Page One Hundred Thirty.
Today I started a new dog-sitting job. It's my first time with this dog, a basset hound, and I'll be here for the next twenty-three days. Archie's parents are hiking around Germany and Italy. Archie seems like a rather spoiled but easy going dog. He has a dog walker come in a few times a week plus he goes to doggie day care twice a week; this in spite of the fact that both parents are retired and home, a lot. In short, this dog's social life is more active than mine. (And people claim I'm busy.)
The fun part of this job will be eating all the vegetables from the garden: yellow grape tomatoes, roma tomatoes, beefsteaks, Swiss chard, and basil. I'm going to eat at a friend's house this weekend and bringing a salad. (She's buying a pizza. But I told her I'll only eat about one centimeter of it as I'm still on my diet.) I think I'll saute some mushrooms, onions and red pepper and mix it with copious amounts of raw tomatoes then add some blue cheese, freshly chopped basil and drizzle on some balsamic vinegar and olive oil. I'll serve that on a bed of greens including the Swiss chard. Yum, yum, yum.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
On The Origin Of Peach Cobbler
Page One Hundred Twenty-Nine.
Can I tell you something I just recently learned? I was reading a cookbook which gave a short history of some of the items listed. It mentioned that some of our "old fashioned" American desserts evolved out of a need for calories. Specifically, some old style cakes, pies and cobblers were created simply to get calories into nineteenth century farmers and their communities. Those generations needed three thousand or more calories per day to work the farms. One of the ways the cooks got the needed calories into them was to develop and serve hearty and rich desserts, like cobblers.
Nowadays, with our primarily sedentary lifestyles, not many American males need more than about two thousand calories per day, 1/3 fewer than when Lincoln was in the White House. Few females need more than about fifteen hundred. Yet some of us are still eating those pies and cakes regularly. If you really sit back and contemplate this, it's very sobering. Eating that stuff does absolutely nothing healthy for our bodies. Yet some people still do it often. As a special treat, I'm all for desserts. In fact, I've never met a cake I didn't like. But regularly? Isn't my health more important than that?
Can I tell you something I just recently learned? I was reading a cookbook which gave a short history of some of the items listed. It mentioned that some of our "old fashioned" American desserts evolved out of a need for calories. Specifically, some old style cakes, pies and cobblers were created simply to get calories into nineteenth century farmers and their communities. Those generations needed three thousand or more calories per day to work the farms. One of the ways the cooks got the needed calories into them was to develop and serve hearty and rich desserts, like cobblers.
Nowadays, with our primarily sedentary lifestyles, not many American males need more than about two thousand calories per day, 1/3 fewer than when Lincoln was in the White House. Few females need more than about fifteen hundred. Yet some of us are still eating those pies and cakes regularly. If you really sit back and contemplate this, it's very sobering. Eating that stuff does absolutely nothing healthy for our bodies. Yet some people still do it often. As a special treat, I'm all for desserts. In fact, I've never met a cake I didn't like. But regularly? Isn't my health more important than that?
Monday, August 26, 2013
Those Dubious "Collections" Cookbooks
Page One Hundred Twenty-Eight.
I went to a flea market a couple of days ago and picked up a few cookbooks - always a nice find. Among my purchased selection is a local school's collection of donated recipes. I'm sure you know the books I'm talking about. Those are the ones where the school sends out a notice and asks the parents to submit their favorite recipes. (This happens at some larger workplaces, also.) Then, the entire collection is sent to the publisher, printed nicely, bound in a ring binder and sold for $11.95 with all the proceeds going to some worthy cause, often the PTA. Nice as this concept is, many of the recipes sent in are untested, poorly written, have questionable ingredients and sound gruesome. For that reason, I usually avoid them. But not always.
I go out of my way to look for cookbooks assembled by any Junior League. Also, I'll purchase cookbooks assembled from any group or private school I know to be snooty and snobby. The reason is this: any old, rich lady who admits to knowing how to cook, cooks really well. Trust me on this. I've known a lot of old, rich, snooty ladies over the years and they really do know what they're doing in the kitchen. Being a good cook was a sign of good breeding back in the day. Nowadays, princesses and princesses in training don't have to know how to cook, but their grandmothers absolutely did. (Please forgive my sexism here. Of course, men can cook. Look at me. But let's be honest... for that generation, it was typically the women.)
So, among the books I purchased the other day is a collection of recipes from one of Cleveland's ultra-exclusive private schools. Just listen to this recipe:
Escargot Butter Sauce
1 cup shallots
1/2 Tbl minced garlic
2 oz parsley
10 oz butter
2 Tbl., or as needed, very fine Brandy (Armagnac preferable)
1 can escargot (from the Burgandy region if possible)
salt/pepper
Saute shallots and garlic in butter. Add brandy, escargot and parsley plus salt/pepper to taste. Pour over 1 pound of hot, fresh fettuccine.
