A Gracious Hostess

My sister called me last night. After gossiping at length about people we never talk to, she scolded me for ignoring the blog for so long and told me to post something – anything – just to get back on track. She also told me not to point out the long absence.

My mom and sister celebrated their birthdays this week. I boldly left gift-ordering to the last minute, and was horrified to find emails on Monday from three online retailers (or the online arms of brick-and-mortar retailers, I suppose) informing me that my delivery dates could not be guaranteed “due to extreme weather.” Now, I had gifts en route to Chicago, where it’s been storming and snowy and unpleasant. But I also had some coming to California, so I couldn’t figure out if these were blanket statements sent to everybody, everywhere, or if they truly considered California rain “extreme.” Whatever the case, no one should underestimate the tenacity of our FedEx Standard Overnight carriers! Gifts arrived, on-time and unharmed.

In other news, I moved in with my boyfriend about a month ago, and so far, so good! He still wakes up when I do, even though I get to work early and he rolls into the office, Mad Men-style, at 9:00. (But I never have to pull all-nighters, so ha!)

I sort of assumed that this new arrangement would throw off the theme, as it were, of the blog: weekly menus for a family. After worrying about it for a while, I decided that a serious retooling wouldn’t be necessary. Since the move I’ve still been having – and cooking – Sunday dinners and other meals with my family, which will be happily documented and skillfully photographed (thanks Mom!). But perhaps more significantly, the weekly menus have been sadly neglected, almost from the start.

Inconsistency can be a wonderful thing!

And…it’s all over.
My Thanksgiving timeline – which, by the end, had taken on the scope of MRP for a small company – didn’t steer me wrong: I always keep on task when held accountable to a piece of paper. My boyfriend came over after work on Wednesday to help me get ready; he was greeted with a mountain of Brussels sprouts, a raw turkey, and a festive Togo’s dinner. But weren’t we efficient? So much of the meal was prepared ahead of time that my sister and I spent most of Thursday in a DVD-induced stupor, with intermittent bouts of grooming.

Then: chaos.

No, of course it wasn’t that bad. But I always underestimate the last-minute-ness of so many things and never figure in the time it takes to pry the cooked turkey from the v-rack to which it’s become cemented, scrape the burned bits from the roasting pan before making the gravy, and ferry nine hot serving dishes to their designated trivets.

And, there was the Tofurky.

My sister (a vegetarian, you remember) called a few days before she arrived and asked if I could pick up some fake chicken patties as a turkey stand-in. Sure, no problem – until I couldn’t find them. It’s hard to imagine a run on soy chicken-substitute, but the freezer shelves spoke for themselves. There was, however, no shortage of Tofurky, which should have been my first warning sign.

The Tofurky (“Serves and Delights 5”!) was nestled in a small box with a tub of mushroom and “giblet” gravy. It was a fat little roast, almost spherical, and it came tightly wrapped in plastic that was secured, summer-sausage-style, by two metal grommets. Unlike chicken patties, which fare perfectly well on a paper towel in the microwave, the Tofurky required a baking dish and an hour in the oven. These specifications had not been incorporated into my oven configuration, as everyone was soon aware. But since I’m an infinitely adaptable type of person and my sister surely would have gone hungry with only seven meat-free sides from which to choose, we worked out the logistics with minimum fuss.

The Tofurky sat high in its tiny dish on a bed of onions, doused with olive oil and soy sauce, and was shuttled between the big oven and the convection oven. The gravy took a spectacularly long time to make, but didn’t taste too burned. The casseroles were hot in the center. We forgot some of the stuffing in the turkey but found it upon postprandial disassembly of the carcass. I didn’t spill my wine – or anybody’s else’s.

There is still Tofurky in the refrigerator.

My parents went on a birding expedition to the Antelope Valley on Saturday. While they were trekking through alfalfa fields, my brother (upon promise of a McDonald’s lunch) and I decided to hang the outdoor Christmas lights. No ladders necessary, but it did require much crouching and crawling around on the roof. The next day I stumbled around, barely able to move, as my boyfriend snickered. I hadn’t been so sore since the first (and last) time I went water-skiing: New Year’s Day, 1996. Some of us, it seems, aren’t meant to do more than sit, stand, lie, and take the occasional brisk walk, with any deviation bringing unacceptable results.

