on August 7, 2015 | Leave a comment

In addition to getting through the week without ordering takeout, we wanted to get through the week without an emergency trip to the market–and to use things that were already in the fridge.

“This pizza dough has to be used this week,” she said. “And this sauce.”

Perfect.

After a long day of office time and rehearsals, I headed for the train station to collect her, but I was late; she started walking and was almost home by the time I caught up with her. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of the brutally hot and humid days we’d had during production week; still, she was ready for a shower.

I didn’t want to use the oven and heat the kitchen, so I gathered everything I needed, took it to the deck, and lit the grill. The dough stretched beautifully, the coals were ready, the grill-grate was clean and ready. I oiled the dough and laid it out gently, per instructions.

She came to the deck, refreshed and happy. We talked for a moment. Well, maybe two moments.  However long it was, it was just longer than it takes for pizza dough to go from beautiful to charred black.

We put the pizza toppings on leftover rice, heated it in the microwave, and called it a day. Just not a pizza.

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The Almost-as-Easy Way Out

Posted on August 6, 2015 | Leave a comment
This is not a sombrero.

This is not a sombrero.

It was a perfect night for takeout.

I’d had a very full day–morning in the office, followed by three rehearsals, each in a different town.  It was fun, but exhausting. I was tempted to call and ask what she might like me to pick up on the way home. But we had prepared for such a possibility. I’d grilled a skirt steak, some chicken sausages, and a pair of chicken breasts; there were plenty of things we could easily form into meals. After far too much time (and money) spent in restaurants during my summer show’s production week, we were not going to take the easy way out.

Speedy Semi-Moroccan Semi-Stew

Add 1 T oil to a non-stick skillet over medium heat.

Boil 2 cups water.

While the oil warms, do the chopping:
1/2 green pepper
1/2 sweet onion
1/2 tomato
1 pre-cooked chicken breast
A handful of salted peanuts
A handful of green beans

Obviously it would be easy–and maybe even prudent–to double all these quantities, but I’d grilled some vegetables on Sunday night to go with the sausages, and taken some thick slices out of a tomato for steak sandwiches; these  amounts were what was on hand.

Use 1 cup of the water to soak 2/3 cup whole-wheat couscous. (Adjust these quantities as necessary according to package directions.)

Use the other cup of water to reconstitute a handful of raisins and 4 or 5 roughly chopped dried apricots.

Sauté the onion and pepper, then add the tomato and beans.

Add the chicken, fruit, and 1/2 t Marrakesh spice blend. (It looked and smelled to me like chili powder, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and salt.)

When the chicken is warmed, add a handful of baby spinach, and half of the remaining fruit-soaking liquid.  When the spinach is wilted a bit and the liquid is reduced a little, remove the skillet from heat.

Fluff the couscous with a fork. Add a little butter if you’re feeling frisky. Pack the couscous into measuring cups, ramekins, or even cookie cutters, and turn out the  molded grain into the center of 2 shallow bowls.

Spoon semi-stew around the couscous. Top with the crushed peanuts. Spoon any remaining liquid over the couscous.

Serves 2, who will probably wish you’d doubled the quantities to have leftovers for lunch.

I’d walked in the door at 9:35 PM. Dinner was on the table at 10. Not the easy way out, perhaps, but the almost-as-easy. Probably the healthier, too.

She put down her spoon. “You did take a picture, didn’t you?”

I think that was her way of saying dinner was all right.

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What the Doctor Ordered

Posted on June 16, 2015 | 1 comment

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I’m a healthy guy, generally speaking. I eat a relatively healthy diet, I exercise vigorously several times a week, I don’t drink to excess or use any other unhealthy recreational substances. But, owing to a congenital condition that I won’t bother detailing, I need to have a minor surgical procedure every few months. Every three is optimal; four is passable; five is pushing it; if I wait six months, I end up having to have the procedure done under anesthesia in a hospital setting. Obviously, I try for the three-month interval–sort of like an oil change or tire rotation. It’s more uncomfortable than painful, and I don’t want to be a baby about it, but I try to leave the rest of the morning clear and perform a little self care afterward.

By “self care,” of course, I mean donuts.

Time was, I’d walk home from this appointment by way of a Perfectly Adequate Well-Known National Chain Donut Shop, pick up a couple of crullers and a mocha latte, and return home to sit on the couch with a cat purring nearby and British game shows on the television. But I’ve come to prefer my house blend coffee to their weak and over-sweetened brew. And, once, having to rush to the train station after an appointment, we stopped at a local shop I’ve been passing for years without visiting and discovered the wonder that is the Apple Spider.

A spider isn’t a donut, but it’s made of the same sort of dough, filled with spiced apples, fried and glazed. It’s a wonderful combination of crunchy exterior, cake-like interior, sweet glaze and crisp filling.  I don’t know why it’s called a spider. In some parts of the world it would be called a fritter. In some parts, it’s probably spoken of only in the hushed tones befitting contraband. But considering the Moderation Rule, I’m happy to enjoy one a couple of times a year. Yesterday’s was accompanied (in the interest of dietary balance) by some slices of fresh apple and a wedge of cheddar cheese–along, of course, with excellent coffee, a purring friend, and a single episode of Pointless.

I’m not sure it’s exactly what the Doctor ordered, but it’s what I needed to recover a bit before the rest of a very full day.

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