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On the third day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me: three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory…
They say things happen in threes. I don’t really know what ‘things’ exactly. Besides celebrity deaths. And maybe insults.
I’ve had three pretty good ones in the last three months. First there was the woman who congratulated me on expecting a baby…..after I’d already had said baby.
Then there was the woman at a jewelry party I attended recently. ‘Nicola, you look so beautiful!’ she exclaimed. She was surprised, nay shocked, I could tell. Sure enough, she continued: ‘I see you at school (insert hand motions to indicate drab, crazed, frantic appearance) and you look so tired!’
I've always wondered if 'tired' wasn't a euphemism for 'not wearing any makeup' and/or 'terrible hair'. Or just plain unattractive.
I couldn't help but chuckle at her bluntness. I guess I wasn't exaggerating when I bemoaned my less than stellar appearance for kindergarten pick-up and drop-off.
And then my oldest got in on the action as well. When I picked him up from school today, he announced: 'Amy's mom is younger than you. You're older.' Intrigued, at the sequence of events that led to this revelation, I asked: 'how do you know?' It seemed implausible that the two Kindergarteners had been standing around sharing their mothers' ages.
'Because she looks younger than you,’ he explained. Wrong answer kid! And he repeated it once more, for emphasis. Fast forward to several hours later when the professor arrived at home. ‘Hey, why don’t you tell your dad about how you told me that I looked older than Amy’s mom,’ I prompted my oldest. Who was still oblivious to the fact that it may not have been the most flattering thing to say.
So he repeated the exchange verbatim to the professor. Jason asked him to elaborate why he thought she looked younger in an effort to understand the young man’s logic: ‘because she’s lower than you’ my oldest replied. Complete with a hand motion to indicate her increased proximity to the ground.
Ah yes. He still associates height with age: since her mom is several inches shorter than I, she must be younger.
On the brighter side of things, I’ve found three tasty recipes to compensate for my lackluster appearance. We’ve made these peanut butter cookies twice in the last week, because they’re so good.
And my friend Jenny emailed this recipe (for Chocolate Cookies, below) to me when I had to make six dozen cookies for a cookie exchange last week. They were delicious. Even with subpar Canadian Chipits and Skor bits. (Note to Canada: Please consider stocking Ghirardelli Bittersweet Chocolate Chips. Thanks!)
The ginger cake recipe is from another friend. It’s reminiscent of the Starbucks holiday ginger bread…but without the icing. I could eat the whole thing in one sitting, and may have come close.
What can I say – I may look old and tired, but I can out-eat anyone when it comes to dessert.
Salted Chocolate Covered Caramel Cookies
(adapted from Culinary Muse)
2 c bittersweet chocolate chips or chunks
1/4 c unsalted butter, room temp
2 eggs
1 1/2 t vanilla
3/4 c brown sugar
1/2 c all-purpose flour
1/4 t baking powder
1 c caramel bits (or Skor bits)
fleur de sel
Melt 1 1/3 cup of the chocolate either in a microwave or double boiler. Stir in the butter until melted.
Whisk the eggs & vanilla together. Quickly whisk in a little of the melted chocolate to temper the eggs. Add remaining melted chocolate & brown sugar then stir until completely mixed. Stir in the flour & baking powder, mix well. Fold in the caramel bits & remaining 2/3 cup chocolate chips. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight.
Preheat oven to 350 F.
Scoop batter by heaping tablespoons onto a baking sheet that has either been greased or covered with a silicon pad. Flatten the cookies slightly. Sprinkle each with salt & press to make the salt stick. Bake for 15 minutes. Let cool on cookie sheet for 10-15 minutes (you want the caramel to have a chance to set before moving the cookies) then cool on a rack.
Makes 36 cookies
Very Gingery Ginger Cake
3 cups all purpose flour
1 tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground ginger
3/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups white sugar
1 cup each vegetable oil and fancy molasses
2 eggs
1/2 cup water
2 tbsp minced gingerroot
1/2 cup chopped crystallized ginger
1 tbsp icing sugar
1. grease and flour 10 -inch 3L Bundt pan; set side
2. In bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, baking soda, cloves, ground ginger and salt. In large bowl, whisk together sugar, oil, molasses, eggs, water and gingerroot; stir in flour mixture, one-third at a time. Stir in crystallized ginger. Pour into prepared pan.
3. Bake in centre of 350oC oven for about 1 hour or until cake tester inserted in centre comes out clean. Let cool in pan on rack for 30 minutes. Remove from pan; let cool completely on rack. Dust with icing sugar.