I had a poor man’s oil change this weekend, too. Here’s how you can do it: wait until enough oil has leaked or burned off (takes approx. 9,000 miles) that your oil gauge starts bouncing around excitedly whenever the car is running. When the needle starts sitting at “empty” for long stretches, you will begin to hear an alarming rattle coming from the engine area. You are getting close. Just before the engine seizes (it’s kind of a gut-feeling thing), add several quarts of oil. (I got some extra mileage out of the McDonald’s lunch, as my brother did this part.) A new filter is recommended.

The big day is almost here! I asked my boss if he would mind my coming into work a little late on Wednesday so I could go get my turkey as soon as the market opened. I explained the importance of having first pick, lest you end up with a turkey on the undesirable end of your weight range (e.g., I ordered a turkey in the 14 – 18 pound range, but I have no need for an 18-pound turkey; 14 pounds is even a little large, though the cats will be pleased.) He agreed, with some eye-rolling.

The Plan
Tonight: Buy Brussels sprouts and clean room in preparation of sister’s arrival (though, really, why?)
Wednesday evening (unless sprung from work early!): Rinse turkey and put on rack in fridge for professional air-cooled effect, prepare sweet potatoes, chop up veggies for stuffing
Thursday: Everything else

More to come.

So about the vegetarian thing: it’s not been a complete crash and burn, since most of our meals are still meat-free, but a full-blown transition to the ethical and environmental high ground hasn’t happened. Color me not surprised!

With that out of the way, let’s talk about meat – or, more specifically, what goes on it. If my free trial of SPSS hadn’t run out a year ago, I’d include a neat scatter plot to show, in no uncertain terms, that my family prefers their meat dishes to have a sauce. It took me eight years to wrap my head around this striking and entirely obvious correlation. Why try to make something that people like when I could just as easily make something they don’t?

Well, because I like sauces, too. I use the term loosely, since I’ll count anything that’s damp and kind of pourable. Over here we run the gamut from mango salsa (popular with some) to gravy and pan sauce (popular with all). Last week I bought some pork tenderloin, seared it in a skillet, poured in a mixture of Dijon mustard, white wine, and something else (chicken broth?), and stuck it in the oven. It was all I could do not to make it again the next day.

…Instead, I used a “simmer sauce” from Trader Joe’s. It was even easier! It looked a little gelatinous after bubbling away with the chicken in the oven (this was not the Trader Joe’s-sanctioned method of preparation), but a good whisking fixed that. We ate it with crusty bread, not the recommended pasta, which meant one fewer pot to clean and, consequently, a happy cook.
Too cute for sauce!

The Halloween potluck at my office is tomorrow. We’ve been encouraged to “dress up and make the day a little more fun.” Last year I went as a cowgirl – with boots, hat, the whole deal. Who even knew that Brooks & Dunn had a women’s Western wear line? My sister is braving the mean streets of Chicago in the awesome boots, however (and she should send me a picture to post), so I came up with a new costume idea: Laura Petrie! Capris, pearls, flipped hair, false lashes…I think it sounds totally cute, except I could never pull that all together at 6:00am on a Friday. If I could, it might weaken my justification for looking so sloppy every other day.

Finally: rain. One radio DJ said that this might be the biggest storm southern California has seen in 70 years. Here’s hoping. I’ve tried to pack as many cold (“cold”) weather meals as possible into the week in anticipation of the inevitable October switch back to summer temperatures – 85° by Friday, as meanly confirmed by weather.com.

See, these are nice, warm, rainy-day meals:

Sunday: Meatloaf, baked potatoes, salad
Monday: Frittata with potatoes; salad
Tuesday: Gnocchi, salad
Wednesday: Tomato basil soup, crusty bread, cheese
Thursday: Curry and rice…and salad

It’s true, there is no lack of bagged, prewashed lettuce in the crisper.

My parents and I really like meatloaf. My boyfriend and brother seem to agree that if I’m going to bother mixing ground meat with other stuff and cooking it at all, I might as well make it into burgers. Perhaps they don’t understand that meatloaf is so much cozier, and that meatloaf means I don’t have to scrub the grills on the barbecue. I won’t get either of them started on the post-Christmas ham loaf.