That sounds too good! And there's no way you'd find a recipe for Escargot Butter Sauce in a typical public elementary school PTA cookbook. Just ain't gonna happen. You only gotta love them old, rich ladies.
And for the record, I see myself making this one day.I think I'll blog about more recipes from this cookbook in the future.
I went to a flea market a couple of days ago and picked up a few cookbooks - always a nice find. Among my purchased selection is a local school's collection of donated recipes. I'm sure you know the books I'm talking about. Those are the ones where the school sends out a notice and asks the parents to submit their favorite recipes. (This happens at some larger workplaces, also.) Then, the entire collection is sent to the publisher, printed nicely, bound in a ring binder and sold for $11.95 with all the proceeds going to some worthy cause, often the PTA. Nice as this concept is, many of the recipes sent in are untested, poorly written, have questionable ingredients and sound gruesome. For that reason, I usually avoid them. But not always.
I go out of my way to look for cookbooks assembled by any Junior League. Also, I'll purchase cookbooks assembled from any group or private school I know to be snooty and snobby. The reason is this: any old, rich lady who admits to knowing how to cook, cooks really well. Trust me on this. I've known a lot of old, rich, snooty ladies over the years and they really do know what they're doing in the kitchen. Being a good cook was a sign of good breeding back in the day. Nowadays, princesses and princesses in training don't have to know how to cook, but their grandmothers absolutely did. (Please forgive my sexism here. Of course, men can cook. Look at me. But let's be honest... for that generation, it was typically the women.)
So, among the books I purchased the other day is a collection of recipes from one of Cleveland's ultra-exclusive private schools. Just listen to this recipe:
Escargot Butter Sauce
1 cup shallots
1/2 Tbl minced garlic
2 oz parsley
10 oz butter
2 Tbl., or as needed, very fine Brandy (Armagnac preferable)
1 can escargot (from the Burgandy region if possible)
salt/pepper
Saute shallots and garlic in butter. Add brandy, escargot and parsley plus salt/pepper to taste. Pour over 1 pound of hot, fresh fettuccine.
That sounds too good! And there's no way you'd find a recipe for Escargot Butter Sauce in a typical public elementary school PTA cookbook. Just ain't gonna happen. You only gotta love them old, rich ladies.
And for the record, I see myself making this one day.I think I'll blog about more recipes from this cookbook in the future.
Friday, August 23, 2013
It's Only August And Already A Family Discussion About Thanksgiving?
Page One Hundred Twenty-Seven.
In my family, it's never too early to begin talking about, planning and preparing for Thanksgiving. Labor Day is in a couple of weeks and already my family has been discussing said holiday for well over a month. This is for a variety of reasons, primarily to discuss the guest list. I won't even get into this year's controversy just yet, but you should know that in my family the belief is: if we've ever been related to you or ever met you then, of course, you are invited to join us for our annual Thanksgiving banquet. (And that's what it is - a banquet. More of that another time.)
As an example of my family's preoccupation with inviting anybody, everybody and the mail carrier's dog:
'Twas the day before Thanksgiving around 1986 or so. My sister, Louise, the oldest child, who happened to be hosting the feast that year, was in the drugstore picking up a few items. She ran into her ex-husband's sister, Laura. She'd been very friendly with Laura prior to and during the 10 year marriage and the two were very happy to see each other. (Louise had been divorced from Nick for about 4 years at that point.)
Seems that Laura was in the drugstore picking up a prescription for a women's issue that she was having. She hadn't been feeling well for sometime, but was gradually on the mend. Louise also discovered that she hadn't any plans for Thanksgiving, so she invited Laura to join us. In my family, this wouldn't even raise an eyebrow.
The next day, Feast Day, when I arrived, I inquired as to who else would be there. After Louise told me the story of how Laura would be joining us, her then current husband, Bruce, chimed in, "did you invite her gynecologist also"?
That's pretty much the way it is nowadays too. This year it'll be the typical 25-30 people, most of whom I'm currently related to and happy about it, at least one person whom I used to be related to, at least a few whom I'll probably be related to eventually, a few whom I wish I was never related to at all plus a large handful in the entourage. Welcome to my family. We won't even discuss the food yet.
In my family, it's never too early to begin talking about, planning and preparing for Thanksgiving. Labor Day is in a couple of weeks and already my family has been discussing said holiday for well over a month. This is for a variety of reasons, primarily to discuss the guest list. I won't even get into this year's controversy just yet, but you should know that in my family the belief is: if we've ever been related to you or ever met you then, of course, you are invited to join us for our annual Thanksgiving banquet. (And that's what it is - a banquet. More of that another time.)
As an example of my family's preoccupation with inviting anybody, everybody and the mail carrier's dog:
'Twas the day before Thanksgiving around 1986 or so. My sister, Louise, the oldest child, who happened to be hosting the feast that year, was in the drugstore picking up a few items. She ran into her ex-husband's sister, Laura. She'd been very friendly with Laura prior to and during the 10 year marriage and the two were very happy to see each other. (Louise had been divorced from Nick for about 4 years at that point.)