When I woke up on Friday morning, it appeared to be a beautiful day outside. The color of the light, the brightness of the sun, the absence of snow on the ground – all led me to conclude it might be a good day to get outside.
Since the professor didn’t have class until the afternoon, I suggested a family outing to the (stinky) zoo.
Sometimes I’ll have one bright idea which will quickly lead to another bright idea. If we were going to the zoo….perhaps we could even take a family picture and get an early start on the annual holiday card conundrum/procrastination/saga?
I carefully selected clothes for the boys because the Gort’s ‘Superman’ shirt paired with snow boots and a too-small baseball cap wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. The Hen is still, mostly, of the age where he will wear whatever I put on him. Occasionally he’ll shake his head vigorously and tell me ‘NO’ when I select a shirt for him, all while grabbing one of his brother’s three-sizes-too-big superhero shirts. (As if!) But he can usually be convinced to put the shirt back and don the appropriately-sized item in my hand.
The Gort, however, generally refuses to wear whatever I bring to him. No matter how much thought I put into it, or how hard I try to avoid the particularly ‘itchy’ items. He is unyielding in his refusal and no amount of reasoning or convincing will change his mind.
But, we still have Halloween candy lying around the house and I’m not opposed to offering a bribe in exchange for a (potentially) decent family picture.
Naturally the professor questioned the wisdom of bribing a child to wear an ordinary long-sleeved shirt; certain the kid would want candy every time he got dressed from then on. A suspicion that proved correct when the Gort came up to me this morning and said: ‘hey mom, can I get candy if I wear a long-sleeved shirt?’
But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Halloween candy doesn’t last forever.
An hour later when we were all gathered at the front door, ready to go, I beamed with pride as I glanced at my ‘five and under’ contingent. The level of cuteness was almost unbearable. The older boys were wearing stripy shirts with puffy vests. And the baby wore a prissy, baby-blue outfit – one that is suitable for photographs…and nothing else.
And then we opened the front door. My first inkling that I’d been wrong about the weather: rain drops on the screen door. My second inkling: the wind. When the boys stepped outside they were literally moved by the icy wind which was gusting at a rather unpleasant speed.
No zoo. No family picture.
Instead we went to the farmer’s market where we sat on a hard wooden bench and watched the boys jump in the bouncy castle. Which is even less preferable than taking them to the park. It is a frankly dull and slightly nerve-wracking affair – trying to keep track of one’s children inside a giant inflated castle. I spend a lot of time beseeching my spawn – telepathically – not to be ‘those’ kids who bounce into other children and knock them over. Which results in pointed looks of judgment from their parents, as if to say: ‘what kind of animals are you raising?’
We whiled away a respectable amount of time and drove home for lunch and kindergarten drop-off. And picture-taking with the two youngest boys. Because I couldn’t let their coordinating cuteness go to waste.
When I got in the car to pick up the Gort, it was 2.47pm. The time I’m supposed to be at school….picking him up. And this time I didn’t have a good excuse. ‘Sorry I’m late sweetheart…I was downloading pictures of your brothers onto the computer?!’
As I drove towards the school, fellow moms were driving the opposite way. With their children in their cars.
I ran into the school building where my poor child was waiting for me in the office; seemingly unaffected by my tardiness. I was grateful for his non-reaction, even as he scolded me for running in the school building. ‘We’re not allowed to run in the school!’
Sorry.
Because I felt like a louse for being late, and because I wanted a yummy snack, and because I had six pears in the fruit bowl, we went home and made pear crisp. With real whipped cream.
Which we ate on the kitchen floor.
I had to cut them off after ’seconds’ so the professor would have something to nibble on when he got home.
In these sleep-deprived tough economic times, a bonafide date with the professor is a rarity. Some people have weekly or monthly dates with their spouses. We have something like two or three dates – a year.
Not ideal, certainly. But it won’t always be like this. Some day in the not so distant future, we will go out to eat again. And perhaps go clubbing afterwards. Because we are both excellent dancers.
Of course, until that day comes, we will have to make do with the standby entertainment option for people who are too tired or thrifty to go out: the home date. Even Gwyneth Paltrow has waxed philosophically about the importance of acquiring a few good, simple recipes that can be prepared after kids go to bed. So the adults of the house can sit down and have dinner together. Without the benefit of complaints about the food and guests getting in and out of their booster seat repeatedly.