Just in case this hasn’t become abundantly clear, frittata is a personal favorite. Like quiche, but easy! Like scrambled eggs, but kind of dinner-y! A few weeks ago I had an unexpected, almost dizzying, spell of inspiration and bought a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen roasted potatoes with peppers and onions. I set my sister to cooking them in the skillet while I beat ten eggs with some milk. To the hot potatoes we added the eggs, a handful of cheddar, some chopped up roasted green chilies, and leftover chopped tomatoes; tossed it in the oven; and – brilliant! It looked like a golden, slightly overcooked Spanish tortilla. My brother, after painstakingly picking out every tomato, managed to choke it down with glares and copious lashings of Tabasco. I may never make it any other way.

Speaking of recipes that will remain forever unchanged, I recently planned The Great Thanksgiving Menu of 2009, which looks very much like those of all years prior. Since this took five minutes, I backed up into Halloween mode – no sense rushing the best fiscal and calendar quarter of the year…as anxiety-fraught as it so often is.

My mom loves Halloween. But as the day draws nearer and busy schedules render the house conspicuously un-be-webbed and bereft of (tasteful) gargoyles, run-of-the-mill anxiety can become full-blown, we-forgot-to-order-the-turkey-style panic. I was driving somewhere (interesting and important, no doubt) around, say October 3rd, and passed a house with a pumpkin on the porch. I immediately called my brother.

“We need to go get the Halloween stuff out of the storage locker.”
“Huh? Now?”
“Yes, now! I just saw a house with a pumpkin on the porch.”
“So? Why do –“ There was a terrified pause; I knew he understood. “Has Mom seen a house with a pumpkin on the porch yet?”

Ta-da! (Tastefully) decorated house!

This post won’t have much to do with cooking, since CPK online ordering has become my new, very best friend. One might argue that there are better ways to waste disposable income, but…none could possibly be so awesome. Oh my gosh, you can even make notes (”No sour cream, please!”), and someone will take heed and hold the sour cream!

My sister came to visit for nine days, though, so there may be talk of drinks.

About five years ago, my parents turned my sister’s bedroom into an office; as such, several times a year I get a roommate. A rosy-cheeked and charming roommate, to be sure, but one whose tidying-up skills remain unrealized. (She left on Sunday. From my room I removed: one empty cereal bowl; one empty Fresca can; one half-empty Fresca can; one empty Coffee Bean cup; one large stash of junk mail, cleverly hidden on the bottom shelf of a bookcase.) But we did have a grand time, knitting, puttering around in cat sweaters, watching The Golden Girls, badgering my brother to make cocktails, and falling asleep at 9:30.

The Perfect Martini, as made by my brother:
Fill a mug with ice, add gin, and serve!
If he’s in a generous mood I might get a lemon twist, which keeps it looking classy.

Speaking of garnishes, does anyone have an opinion about Tomolives? Apparently, they’ve been around since 1947 – and I had no idea! A Tomolive, in case you don’t want to be the laughingstock of your garnish-literate family (not fun), is a tiny green brined tomato that looks exactly – exactly – like a green olive. They are adorable, and I’m finding it difficult to stop saying so.

In other news, my parents have become birders. It might be getting serious. They don’t wear funny clothes (yet!), but they spend a good part of every weekend trekking around wetlands and cliffsides in oppressive heat, carrying 40 pounds of camera equipment in backpacks designed for war photographers. They return home, spiritedly arguing about the likelihood of finding a Blackburnian warbler in this area. Then they carefully review their counts and record their species in several reputable online orinthological databases. Anxiety over a potentially misidentified bird ensues. What fun!

My sister and I were tricked into participating last weekend.
Mom: The blue-footed booby is still sitting out on the jetty in Dana Point!
Sister: Huh?
Mom: No, really, M_______ just posted on the forum that it’s still there!
[Confused silence in kitchen.]
Me: So…do you guys want to go see it or something?

And see it we did! It kind of looked like a seagull. Indeed, I may have been looking at a seagull. It was sitting; I could not see its allegedly blue feet. My sister and I carried the spotting scope and were mistaken for people who know about birds: a man, also with spotting scope, approached us on the jetty and asked, “So, any luck?” Yes, news of the booby had spread far and wide. We looked at him as if we’d been cold-called until my sister thought to wave him towards our parents, who, she assured him, “might know.”

One of the great things about the Internet, since no one’s ever pointed this out, is its capacity for providing instant gratification: accurate or not, information is current and instantly available! This is how I like my gossip. It’s not really how I like my bills, but we take the good with the bad over here. In the spirit of being relevant, I’m going to dive into my favorite weekly summertime event, the Concerts in the Park series.