Seems that Laura was in the drugstore picking up a prescription for a women's issue that she was having. She hadn't been feeling well for sometime, but was gradually on the mend. Louise also discovered that she hadn't any plans for Thanksgiving, so she invited Laura to join us. In my family, this wouldn't even raise an eyebrow.
The next day, Feast Day, when I arrived, I inquired as to who else would be there. After Louise told me the story of how Laura would be joining us, her then current husband, Bruce, chimed in, "did you invite her gynecologist also"?
That's pretty much the way it is nowadays too. This year it'll be the typical 25-30 people, most of whom I'm currently related to and happy about it, at least one person whom I used to be related to, at least a few whom I'll probably be related to eventually, a few whom I wish I was never related to at all plus a large handful in the entourage. Welcome to my family. We won't even discuss the food yet.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Dieting While Attending The Feast Of The Assumption - How I Did
Page One Hundred Twenty-Six.
Per one of my blogs last week, I was determined to attend the feast and still remain on my weight reduction diet. So... how did I do?
Okay. I attended three times: Thursday mid-late afternoon; Saturday evening and late Sunday night for the fireworks.
Thursday: I deeply soul-enjoyed the one slice of sausage pizza which I purchased. However, afterwards I was still hungry and didn't have the defenses in place to protect myself from the Devil's wares. I purchased a small order of fries (which was huge) but was only able to eat about 1/3 or so before I was full. Then just prior to leaving I bought a pound of cinnamon pralines, but ate none while walking. Later that night, I ate about 1/2 ounce.
Friday: ate about 1 more ounce of the pralines.
Saturday: no pralines that day. At the feast had one more slice of pizza. An hour later purchased one single meatball. Then got a lemonade.
Sunday: no pralines at all. At the feast had one more slice of pizza. An hour later purchased one single meatball. Then got a lemonade. Enjoyed the stunning fireworks.
So, I'm moderately pleased with my performance. (But, I'm stuck with almost a pound of the Devil's pralines on my kitchen shelf. Do you want them? I'll mail them to you. Seriously.)
On Saturday, in the middle of this whole thing, I got some good news. At my gym they tested my percentage of body fat. The preferred fat content of gentlemen my age should be 22% or below. I'm at 21.6%. This is with a loss of ten pounds, ten to go. If you ever hear me complaining about my fat, tell me to be quiet.
Per one of my blogs last week, I was determined to attend the feast and still remain on my weight reduction diet. So... how did I do?
Okay. I attended three times: Thursday mid-late afternoon; Saturday evening and late Sunday night for the fireworks.
Thursday: I deeply soul-enjoyed the one slice of sausage pizza which I purchased. However, afterwards I was still hungry and didn't have the defenses in place to protect myself from the Devil's wares. I purchased a small order of fries (which was huge) but was only able to eat about 1/3 or so before I was full. Then just prior to leaving I bought a pound of cinnamon pralines, but ate none while walking. Later that night, I ate about 1/2 ounce.
Friday: ate about 1 more ounce of the pralines.
Saturday: no pralines that day. At the feast had one more slice of pizza. An hour later purchased one single meatball. Then got a lemonade.
Sunday: no pralines at all. At the feast had one more slice of pizza. An hour later purchased one single meatball. Then got a lemonade. Enjoyed the stunning fireworks.
So, I'm moderately pleased with my performance. (But, I'm stuck with almost a pound of the Devil's pralines on my kitchen shelf. Do you want them? I'll mail them to you. Seriously.)
On Saturday, in the middle of this whole thing, I got some good news. At my gym they tested my percentage of body fat. The preferred fat content of gentlemen my age should be 22% or below. I'm at 21.6%. This is with a loss of ten pounds, ten to go. If you ever hear me complaining about my fat, tell me to be quiet.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Feeding A Fifteen Year Old - Update #3
Page One Hundred Twenty-Five.
The kid got back from summer camp a couple weeks ago and immediately started putting up a fuss over the food again. I was under the impression that he was moving straight in with his brother after camp, but apparently there was a short planned interim. So my friend, Deb, said, "do you want me to call Jeremy and have him return and cook until you move?"
"Yeah."
So she phoned and asked me to help out again. We made those arrangements. Then Deb called me again a day or two later and said that Shem decided not to move after all and could I help out long-term? I said, "sure". We decided on Monday and Friday evenings as those are what I currently have available. Deb and I met up for coffee so she could complain about him and give me her apartment keys. She then phoned me an hour later, after returning home, and said that he'd decided to move out after all. So I gave her the keys back.