Presumably such a ‘recipe’ would be relatively fast. Because who wants to put kids to bed at 7 or 7.30 only to have to spend another two hours cooking? And such a recipe should taste like something you might really enjoy eating. Because who wants to sit down at a table and eat a box of Annie’s Mac ‘n Cheese?
Not moi.
So, after B3 arrived I began searching for recipes that didn’t require twenty ingredients and could be prepared in less than an hour. Not for date purposes, per se, just for regular weeknight eating purposes. I searched through a stack of recipes I’d printed but hadn’t made (now there’s a habit of mine that irritates the professor) and found this.
I was skeptical. Maybe it called for too few ingredients? Maybe it was too easy? But, one (week) night when I was actually in a frame of mind to make dinner and had all the necessary ingredients and the three cherubs miraculously cooperated, I made it.
And loved it.
The kids, however, did not love it. The Hen refused to eat it, and the Gort ate his allotment of bites but was very vocal about his displeasure. Luckily their father loved it, too. So much so, that he ate nearly all of it.
Which is just as well since reheated leftovers are not nearly as good.
So, Friday night came. We had an hour after the boys went to bed, before friends were due to arrive for dessert. I had some already-cooked spaghetti sitting in the fridge. And tomatoes, spinach and goat cheese, too. On a whim, I decided to make the pasta dish for a spur of the moment mini-date.
Good food at a clean, quiet table. With a little bit of wine and conversation? Not too shabby.
Next time we’ll get out the ipod and bust a move.
Thanks Gwyneth!
We had some friends over for dinner this weekend; the first dinner we’ve hosted in….a rather long time. Like maybe eight months.
Despite our poor entertaining track record, I actually enjoy inviting people over and cooking a nice meal. And sitting down at a table that’s clean-ish for more than 7.5 minutes. And not having to sweep huge quantities of food off the table and floor afterwards.
When I was growing up I loved it when people would come over to our house for dinner, even though children weren’t allowed to dine with the adults. (Now I sort of understand why.) The china would appear and fancy things would be concocted in the kitchen. Though, true to form I don’t remember any of the food except the desserts: lemon meringue pie, pavlova, and ‘tipsy tart’ come to mind. And a wintry concoction known as brown pudding, which was rather tasty despite its unfortunate moniker.
Before the guests arrived, my mom would abandon her post in the kitchen to change into nice clothes, do her hair, and apply makeup. I believe she even wore jewelry. A selection of happening tunes (Neil Diamond, Abba, Moody Blues and opera) would waft over the speakers of our sound system. And I’d start counting down the minutes until I could have leftover dessert. Either that night or the next day. Or both.
So when the professor and I got married, I naturally assumed we’d have people over for dinner too. And it would be nice and fancy. Despite the fact that the only thing in my cooking repertoire was a Lipton pasta packet: boil water, add noodles, add liquids, serve.
But as assumptions go, hosting a dinner party wasn’t as straightforward of an affair as I’d…assumed. And I’m not talking about menu selection, skill needed to prepare food or choosing just the right music. I’m talking about getting the food ready at the right time. I’m talking about trying to make three things at once without burning or ruining any of it.
And somehow looking presentable at the end of it all. Both the food and the hostess.
I’m pretty sure the professor regretted his decision to marry me after our first dinner ‘party’. I doubt he’d had any inkling I would turn into a total, irrational ball of stress as I attempted to recreate what I assumed would be a seamless, enjoyable experience. Setting the table with our awesome beige plates with the blue and green stripe around the edges. The table (and chairs) that I think I bought from my sister who bought it from someone she’d babysat for. Third generation hand me downs, I guess, those chairs with the nubby stained beige seat cushions which I unsuccessfully recovered a year later in a satiny stripe material. And a lone CD (probably Gipsy Kings) playing on my college boombox.
Classy.
But despite my initial lack of success and the near ruination of my marriage, I’ve persisted with the dinner party. For better or for worse.
With the addition of kids, the professor and I have settled into a dinner party prep routine that works reasonably well. He takes care of the kids while I make the food. This weekend’s ‘taking care of kids’ involved countless hours of watching Tom and Jerry and Toy Story while he lay on the couch with the baby reading Geek Love. Culminating in an hour’s worth of pumpkin carving. All while I stood in the kitchen for hours on end, stopping occasionally to capture their productivity. I don’t know how he does it, really. At least he does the dishes at the end of it all.
