Coming up roses?

Not everything is coming up roses in my newfound baking bonanza.

It was a dark and stormy night last night and the Captain (Carlos) said to the Mate (me), “Mate, shall we bake a pizza?”

And the Mate began …

She got out the bowl, the ingredients and book, turned on the oven and made the “dog”.

The wind was blowing and the rain was lashing against the window and the night was getting darker and darker.  We just didn’t know how dark it was going to get.

The Mate was hungry.

The Captain was famished.

We tossed the pizza onto the pizza stone and into the oven, then quickly turned on “Grey’s Anatomy” to distract our hunger.

It was a terrible episode.

After the third resuscitation, the Mate got up.

“You’re getting up?”

“Yeah, I’m going to see how it’s doing.”

The Mate checked the pizza.   It looked terrible.

Outside the weather was … well, you know and cold, like 44 F (8 C) at a day of 81 F (27 C) day.  Shutup!  That’s cold wherever you are.

The Mate poured the Captain another drink.  She plied him with almonds, because she knew, like Old Mother Hubbard, what the state of the cupboard was.

Just when MacDreamy said something steamy, something went “POP” in the oven.  Or was it more like “THUD?” 

“Was that thunder or the oven?” said the Captain.

“The oven,” said the Mate.

“The oven, eh?  I’m not getting up.”  It was technically the Captain’s turn to get up and check.  But the Mate got up.

“You’re getting up?”

“No, it’s the TV, it’s a hologram.  Relax.  Have a blanket.”

“You’re getting up.”

“Yep, I’m going to check the pizza.”

“It’s just the cheese,” mumbled the Captain snuggling up under the blanket.

The mate threw open the oven.

“It’s exploded Captain, it wasn't thunder!” shouted the Mate, “All hands on deck!”

“What?”

The pizza stone had blown apart.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the Captain said to the Mate, “Mate?  What’s for dinner?”

And the mate dialed, “I’d like to order a medium cheese pizza please.”

Shortbread

What’s up with this new house, I ask myself over and over.  It’s giving me this desire to bake.  Bake? I haven’t baked for years, probably since my kids lived at home.

Yet again and again, I find myself considering what to bake next.  In fact, Carlos decided he wanted to have fish yesterday for lunch and I immediately volunteered to bake fish pie.  Listen, I’ve never baked a fish pie in my life but I was excited to roll that sucker up in pastry.  What’s up with me?  Relax, though, I didn’t do it. 

Why?  Because I’d baked shortbread that afternoon.  Enough is enough, right?  I’d been invited to a cookie-swap party (another first) and right away I pictured baking either Janet’s McKay’s Millionaire Shortbread (her South African recipe called for crushed biscuits, stiff caramel and hardening chocolate) or Alfajorcitos de Maicena (an Uruguayan recipe from the makers of Royal Baking Powder, little lemon biscuits filled with dulce de leche and rolled in grated coconut.)  Then I realized too much time would be involved, too many ingredients I didn’t have, way over the budget.

That’s when Dave’s delightful story about Mizzy triggered the memory.  Mizzy, our mother’s mother, lived alone for thirty years after her husband of forty years passed away.  She expected us every Sunday and she baked shortbread for tea.

Mizzy wasn’t a cook, she was a free spirit and a gardener.  She didn’t like being in the kitchen, definitely an advocate for “less is more” in that department.  Plus her pantry was never stocked with things like chocolate or ginger or rare spices.  However, there were three glass jars with rounded cone-shaped tops on her tiny kitchen counter.  They were never empty of flour, sugar and salt.

That’s when the idea of shortbread popped into my head.  Duh! Less is more!  She had shortbread for our tea every Sunday and while I’d never baked shortbread before I guessed it wouldn’t take too long to prepare.

It didn’t.  What took time was the part where I started to be fancy by trying to make cute little heart shapes that fell apart when I attempted to transfer them onto the baking tray.  Although the recipe called for wax paper, I buttered the bottom of the pan instead.  That's what I always do. The shapes that finally made it onto the pan, ended up breaking when I tried to unstick them after baking.

It took me three frustrating trays of broken hearts to realize perhaps I needed to change strategy.

Enter the 50 pence-sized circles and wax paper.  Ahhh.  Idiot! Success at last.  I baked the five dozen plus cookies I needed for the cookie-swap.  Perhaps I should pay more attention to recipes and not be quite so pig-headed. Perhaps...

Mizzy, on the other hand, had no desire whatsoever to bother with shapes or rolling pins or anything of the sort.  She mashed the dough into the pan with her fingers, sprinkled the top with sugar and popped it into the oven.  Back to the garden.  Her shortbread squares were memorable.

And my broken hearts?  Carlos came in from working in the garage and sniffed the air, “Smells so good,” he said, making a beeline for the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, well they’re all broken and burned” I grumbled.