Deb and I think a couple of different things are going on. How badly does the 19 year old brother really want his little brother living with him and his girlfriend? Also, apparently big brother does drink and Shem doesn't want to be around that at all. Additionally, has Shem realized that he'll miss being taken care of by a maternal female? And finally, how many fifteen year olds do you know can really decide what they want and need? Lord knows they think they can. But they can't. Remember, he doesn't have parents who can say, "sit down, be quiet and listen!!!" So he's just staggering around, directionless, on this issue. I think he's doing the best he can, but he simply can't make up his mind on something so big. He doesn't have the life experience required to securely make an informed decision on something like this.
So, as of two days ago, he is moving in with his brother and I'm not going to be a part of the scene. We'll see. Maybe yes, maybe no.
The kid got back from summer camp a couple weeks ago and immediately started putting up a fuss over the food again. I was under the impression that he was moving straight in with his brother after camp, but apparently there was a short planned interim. So my friend, Deb, said, "do you want me to call Jeremy and have him return and cook until you move?"
"Yeah."
So she phoned and asked me to help out again. We made those arrangements. Then Deb called me again a day or two later and said that Shem decided not to move after all and could I help out long-term? I said, "sure". We decided on Monday and Friday evenings as those are what I currently have available. Deb and I met up for coffee so she could complain about him and give me her apartment keys. She then phoned me an hour later, after returning home, and said that he'd decided to move out after all. So I gave her the keys back.
Deb and I think a couple of different things are going on. How badly does the 19 year old brother really want his little brother living with him and his girlfriend? Also, apparently big brother does drink and Shem doesn't want to be around that at all. Additionally, has Shem realized that he'll miss being taken care of by a maternal female? And finally, how many fifteen year olds do you know can really decide what they want and need? Lord knows they think they can. But they can't. Remember, he doesn't have parents who can say, "sit down, be quiet and listen!!!" So he's just staggering around, directionless, on this issue. I think he's doing the best he can, but he simply can't make up his mind on something so big. He doesn't have the life experience required to securely make an informed decision on something like this.
So, as of two days ago, he is moving in with his brother and I'm not going to be a part of the scene. We'll see. Maybe yes, maybe no.
Friday, August 16, 2013
On Decorating For Rosh Hashanah
Page One Hundred Twenty-Two.
Right now I'm sitting at my dining room table, writing this blog. Besides my computer, the other things on the table are many decorations for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which is in a few weeks. The reason they're here is because I'll be using them in a couple days to decorate one window at the beauty salon which I manage. Decorating a window for Rosh Hashanah is mostly no big deal. But if you remember from a couple blogs ago (page #119) the salon is almost exclusively African-American. However, here's the thing: my boss, Alma, knew what she was getting herself into when she asked me to be the manager. She knew that my world view is a bit odd, overly embracing and quite rebellious.
Last spring I decorated one window for the Jewish holiday of Purim and I decorated another one for St. Patrick's Day. Of all things, I didn't do one for Easter because one of our two windows was broken at the time and the other window was set with something that Alma and I both liked, though I don't now remember what it was. (Also, that was the week that I was hosting the Passover Seder at the church, and was cooking for 260 people. So, I took the entire week off from the salon anyhow.) Alma, the beauty salon and I are all in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, an unusually ecumenical and integrated community. If I can't get away with decorating a black beauty salon for all the Jewish holidays in this city, I can't do it anywhere. And I want to.
It doesn't go unnoticed either. Last spring while the windows had their St. Pat's theme, some drunken bar hopping patrons who were staggering by, were overheard to say "why do those ni****s have their salon decorated for St. Patrick's Day?" (The salon is on a street heavily occupied by popular restaurants and bars.) But also, earlier this summer, I received word that my windows had been nominated for the best decorated windows in Cleveland Heights. So there you go.
Actually the salon clients love it. Alma is a devout Christian as are many of her clients. They love the fact that I embrace and then talk about my Jewishness because Jesus was Jewish. So they're fascinated by our holidays. As far as I'm concerned, anything which keeps my creativity popping is good. And doing those windows for various holidays, Jewish and otherwise, definitely pops my creativity.
Right now I'm sitting at my dining room table, writing this blog. Besides my computer, the other things on the table are many decorations for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which is in a few weeks. The reason they're here is because I'll be using them in a couple days to decorate one window at the beauty salon which I manage. Decorating a window for Rosh Hashanah is mostly no big deal. But if you remember from a couple blogs ago (page #119) the salon is almost exclusively African-American. However, here's the thing: my boss, Alma, knew what she was getting herself into when she asked me to be the manager. She knew that my world view is a bit odd, overly embracing and quite rebellious.
Last spring I decorated one window for the Jewish holiday of Purim and I decorated another one for St. Patrick's Day. Of all things, I didn't do one for Easter because one of our two windows was broken at the time and the other window was set with something that Alma and I both liked, though I don't now remember what it was. (Also, that was the week that I was hosting the Passover Seder at the church, and was cooking for 260 people. So, I took the entire week off from the salon anyhow.) Alma, the beauty salon and I are all in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, an unusually ecumenical and integrated community. If I can't get away with decorating a black beauty salon for all the Jewish holidays in this city, I can't do it anywhere. And I want to.