Seeing as we now have a newborn to tend to, I decided to go with an easy menu – featuring dishes that could be prepared in advance. I felt like the Barefoot Contessa as I patted myself on the back for the maturity and wisdom I’d gained over thirteen years of near-disastrous dinners.
But as these things go, the minute you pat yourself on the back, you’re in for it. Despite careful calculation and advance planning, I was still cooking nearly an hour after the hungry guests had arrived. The guests who, very graciously, agreed that no matter what time you start cooking, there is never enough time. It always comes down to the wire. Beyond the wire, really.
Which is precisely what I was thinking as my plans for a relaxing bath exactly half an hour before the guests’ arrival, turned into a two minute shower right as they were due to arrive. Followed by my donning a clean black shirt and jeans and putting my hair into the infamous ponytail. No makeup. No jewelry. And music wafting over the pitiful ipod speaker. (‘Some day,’ Jason remarked wistfully a few nights ago, ‘I want to have a good sound system.’ That day has not yet arrived.)
Until then, we’ll eat roast chicken, potatoes, sweet potato chipotle soup and molten chocolate cakes while listening to various incarnations of Sting? Seriously, I don’t know if it was a bad shuffle night, but that’s all I heard. And I didn’t even think we were particular fans of Gordon Sumner.
One important note. If you make the sweet potato soup, which has been enthusiastically received by all who’ve tried it, use one chipotle pepper from a can. Not an entire can. The recipe is confusing on this matter. And, as one friend who shall remain nameless can attest, a whole can of chipotle….or two….might render you speechless.
Practically every family outing I’ve contemplated in the last week has fallen through for one reason or another. Having spent the summer languishing in the shadow of my gut, unable or unwilling to summon the energy to do anything besides nothing, I’m bound and determined to enjoy the last few minutes of Calgarian daylight coupled with temperatures above forty degrees (Fahrenheit). It makes me a little panicky just thinking about the fact that ’soon’ it will be cold, and I won’t have spent much time outdoors.
So today, having heard the news that it was going to be in the upper 70’s, I made yet another plea to my men to go somewhere. Anywhere. Perhaps a mini- hike somewhere scenic?
‘What about the zoo?’ Jason suggested.
We recently got annual passes to the zoo; my rationale being that it might be nice to go for an hour without feeling compelled to stay half a day in order to get my money’s worth. Also, there was the guilt trip factor. In the weeks before I committed 2009-10 as ‘the year at the zoo’, my oldest would drop heavy hints.
‘Remember when we used to go to the zoo?’
You mean 2006-07…to the zoo in Indianapolis..I replied, silently. Because we hadn’t gone to another zoo since, unless one counted the Toledo (or was it Columbus) zoo during a vicious downpour, upon returning from a trip to the Canadian border for ‘visa’ paperwork. When we were the weird people with the baby, running around in pouring rain and lightning to get to our car because we couldn’t fathom spending another minute there.
I mistook these little snippets of conversation as clues, hints that he really loved the zoo and would like nothing better than to return there. To further his knowledge of the animal kingdom, or whatever it is little people do at the zoo.
So we paid our dues and got the passes, and went. A reasonably good time was had by all, I thought. Until we were on our way out.
‘What’s that smell?’ My oldest asked.
I don’t know…animals…animal ‘matter’?
Without waiting for an answer, he concluded: ‘the zoo’s stinky. I don’t want to come back to the zoo.’
Uh, actually, 2009-10 is the ‘year at the zoo’. We are going to come back have to come back, many, many times, in fact. Because it’s fun. And you like it.
And, for the next two weeks, nearly once a day, he’d make some remark about the stinky zoo and how we can’t go back there ever again.
So when Jason broached the subject this morning, not only did it not fit in with my plans for experiencing ’scenic Calgary’, there was also the not-so-tiny matter of having to convince his oldest to go. And his oldest already had other plans…that involved baking. He got hold of a kid’s cookbook and suggested we bake muffins together. Except the recipe he’d settled on was for corn muffins – with actual corn in them – and I could only hear the outrage as we baked what he believed would be sweet, delicious muffins…that turned into savory-ish muffins. WITH CORN IN THEM.
I explained to him about the corn, and he gave up the dream. Moved on to cookies, instead.
Specifically ‘peanut butter munches’.
I looked at the recipe and shuddered: one cup peanut butter, one cup sugar, one egg.
That’s it. It didn’t sound like anything I wanted to eat, but at least it would be fast. And required little in the way of ingredients. And, maybe, if they were as vile as they ’sounded’…I wouldn’t actually eat any.