The last one is tomorrow—we made it just under the wire.

The series features our wonderful municipal band, which specializes in movie themes, the official songs of each branch of the U.S. military, and everything in between. I’ve been going for years—decades, actually. The band visits five parks, each one on a specific day of the week, for two months. I’m not going to lie: my park is super awesome, and Thursday is the best night. This need not be taken with a grain of salt.

The concerts bring together some of my least favorite things – picnics, socializing, and prolonged clean-up – and make them into something wholly enjoyable. The adults wander around with glasses of wine, feeling, if they’re anything like me, a little giddy from doing the most illegal thing most of us will ever have the guts to do. (“Alcohol is prohibited in city parks,” comes the ominous but ineffectual announcement each week. “Please be circumspect in your actions.”) The little kids run around with dogs, balls, plastic weaponry, and a wealth of other accessories unsuitable for a crowded place. And we eat.

Apparently, back before my siblings and I were born, my parents would make tasty pasta salads the night before a concert, tuck them into unstained Tupperware, and cruise on down to the park unencumbered by mountains of deck chairs, yards of picnic blankets, and place-settings for five. My, how things have changed!

These days, of course, we bring enough gear to see us through Coachella. Our menu, though much different from those halcyon pre-children days, has been consistent for the last few years: homemade submarine sandwiches, deviled eggs, chips, fruit, and brownies. My mom, who is a teacher, has long been stuck with almost all of the preparation because she gets home from summer school in time to, well, prepare. Needless to say, she was getting kind of sick of it. So we have progressed to the best possible kind of picnic food: purchased.

Tomorrow we will be curled up on our deck chairs and picnic blankets, drinking wine, eating fried chicken, antipasto, potato salad, and strawberries. And it will be, as always, wholly enjoyable. Anyone who’s bored can see how many Crate and Barrel picnic tables they can count from a sitting position; my record is nine.

Because this is not a creative writing assignment, I am going to tell, not show. Also, list-making is my favorite thing ever.

The Mains

Mom
Spent 20 years shopping and cooking for ungrateful children and is, shockingly, over it. Her preferences on the domestic front now involve antique silverware and outfitting my sister’s apartment – 2000 miles away – via Craigslist and text messages. Instrumental in keeping my vegetable garden alive. Ventures into the kitchen to make hummingbird nectar and cocktails.

Dad
Bless him, will eat almost anything, including long-forgotten leftovers that could be classified rightfully as carrion. (Let this be no reflection on the state of my refrigerator.) He can light a charcoal barbeque with no special equipment and carve a turkey consulting neither a manual nor Food Network video. Was an Eagle Scout, needless to say.

Sister
Lives in Chicago but has just arrived for a two-week stay. Vegetarian, anesthesiologist, adorable, morally superior to me in almost every way. I say “almost” as she loves soy bacon, which is disgusting and undoubtedly a strike against her where heaven is concerned. Will drag out, set up, and clean the food processor rather than just chop the onion already.

Brother
In college, mechanical engineering. Can make many useful things, none of which is dinner. He is called into action when a roux is necessary; understands fat-flour-liquid ratios and their relevant applications as well as any Southern grandmother. His criticism of my meals is both unwaveringly enthusiastic and willfully vague.

The Support

Cats
Five. Pickier than they have any right to be. Incompetent hunters who once half-killed a bird (it must have been a group effort) and had no idea how to finish it off. Prefer buttered ribeye from free-range, already-dead cows.

Spoiled Backyard Squirrels
No exact headcount, but I’m surprised we haven’t reached locust-level infestation since the quality and regularity of their meals (fancy nuts hand-delivered to their feeders twice a day) is, on the whole, much better than my own.

Friends, Boyfriends, Girlfriends
Their eating habits and dietary eccentricities will be (lovingly!) disclosed once they agree that this blog will alter the dominant cultural paradigm/further their careers/not embarrass them. As such, I may never get to speak of them again.

I don’t know if it’s possible to make a Venn diagram with five sets (edit: it is!), but this would be a fun and colorful way to present the dilemma of family meal making. Our Universal set, of course, would be all things (I consider) edible: a fine picture, indeed! Our completed diagram, however, would have a very small area of intersection, containing, I believe, mashed potatoes, vichyssoise, and whiskey.

And here we begin our journey.