It doesn't go unnoticed either. Last spring while the windows had their St. Pat's theme, some drunken bar hopping patrons who were staggering by, were overheard to say "why do those ni****s have their salon decorated for St. Patrick's Day?" (The salon is on a street heavily occupied by popular restaurants and bars.) But also, earlier this summer, I received word that my windows had been nominated for the best decorated windows in Cleveland Heights. So there you go.
Actually the salon clients love it. Alma is a devout Christian as are many of her clients. They love the fact that I embrace and then talk about my Jewishness because Jesus was Jewish. So they're fascinated by our holidays. As far as I'm concerned, anything which keeps my creativity popping is good. And doing those windows for various holidays, Jewish and otherwise, definitely pops my creativity.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
On Loosing A Few Pounds - Update #1
Page One Hundred Twenty-One.
Just an update on my weight reduction diet...
It's now been 33 days and I've lost a solid ten pounds, which is evident. I was very concerned about the wedding a couple days ago and how could I possibly stay on a diet at a festival like that? (You know... the wedding with the accompanying memorial the day prior which I catered? See blogs #120, 118, 109). In fact, I didn't even bother to stay on the diet at a banquet. Why torture myself? So I ate pretty much everything. I just didn't overeat. Who knew that was possible? And then, the next day, I simply went back to my dieting habits.
What'll also be tough is the Feast of the Assumption which is this coming weekend. I've mentioned the Feast before in this blog: see page#190. I've already decided that I'll go down and only get a piece of Old Church Lady Pizza a couple times during the course of the four days. I won't get anything else. No Elephant ears, no cavatelli, no kettle corn, no ravioli, no cotton candy... just homemade pizza. Come to think of it, I'll save about thirty dollars, too!
I'd like to loose another twelve pounds. But, we'll see. At the wedding, my niece, who was my date, was really concerned about me loosing another twelve. She believes that I can't afford to loose too much more. Though one or two of my friends have commented that I can. Who knows? Maybe I won't loose that much. I just want to be able to fit into certain trousers that I haven't been able to comfortably squeeze into for a while. The question is: how much of the weight I've put on in the last decade is muscle? And, how will that affect my slithering into old trousers? Lord knows, I can't wear my older suits because I'm broader in the shoulders. I get that. In fact, I've given some of my older suits and jackets away already. But what about trousers?
In theory, if I can get my waist close to what it was, I should be fine. But, one thing at a time. First loose twelve more pounds. Second, start wearing old, out of style pants. Third, adopt the new eating habits long term. But in the meantime, six more weeks of the diet; I still say that I'm rarely starving though. thankfully.
The real irony is that right now two people owe me fancy dinners. My niece owes me one because I gave her a free haircut a month ago. And one of my buddies owes me dinner me 'cause I helped him move a few weeks ago and refused to let him pay me. I can't wait for that tasty food.
Just an update on my weight reduction diet...
It's now been 33 days and I've lost a solid ten pounds, which is evident. I was very concerned about the wedding a couple days ago and how could I possibly stay on a diet at a festival like that? (You know... the wedding with the accompanying memorial the day prior which I catered? See blogs #120, 118, 109). In fact, I didn't even bother to stay on the diet at a banquet. Why torture myself? So I ate pretty much everything. I just didn't overeat. Who knew that was possible? And then, the next day, I simply went back to my dieting habits.
What'll also be tough is the Feast of the Assumption which is this coming weekend. I've mentioned the Feast before in this blog: see page#190. I've already decided that I'll go down and only get a piece of Old Church Lady Pizza a couple times during the course of the four days. I won't get anything else. No Elephant ears, no cavatelli, no kettle corn, no ravioli, no cotton candy... just homemade pizza. Come to think of it, I'll save about thirty dollars, too!
I'd like to loose another twelve pounds. But, we'll see. At the wedding, my niece, who was my date, was really concerned about me loosing another twelve. She believes that I can't afford to loose too much more. Though one or two of my friends have commented that I can. Who knows? Maybe I won't loose that much. I just want to be able to fit into certain trousers that I haven't been able to comfortably squeeze into for a while. The question is: how much of the weight I've put on in the last decade is muscle? And, how will that affect my slithering into old trousers? Lord knows, I can't wear my older suits because I'm broader in the shoulders. I get that. In fact, I've given some of my older suits and jackets away already. But what about trousers?
In theory, if I can get my waist close to what it was, I should be fine. But, one thing at a time. First loose twelve more pounds. Second, start wearing old, out of style pants. Third, adopt the new eating habits long term. But in the meantime, six more weeks of the diet; I still say that I'm rarely starving though. thankfully.
The real irony is that right now two people owe me fancy dinners. My niece owes me one because I gave her a free haircut a month ago. And one of my buddies owes me dinner me 'cause I helped him move a few weeks ago and refused to let him pay me. I can't wait for that tasty food.