So I mixed up the batter and let him go wild with shaping the dough into balls. He even ad-libbed and decided to add chocolate chips, as ‘eyes’. We baked them. And put them in a ziploc bag…to take to the zoo.
It was our first proper outing as a family of five. And, there we were looking like a zoo within a zoo. A family of ducks meandering along the sidewalks. Pushing two strollers – two unoccupied strollers. Because once we got inside the zoo, the Hen decided he wanted to walk. And B3 started crying something awful and I carried him in the Baby Bjorn instead. The cookies were gone within fifteen minutes. And we left after an hour, amid complaints about legs that don’t work, hunger, thirst and fatigue.
Good times were had by all.
I was at church a few weeks ago, helping out in the nursery, when someone brought me a little plate of snacks. On the plate was a soft maple-y/pumpkin-y cookie that was quite delicious. It reminded me of cookies my friend Jenny had made once, many years ago when we lived in the same vicinity. She’d given me the recipe, which I’d lost over the years and many moves.
So I did what all good food detectives do. I found out who’d brought the tasty cookies – a friend named Jil – and emailed her asking for the recipe.
Imagine my disappointment when Jil replied and said she hadn’t actually made the cookies. She’d bought them at a bookstore in Red Deer. I don’t even know where Red Deer is. But it’s not in Calgary.
So I emailed Jenny, detailing the nature of my cookie emergency. Because, suddenly I couldn’t get those cookies out of my mind. She came through a few days later and emailed me the recipe. But it needed shortening and maple flavor. It would require a trip to the grocery store…and actually remembering to buy the items.
And then I saw Jil, who handed me a copy of a similar cookie recipe that a friend had passed on to her. (Along with an actual bookstore-bought-cookie she had saved in her freezer.) If it were me, I would have given away the recipe, not the cookie. Lucky for me, she’s a more generous person.
So on Monday, I made the cookies. I enlisted my oldest to help me in the kitchen, and things were going swimmingly; until he saw that the cookies contained pumpkin. Not sure if he was channeling his father’s aversion to gourds or what, but he threw a bit of a fit. Whining about how he didn’t like cookies with pumpkin in them. How he just liked regular cookies.
I mean, what kid would carp about soft cookies with frosting on them? Mine, apparently.
Undeterred, I baked the cookies anyway. Certain he’d come around and forget all about this regular cookie business. He tasted one fresh out of the oven and pronounced them good. And I let him and his brother frost a couple, which they thought was the funnest thing ever. Never mind the fact that they just licked the frosting off the cookies and left the carcasses spread all over the table and floor.
Truth be told, these cookies were….pretty good. They were not as good as the bookstore-bought ones, being too pumpkin-y, and too mushy. They did not satisfy my craving that had taken on a life of its own. And, more importantly, they had not satisfied the Gort’s craving for ‘regular cookies’.
‘Dad,’ he said privately to his father that night. ‘Do you think you can make us some regular cookies, because mom just makes cookies with pumpkin in them. And I don’t like pumpkin cookies. So, do you think you can make us some regular cookies?’
Well once Jason managed to stop laughing, he had no choice but to comply. And pulled out the Nestle Toulouse (as Phoebe from Friends would have said) and made some chocolate chip cookies late that night. The next morning at breakfast (because we’re insanely fun parents) Jason presented his oldest with a cookie. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘are these just regular cookies…is there not any pumpkin in them?’
I mean, talk about belaboring a point. I get it – pumpkin cookies are the vilest things ever. And of course the professor couldn’t let any of this pass without putting in his ten cents. ‘Is it Thanksgiving and I didn’t know…what’s up with the pumpkin cookies?’
So I put some in the freezer, and delivered some to a friend. And set my sights on the next experiment: Jenny’s maple cookies. I procured some Crisco shortening which, for some reason grosses me out, and maple flavoring and got to work; enlisting my oldest’s assistance again. ‘Are these not pumpkin cookies?’ he questioned. Seriously, just let it drop. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘these are maple cookies.’ ‘What’s maple?’ he asked. ‘It’s like the syrup we put on our pancakes,’ I explained – genius that I am.
So we made the maple cookies. And we frosted the cookies. And I didn’t dare add the requisite cup of nuts, because the last thing I needed from him was a treatise on how he hates cookies….with nuts. Trust me, I’ve heard it before.