“Really?  Let me taste.  Mmmm, they’re delicious,” he sighed, taking two more and with that and a hug he took care of all my broken hearts.

Bonfire with Dad-Dad

                 “Shall I throw more moss on the bond-fire?” Nicky asks, his little face serious, intent on the job he’s doing.

                  “OK, just do it carefully,” says Dad-Dad, sighing; this has to be the 20^th time Nicky’s asked the same question.

                  Nicky pushes his sleeves back, takes a deep and serious breath which he releases through his teeth as he chooses the piece he wants from the pile.  Solemnly he carries it over to the bonfire in outstretched arms, taking sturdy steps.

                  “I’m helping keep the flames back, aren’t I?” he looks over his shoulder, nodding and making the curls on his head bounce. “This is important work.” With respect he stares at the fire whilst he throws in his handful of moss, careful to keep his feet on the invisible mark Dad-Dad has pointed out.

                  “Dad-Dad, can I stand a little closer?”

                  “No.”

                  “Should I watch from here?”

                  “Yes, don’t go any nearer than that.”

                  “Why not?”

                  “Because the fire’s hot, Nicky.”

                  “Why is the fire hot?”

                  “Because it’s burning the dead leaves and branches.”

                  “Is that why it crackles, Dad-Dad?” Nicky bends down and selects a twig from the ground.

                  “I guess so.”

                  “What makes the crackles?”

                  “I think it’s the branches when they snap in the flames, Nicky.”

                  “Why aren’t you sure?” Nicky asks, inspecting the details on his twig, without losing a moment of the bonfire or the conversation.

                  “Because … um let me see … because, I don’t really know.”

                  “Why don’t you know?”

                  Dad-Dad is losing his patience.  As Dad-Dad turns, Nicky flings his twig into the fire, poker-faced.  He is stands watching the flames hands on hips, his chubby little feet slightly apart.  The silence seems to startle him and Nicky turns to meet Dad-Dad’s baffled gaze with a sharp questioning look.  A little furrow begins to form in his brow where his annoyance always shows first.

                  “But, why don’t you know Dad-Dad?”

                  “I – er, I just don’t know Nicky.”

                  “But why?

                  “Look Nicky, I have no more answers in my head right now, can we have a little break?”

                  “Why? Did your head get empty?” Worried, Nicky glances around the area where Dad-Dad has been working.

                  “Yes, that’s right.  It got empty.  Maybe in ten minutes or so something will pop back in again.  Who knows.”

                  “Oh.” Nicky’s shoulders sag a little and he stares at the ground shoving his hands in his pockets.

                  “Run along now Nicky, go inside and find Mum-Mum.”

                  Nicky’s eyes light up, he pulls his hands from his pockets and looks hopefully at his grandfather. “Do you think she’ll have some answers in her head, Dad-Dad?”

                  “Yes, Nicky, I’m sure she will,” grins Dad-Dad, a naughty twinkle in his blue eyes.

                  Without a backward glance, Nicky kicks open the garden gate and runs off to find his grandmother.

Three green apples

Photo by Jackie Richards

Three green apples on the trampoline

Early one morning

When London was asleep.

Three green apples standing in a row,

When no one was watching

Thought they’d have go.

“You go first then,” Middle said to Babe.

“No, let One-Eye first,” he

Squeaked a little scared.

“Fine!  I’ll be first to go,” he said with confidence,

But that’s when she came out

And snapped this pic instead.

Pita Bread - doing it better

 

    I need to stick around my sisters a whole lot more, for many different reasons.  But the reason today, is because they know so much more about food and interesting ingredients than I do.

    Being just a foolish “look-and-cook” person, I never really pay much attention to recipes and cookbooks.  I sort of throw thing together on a wing and a prayer – the faster the better – and make do with whatever comes out.

    However ... my sisters, who were both here for a week just before the wedding, rented a beautiful house, which had an empty kitchen.  So off they went on two separate expeditions, to fill the pantry.  Most of the food was consumed with relish.  But I was lucky enough to bring home some leftover ingredients.  Among them:

    Sesame oil.

    Organic olive oil.

    Sounds silly doesn’t it?  But I’m intrigued.  I usually grab the lightest (and cheapest oil) off the shelf, as long as it says ‘olive’ somewhere on the label.

    So I’m getting ready to make my Thanksgiving Pita Bread after practicing the other day, but I’m itching to depart from the recipe (already!)

    Having decided to exchange the white flour I'd used in practice session #1, for whole-wheat flour, I was ready to begin.  But I wanted to kick up the flavor a notch.

    That’s when these two ingredients come into play.