Monday, August 12, 2013
On Cooking For One Hundred Poaple
Page One Hundred-Twenty.
A couple blogs ago, I wrote about a gathering that I'd be catering this past week. I mentioned that I'd be cooking in a church and how glad I was to have the church kitchen available to me. In that blog, I also mentioned how I could probably cook for one hundred in this kitchen all by myself. But, I added as an afterthought, I don't think I could transport food for one hundred in my car.
The gathering was about forty-five people so I figured that I'd prepare for fifty. You always want to leave a little left over; rather too much food than not enough, if you know what I mean.
Oh my Lord!!! Did I overcook or what? I did in fact make enough food for one hundred people. Maybe it's because of my bloodline. Jewish. We're notorious for overcooking, you know. Jews, Italians, Greeks and Arabs; good luck finding an Anorexic anywhere in that bunch. I think my variety was good: lasagne, chicken Paprikash over noodles, three bean salad, green salad and fresh fruit salad. I simply made way too much of everything. Don't get me wrong, the customers truly appreciated it. They loved the food itself and knew that they'd eat it all over the weekend. (The gathering was a pre-wedding memorial for the bride's late grandfather. The family had it the day before the wedding 'cause all the family would be in town. It was the bride's idea.) So all the food would be used to feed the out of town guests. They were positively thrilled actually. I also have to admit that I'm somewhat impressed by my abilities. I can cook for one hundred people, by myself, without freaking out at all. And I really can transport that much food in my car. Who knew?
The problem was my profit margin should've been/could've been double, literally, what it was. And, I could've spent way less time cooking and preparing. But I'll just chalk it up to experience. This was, after all, my first time doing something of this nature. So, I'll learn from it. And I know, I'll get a great reference.
A couple blogs ago, I wrote about a gathering that I'd be catering this past week. I mentioned that I'd be cooking in a church and how glad I was to have the church kitchen available to me. In that blog, I also mentioned how I could probably cook for one hundred in this kitchen all by myself. But, I added as an afterthought, I don't think I could transport food for one hundred in my car.
The gathering was about forty-five people so I figured that I'd prepare for fifty. You always want to leave a little left over; rather too much food than not enough, if you know what I mean.
Oh my Lord!!! Did I overcook or what? I did in fact make enough food for one hundred people. Maybe it's because of my bloodline. Jewish. We're notorious for overcooking, you know. Jews, Italians, Greeks and Arabs; good luck finding an Anorexic anywhere in that bunch. I think my variety was good: lasagne, chicken Paprikash over noodles, three bean salad, green salad and fresh fruit salad. I simply made way too much of everything. Don't get me wrong, the customers truly appreciated it. They loved the food itself and knew that they'd eat it all over the weekend. (The gathering was a pre-wedding memorial for the bride's late grandfather. The family had it the day before the wedding 'cause all the family would be in town. It was the bride's idea.) So all the food would be used to feed the out of town guests. They were positively thrilled actually. I also have to admit that I'm somewhat impressed by my abilities. I can cook for one hundred people, by myself, without freaking out at all. And I really can transport that much food in my car. Who knew?
The problem was my profit margin should've been/could've been double, literally, what it was. And, I could've spent way less time cooking and preparing. But I'll just chalk it up to experience. This was, after all, my first time doing something of this nature. So, I'll learn from it. And I know, I'll get a great reference.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Alma's Healthy Hair Clinic
Page One Hundred-Nineteen.
Sometimes I stray from the primary topics of this blog: cooking, feeding children, nannying and being a male nanny. Today I'm going to stray very far. However, This is such an enormous topic that I'll choose to not write too much about it as it's a lot.
I've mentioned that I have a part time job managing a beauty salon. Well, it's an interesting situation for a variety of reasons. It's actually a twenty-five year old salon that only recently changed locations. It had been In East Cleveland, a neighboring suburb, since opening it's doors in the late '80's, but just moved here to Cleveland Heights in February of 2013. That's when I started as manager.
The owner is a lovely woman, Alma, whom I worked with in 1986. I only kept that particular job for a minute, but it was long enough for Alma and me to become friends; we would subsequently stay in touch through the decades. Alma is an extremely fine hairdresser and would eventually get her B.A. in education then her M.B.A. A few years ago a national technical college hired her to establish a new cosmetology program on their national campuses. Today, that's her day job, but she still owns and operates the salon, doing hair in the evenings and on Saturdays.
I have a good reputation as a hairdresser, reaching fairly high status in the 1980's when I really cared a lot about it. I mostly stopped working in salons in the '80's when I went back to college. I've worked in salons occasionally since then, but primarily I've been a freelance hairdresser since '86, doing clients' hair in their homes. Alma has long been the president of my fan club. I was her hairdresser for a number of years, coming into her salon, and cutting her hair with a salon full of clients watching the process. She also encouraged me to get a cosmetology instructors license so I could eventually teach.