‘Jenny’s’ Maple Cookies with Brown Butter Frosting
(a Betty Crocker Cookie Recipe)
1/2 cup shortening
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 eggs
1 cup sour cream
1 Tbsp maple extract
2 3/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp bking soda
1 tsp salt
1 cup nuts
Bake at 375 for 10 minutes, or until set.
Frosting:
1/2 cup butter, heated until golden brown
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tsp maple
2-4 Tbsp hot water
And these cookies were delicious, with just the right texture and tasty frosting. Though they were missing some of the pumpkin spice taste of those pesky bookstore-bought-cookies. Clearly, the ultimate recipe would be a combination of the two. But I’ll save that project for a day when the men are gone.
Until then, I’ll just drive to Red Deer with my perfect in-utero child who doesn’t complain about anything. And loves pumpkin.
PS. If you use 3/4 cup sour cream and 1/4 cup canned pumpkin, along with 1/2 tsp cinnamon and 1/2 tsp pumpkin pie spice, you get a cookie with a nicer flavor…that can still be passed off as a maple cookie. Plus you’re cutting out an enormous amount of fat by omitting that extra 1/4 cup of sour cream.
It was a banner day chez Johnson yesterday. I cleaned the house. It’s probably pretty pathetic or a true sign of serious laziness when one feels justified in making such an announcement. But it was a lot of work. I discovered it is indeed possible to have small children at home all day and a clean house. All you have to do….is stand up all day long and clean.
If you sweep your dining room and kitchen floors three times in the course of a day, they can stay clean. If you do 4 loads of laundry, the bulk of your laundry pile will disappear. If you walk up the stairs with a paper towel and spray bottle in hand, following the trail of 2 dirty-handed boys, whilst scrubbing the wall vigorously, you may be successful in removing all their handprints. If you vacuum and sweep every floor surface in the house, it will actually look clean. At least until the next person comes home and doesn’t take off their dirty shoes. Or until someone empties the contents of your purse on the floor.
In addition to cleaning, I also cooked dinner. It’s small wonder that we didn’t win the lottery yesterday. My discovery of the chicken satay burger recipe in the March 2009 issue of delicious coincided with the presence of ground chicken in my refrigerator, and fresh ginger and cilantro. The peanut sauce is most delicious and would fulfill all of your other peanut sauce needs. In other words, it would be worth making even without the chicken burgers. If you’re averse to chunks of things in your food, as I and my children are, put the onion and cilantro in a food processor so it’s extra fine.
For some added international flavor click on the link and listen to: ‘C’etait salement romantique.’ I don’t often listen to the radio when I’m in the car, much less pay attention to what is being played. But for some reason the radio was on yesterday, if at a noise level that only registers with dogs. The piano music grabbed my attention, as did the decidedly non-English lyrics, and I turned up the volume. And I used my high school french to decipher the artist’s name as it was being announced. And actually remembered it well enough to look it up on the internet last night.
No small feat(s) for moi, but I’m glad I did..and you might be too.
Chicken Satay Burgers (delicious, p. 106, March 2009)
270 ml can coconut milk
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/4 brown sugar
4 garlic cloves, crushed
2 tbs sweet chilli sauce
1 tbs grated ginger
1 tbs soy sauce
1 tbs lime juice
400 g ground chicken
1 onion finely chopped
1/3 c breadcrumbs (preferably whole wheat)
1/4 c chopped cilantro
To make satay sauce, place coconut milk, peanut butter, sugar, garlic, sweet chilli, ginger and soy in a saucepan over low heat. Stir for one minute or until peanut butter melts. Bring to a simmer and cook for 5-6 minutes, stirring, until thickened. Add lime juice and set aside.
Place ground chicken, onion, crumbs, chopped cilantro and 1/2 cup of peanut sauce in a bowl and combine well. Form into 4 patties and chill for at least fifteen minutes.
Heat oil in a frypan over medium-low heat and cook patties for 3-4 minutes a side, or until cooked through. Serve with toasted buns with lettuce, tomato, onion, cilantro, chilli and remaining sauce.
It’s red and white (and blue) week this week, what with Canada Day and Independence Day just three days apart. Being a (pseudo) Canadian is a really perplexing thing – why is it so similar to America? The money is pretty much the same, the chain restaurants and shops are the same, they even have Thanksgiving (a month earlier, mind you) and a faux Independence Day’, though as Jason loves to point out: they’re not independent.