    Who in the world uses Sesame Oil?  Jackie does.  She went to all the trouble of buying a whole bottle of this stuff, to cook a delicious pistachio chicken dinner.  I have the remaining nine tenths of the bottle at home.  Unscrew the lid, put my nose in it, and BANG!  It’s love at first sniff.  Exchange #2 – I’m putting this one in, instead of the regular old pale oil I used the first time.

    Organic Olive Oil?  What’s that all about?  Sharon knows.  She only purchases organic foods now, after spending years learning about processed foods and the damage they can cause.  She bought this oil for her divine pasta dish and I’m the lucky recipient of the remaining three fourths.  Sprinkled some herbs into it and I’m learning all about the glories of dipping bread.  I never thought oil could taste like this.

    The sesame whole-wheat pita bread with organic dipping oil was gobbled up.  Smelling it cook and watching it be devoured was fascinating.  

    Thanks Jackie and Sharon!

    (I’ll tell you about the duck-liver pate I whipped up, in the black dish, another time.  It’s gone too.)

The Dorchester Sc. III

(A scene from "The Dorchester" ... a one act play about relationships.)

“But why does she pick on Bettina all the time, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Peter.  Bloody difficult woman to understand, your mother.”

“Yeah.  You can say that again.”

“Frustrating…”

“Opinionated …”

“I’ll say, Peter!  Lately she’s been so opinionated about everything, it’s like she’s the only authority on anything.”

“Must be tough, Dad.”

“It is.  But I just switch off.”

“Good for you.  Wish Bettina could do that, though.  But I guess being the daughter in law she feels she needs to be on her best behavior all the time.”

“Bloody shame, lovely gal that wife of yours.  But as for your mother, there are days when I feel like pushing her down the stairs!”

“Dad!”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, Peter.  You see, I’m getting more and more intolerant of it all.  In fact, the other day I came up with the perfect description of her …”

“Yeah?”

“Laughed the rest of the day about it …”

“Well, what was it then?”

 “She’s … how can I explain … let’s see, prickly, functional and rather ubiquitous, but very unpleasant.  She’s turned into something you would hope to ignore and not have to set eyes on – let alone get up close and personal with …”

“Dad!”

“Yes, son, I’m afraid it’s the truth, your mother reminds me of a toilet brush these days …”

“A what, Dad?”

“Oh yes, quite a fancy one, with all the useless bells and whistles, but a toilet brush in the end.”

Brown

I promise I will always adorn your soft brown eyes.  I will be just the right consistency and stay with you all day or all evening.  My sparkles with sparkle, my powder will stick without smudging.

I promise to lie quietly in your bag or on your bathroom shelf; I won’t judge you if you pick one of the others.  I’ll still be here when you want me, ready when you need me.

I promise my little sponges will be supple and helpful in their application task.

I promise … What?  What are you doing?  On no! You’re upset. You’re going to throw me away?  No.  Please don’t throw me away!

I promise I’ll do better – please don’t throw me away.

Wait.  That’s my double sponge applicator – what are you doing?  You’re washing it?  Washing and now … Oh no!  You’re using it to put on something pink and mauve.  Oh dear. 

What happened?  You’ve decided that fashions have changed and you’re not into browns and beiges any more?  Oh no, what am I to do?

Am I being made redundant?  It doesn’t seem possible, I still have so much left to give.  Please you don’t understand!  I’m not old.  I’m not yesterday’s color.

Oh. Help!  I’m being stuffed into a box; it’s a dark smelly box full of other bits of smelly old makeup. I'm not like them, I'm still full of sparkle and twinkle.

What a sad day.  I remember the day you took me off the shelf at the store and the sound of your sigh of delight … Oh no!  Please don’t shut the bo …

Argh!  What’s this brightness?  Where am I?  Huh?  I can see little brown eyes, who are you?  You look like a little you.  But that’s not possible; you just had your 20^th birthday the other day.

What’s that you’re saying?  You’re going to try Mommy’s old makeup?  Old?

What?  Are you your Mommy’s daughter?  You can’t be more than what … ten?

Oh my goodness, have I been shut in that box for over ten years?

Oh! Oh! Ahhh! You’re lifting me out.  Ahhh, how good this feels.  Yes, yes open my lid and see my sparkly shade of brown.

I promise to always highlight your lovely brown eyes and give you special sparkles.

Old?  No, no I’m not old – I’m ageless, timeless.  I will never let you down.

Cracked?  On no, just work your fingers over the surface of the powder.  Yes, yes, like that!  The shadow will soon come to life for you.

I promise to always be thoughtful and loyal, I promise to always do what I say I’m going to do.  I promise to never be judgmental, I promise to love you unconditionally, to watch over you, to care, to share …

I promise I’ll be perfect eye makeup even if it’s for little girls dressing up with big dreams

I promise to wait here, whether you ever want me again or not.

I promise to always love you always, whether you need me or not.

Just please don’t put me back in the b …