Alma is black and her salon was named one of the one hundred best black beauty salons in the world by Essence magazine in the mid-'90's. I was the only white person in my beauty school so I'm comfortable with black hair and a predominately black environment though I've rarely had African-American clients during my career. I'm just somebody who's okay with most people regardless of their age, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, income, nationality, physical or cognitive infirmity, religion or class. Alma knows that. So when she moved her expensive, African-American beauty salon and wanted a manager without an ulterior motive, she phoned me: a very white, Jewish fellow. I do very little hair in the salon, I'm the manager. But I'm considering expanding my role in that area. We'll see.
In the meantime, the salon has some issues. We're trying to rebuild after loosing a large number of clients in the move; Alma, who's half Puerto Rican wants to expand into the Hispanic market even though there are few Hispanics in this part of town; we need hairdressers who will actually be here when they say they're going to be and other issues too numerous to mention. I know the beauty industry extremely well, having begun beauty school in 1978 and having been licensed since '81. It takes a lot to surprise or shock me and I think much of what I see at the salon is normal. But sometimes I just feel like walking around and saying, "can't we all just get along?"
Sometimes I stray from the primary topics of this blog: cooking, feeding children, nannying and being a male nanny. Today I'm going to stray very far. However, This is such an enormous topic that I'll choose to not write too much about it as it's a lot.
I've mentioned that I have a part time job managing a beauty salon. Well, it's an interesting situation for a variety of reasons. It's actually a twenty-five year old salon that only recently changed locations. It had been In East Cleveland, a neighboring suburb, since opening it's doors in the late '80's, but just moved here to Cleveland Heights in February of 2013. That's when I started as manager.
The owner is a lovely woman, Alma, whom I worked with in 1986. I only kept that particular job for a minute, but it was long enough for Alma and me to become friends; we would subsequently stay in touch through the decades. Alma is an extremely fine hairdresser and would eventually get her B.A. in education then her M.B.A. A few years ago a national technical college hired her to establish a new cosmetology program on their national campuses. Today, that's her day job, but she still owns and operates the salon, doing hair in the evenings and on Saturdays.
I have a good reputation as a hairdresser, reaching fairly high status in the 1980's when I really cared a lot about it. I mostly stopped working in salons in the '80's when I went back to college. I've worked in salons occasionally since then, but primarily I've been a freelance hairdresser since '86, doing clients' hair in their homes. Alma has long been the president of my fan club. I was her hairdresser for a number of years, coming into her salon, and cutting her hair with a salon full of clients watching the process. She also encouraged me to get a cosmetology instructors license so I could eventually teach.
Alma is black and her salon was named one of the one hundred best black beauty salons in the world by Essence magazine in the mid-'90's. I was the only white person in my beauty school so I'm comfortable with black hair and a predominately black environment though I've rarely had African-American clients during my career. I'm just somebody who's okay with most people regardless of their age, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, income, nationality, physical or cognitive infirmity, religion or class. Alma knows that. So when she moved her expensive, African-American beauty salon and wanted a manager without an ulterior motive, she phoned me: a very white, Jewish fellow. I do very little hair in the salon, I'm the manager. But I'm considering expanding my role in that area. We'll see.
In the meantime, the salon has some issues. We're trying to rebuild after loosing a large number of clients in the move; Alma, who's half Puerto Rican wants to expand into the Hispanic market even though there are few Hispanics in this part of town; we need hairdressers who will actually be here when they say they're going to be and other issues too numerous to mention. I know the beauty industry extremely well, having begun beauty school in 1978 and having been licensed since '81. It takes a lot to surprise or shock me and I think much of what I see at the salon is normal. But sometimes I just feel like walking around and saying, "can't we all just get along?"
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
On Borrowing A Church Kitchen
Page One Hundred-Eighteen.
I'm cooking for a memorial gathering this Friday. It won't be big, only about forty-five or so. But that's enough that it's still work. I'll be making three trays of Lasagne, two pans of chicken Paprikash with noodles, tons of three bean salad, two trays of fruit salad and a very elaborate green salad. The real complication in a situation like this isn't the work, the time, the purchasing of ingredients or so forth. The problem is storage. I only have a two bedroom apartment in an old, 1920's brownstone walk-up. My refrigerator is somewhat large for an apartment of that nature, but still it's nowhere large enough to store this amount of eats.
I'm cat-sitting right now and the home I'm living in has what might be referred to as a "gourmet" kitchen. (I cat-sit, dog-sit, elder-sit, child-sit, house-sit a lot. When the home-owner goes away for vacation, he or she hires me to move in, live there and take care of the being in question.) I'd been thinking "perfect timing". But upon closer inspection, I realize that the over-sized refrigerator in this home still won't be large enough. So, I think I've come up with the perfect solution.