I flew to Montreal in the fall of 2000 (this is PRE 9-11, I should add). I had the audacity to fly without a passport. My rationale was that if one could drive across the Canadian border by simply showing a driver’s license, why should flying be any different? I tried to explain this to the customs officer who detained me. (Apparently I have a history of problems with customs officers.) ‘You wouldn’t fly to Paris without a passport, would you?’ the officer asked, dumbfounded at my stupidity. ‘Well, no,’ I wanted to say. ‘Because France is clearly a different country. Canada is only sort of a different country.’ But those are the kinds of responses that get you in trouble. So I just tried to look sincerely sorry and sincerely disinterested in ever defecting to Canada. And, luckily, I was released to enjoy a girls’ weekend with my mom and sister. Lesson learned.
So, as I was driving along the streets of Canada the other day, reflecting on the whole Canada Day-Independence Day conundrum, it occurred to me that I probably won’t hear the personification-of-Independence-Day song ‘God Bless the USA’ (or is it called Proud to be an American) this year. Which, despite having fond memories of singing as a fresh immigrant in 7th grade choir conducted by the very patriotic Miss Carolus, I’m not necessarily attached to. But it’s still a fact worth noting.
Thus, in honor of this week of patriotic celebrations, I’ve created my own version of the infamous chorus. Eschewing patriotic references. Because much as I love America and Canada, I’m not one for wearing flag t-shirts, or dressing up in red, white (and blue). Or putting little flags on my toenails for a patriotic pedicure.
It’s not of the same calibre as some of my other truly outstanding songs, in fact it may be the worst one yet, but I put it together in about 3 minutes. And it focuses on something we can all get behind – whether Canadian or American – dessert.
And I’m proud to be a North American
where at least the sweets roam free
there is pie and cake with whip-ped cream
e’en for those with a gluten allergy
and i’ll gladly stand up, next to you
for a second helping, too
cuz there ain’t no doubt i love pastry
God bless this continent
My back is sore, my legs are sore. My eyes hurt, my vision is blurry and my wrists ache. As anyone who has ever been in the throes of a computer game addiction will know, it can be painful. My optometrist asked me the other night if I’d noticed any changes in my vision. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t referring to my newfound inability to focus due to prolonged playing of Bejeweled Blitz.
The problem is threefold, really. Mostly I just like dumb computer games – the kind at which zoo monkeys could beat me. Tetris, Jewelbox, Bejeweled. And obsessive playing of these games usually coincides with the later stages of pregnancy, for me. When I was pregnant with Mr. G, I asked one of Jason’s grad school friends to ‘challenge’ me on Bejeweled on a near nightly basis, because I’d exhausted my rights to the free online version. The only way for me to keep playing (free of charge) was for someone to invite me to a game. Even if they ditched me halfway through. And, frankly, Chau always ditched me since he could easily double or triple my pathetic score. With his mouse clicking hand tied behind his back.
So recently, while wasting some time on Facebook, I noticed many of my ‘friends’ were playing Bejeweled Blitz. A one minute, fast version of the game I played five years ago. I held off for several days, knowing it would only get ugly. But one night, bored and desperate, I caved. And just like that, I was hooked. And then, when I noticed my friend Jenny was ahead of me in the standings of the weekly tournament….well that was all the incentive I needed to spend the bulk of a day trying to improve my game.
I consider it cruel irony that I was able to come within 1300 points of her high score (88,500 to her 89,800) today. To come so close and still not beat her? That’s the ultimate in dissatisfaction.
My innate competitiveness very slightly exceeds the third aspect of my addiction: my apparent need for positive reinforcement. In my house, I just don’t get a lot of it. I asked Jason if he liked the strawberry pie I made yesterday. For a Canada Day potluck gathering. He responded: ‘yeah’. Yeah, isn’t exactly an enthusiastic response; nor is it indicative of any pleasure received from eating such a caloric piece of pie. But that’s Jason for you. ‘Yeah’ may very well mean ‘it’s the best piece of freaking pie I’ve ever had.’ Or ‘I’ve had better.’ Who knows.
But the voiceover guy from the Bejeweled Blitz game, is, or was, quick with the reinforcement I apparently crave. The game starts out with a ‘go’ which is particularly cute when parroted by my not quite two year old. And, as the jewels start disappearing, my announcer friend becomes more positive. ‘Good’ he’ll exclaim monotonously followed by ‘excellent’ and, if you’re really good…. ‘incredible.’
I might be more hooked on having my playing labeled ‘incredible’ than the game itself. Unfortunately, there was a long streak of games where I performed rather poorly, and the best my man friend would do for me was toss out a ‘good’. There may have been an ‘excellent’ thrown in occasionally, but there was no ‘incredible’ to be found. Anywhere. I started playing game, after game, hoping to improve my score so I could hear just one more ‘incredible’ but it’s as if he was purposely avoiding the word. The well of positivity had run dry.
So with tired eyes, and bad posture, I had to call it a day. That, and it was near the boys’ bed-time. And I felt like the world’s worst human being.
Funny thing is, Jason started out rolling his eyes at my newfound obsession, coming close to suggesting I was lesser-than for wasting my time in such a useless manner. And yet…the other night, as I was – yes – playing Bejeweled Blitz, I heard a familiar noise. It was him, sitting at the dining room table. Playing the same game on his laptop.
My announcer guy’s voice was a dead give away.
Friday Update: I’d made it all the way to 4.30pm today before logging on to play a game. Rather impressive, I thought. But, when I logged on, all that popped up was this message:
There was a major fire at Bejeweled Blitz’s server hosting facility last night. We would like to say that the heat of everybody’s gem swapping burned up the servers, but unfortunately in this case it was an actual fire.
Bejeweled Blitz will not be available until the damage is cleaned up and generators are brought in to restore power. Our current estimate is that we will be back up later tonight (Seattle Time).
When the game does come back up, you may notice that some of your friends’ scores from this week appear to have been erased. Don’t worry — all scores are safe and secure in our database, and they will start to show correctly as you and your friends visit the game.
Thanks for playing Bejeweled Blitz. We are working very hard to get the game up and running for you as soon as possible, and we appreciate your patience.
I can’t help but feel that I have incredibly bad luck as of late.
I got a surprising amount of ‘flack’ about my bold and efficient packing strategies for the now infamous Screamfest 2009. Having lived through the ordeal, I have a slightly altered perspective on the whole thing.
First. Never pack bananas as snacks for a roadtrip. Unless you have a special banana container that will ensure they don’t get squashed by bags of candy and tupperware containers filled with cut up fruit. The bananas ended up smushed and no one was interested in eating them. So I, hoping to avoid food waste, deposited them in my mom’s fridge in Indiana, sure I would make banana bread or muffins or something. Well, I didn’t. And, two weeks later. She threw some seriously black bananas in the trash. It’s a bummer I didn’t know about this recipe at the time. (I omit the nuts and add a bit of vanilla…tasty!)
Of course, if I hadn’t packed bananas, I wouldn’t have had one of my personal favorite moments of the trip.
Jason walked into my mom’s house the morning after we landed in Indiana, having just gone to Clancy’s to vacuum and wash the car. Less than 8 hours after we pulled into my mom’s driveway. Not as easygoing as people think he is, that Mr. Johnson. ‘Please don’t let the kids eat bananas in the car again,’ he advised me.
‘Uh, we didn’t eat bananas in the car on the trip,’ I advised him.
Either he touched extremely old banana, or something else entirely. Either way, gross.
In all fairness, I can’t really speak to whether having four outfits at each person’s disposal was a good idea. On the day we arrived, my sister deposited a big bag of maternity clothes in our room. So, I actually had far too many clothes to wear on the trip.
Jason, on the other hand, seemed to constantly complain that he was out of clothes. Despite the fact that I was doing laundry all the time. (Not a big deal as far as I’m concerned since all our stuff only amounted to one load.)
Personally, I think he just couldn’t find where he’d put his stuff, and he wanted to take every possible opportunity to tell me how wrong I’d been to limit his wardrobe. Perhaps a little bit of organization, not more outfits, would stand him in good stead. Of course I didn’t dare mention this on our final day of driving when….someone woke up and couldn’t find a pair of clean underwear anywhere. I won’t reveal who, or what the person did to remedy the situation.
I will say that calling him Commando Johnson would not be unfounded.
I will also say that limiting our chitlins to one pair of pajamas each was dumb. A second pair would not have taken up that much extra room, and would have kept me from having to improvise on many an occasion. Frankly, those kids really seem to spill a lot of stuff on their pj’s. Personally, I think better fine motor skills would stand them in good stead – after all, how hard can it be to lift a spoon to one’s mouth without dribbling the contents onto one’s sleepwear?
Finally, though I can’t say for sure, I can only imagine that a handful of antidepressants, a pack of earplugs, and lots more chocolate would have served me well throughout it all.
Of course, additional chocolate would have made my ‘weighing’ appointment the morning after we arrived in Calgary, even more distressing than it was.
I’m sure it’s ‘all’ baby.