Last March I put on a large, instructional, community Passover Seder in a grand, old, United Methodist church here in Cleveland Heights. (See page fifty-five of this blog for that story.) The congregation was delighted with it and have been quite warm toward me ever since. Actually, I've been friendly with the senior minister for about a decade. Our friendship is what led to my hosting the Seder in the first place. But with the Seder, the congregation and office staff have gotten to know me and welcome me. So, I phoned the church yesterday and asked if I might borrow their kitchen for a few days. They're thrilled to help me out. And brother, do they have a great kitchen. It's fantastic. This church has all the counter space, gas burners, ovens, deep sinks, refrigerator space and freezer space anybody could ever hope for. Martha Stewart would be impressed. Last spring, with much help from volunteers, I cooked a meal for 260 in this kitchen. I'm positive that I could cater a memorial gathering for 100 by myself in this thing. It's just that workable. (The only problem I'd have catering for 100 would be transporting the food. My car can handle carrying food for 45 this Friday. Much more and there'd be a problem. After a little while, you begin to think about ever single detail, such as car space.)
Well, I better go now. I'm doing the chicken today.
I'm cooking for a memorial gathering this Friday. It won't be big, only about forty-five or so. But that's enough that it's still work. I'll be making three trays of Lasagne, two pans of chicken Paprikash with noodles, tons of three bean salad, two trays of fruit salad and a very elaborate green salad. The real complication in a situation like this isn't the work, the time, the purchasing of ingredients or so forth. The problem is storage. I only have a two bedroom apartment in an old, 1920's brownstone walk-up. My refrigerator is somewhat large for an apartment of that nature, but still it's nowhere large enough to store this amount of eats.
I'm cat-sitting right now and the home I'm living in has what might be referred to as a "gourmet" kitchen. (I cat-sit, dog-sit, elder-sit, child-sit, house-sit a lot. When the home-owner goes away for vacation, he or she hires me to move in, live there and take care of the being in question.) I'd been thinking "perfect timing". But upon closer inspection, I realize that the over-sized refrigerator in this home still won't be large enough. So, I think I've come up with the perfect solution.
Last March I put on a large, instructional, community Passover Seder in a grand, old, United Methodist church here in Cleveland Heights. (See page fifty-five of this blog for that story.) The congregation was delighted with it and have been quite warm toward me ever since. Actually, I've been friendly with the senior minister for about a decade. Our friendship is what led to my hosting the Seder in the first place. But with the Seder, the congregation and office staff have gotten to know me and welcome me. So, I phoned the church yesterday and asked if I might borrow their kitchen for a few days. They're thrilled to help me out. And brother, do they have a great kitchen. It's fantastic. This church has all the counter space, gas burners, ovens, deep sinks, refrigerator space and freezer space anybody could ever hope for. Martha Stewart would be impressed. Last spring, with much help from volunteers, I cooked a meal for 260 in this kitchen. I'm positive that I could cater a memorial gathering for 100 by myself in this thing. It's just that workable. (The only problem I'd have catering for 100 would be transporting the food. My car can handle carrying food for 45 this Friday. Much more and there'd be a problem. After a little while, you begin to think about ever single detail, such as car space.)
Well, I better go now. I'm doing the chicken today.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Cleveland's Playhouse Square
Page One Hundred-Seventeen.
Well, it's official: there's one spot in downtown Cleveland where I can purchase a good hot pretzel.
On page one hundred-thirteen of this blog I wrote about my displeasure with the current state of affairs concerning contemporary, American, hot pretzels. However, I mentioned that I did eat a good one recently while downtown at a performance. Well, it happened again at the same location. So, I think I've hit on something here.
Playhouse Square is here in Cleveland, downtown, at the intersection of East Fourteenth Street and Euclid Avenue. It's a conglomeration of about eight or nine stages with over ten thousand seats. It's the largest theater complex in America outside of Lincoln Center in New York City. The buildings and primary stages were all built in the 1920's at the height of the "movie palace" era though some were intended to be Vaudeville houses, too. The theaters had a great run until the late '60's when they began loosing customers to the suburbs. Then, fires and vandals were a real threat to the buildings and there was serious talk of tearing the buildings down.
The Playhouse Square Association, a non-profit group, was formed in the early '70's to purchase and save the buildings and stages. Over the next twenty years, The Playhouse Square Association was extremely successful in their renovations and marketing of the venues. So nowadays, you can go down and see visiting Broadway musical productions, dance, Shakespeare, student theater, avante-garde theater, the occasional Rock show, you name it. (One of my brothers tells the story of how he saw the Doors at Playhouse Square in 1968.) Almost any evening of the year you can go down and see two, three or four different wonderful things. Well... maybe not quite that much all the time, but often it really is that much.
So, right now, and for the next two weeks, they're showing classic movies at the Palace Theater. Last Thursday at the opening night of the 16th annual "Cinema at the Square" they showed Grease. And, not only that, but it was a Grease sing-a-long, with all the lyrics superimposed onto the screen. The Palace is huge, a few thousand seats, and it was packed. It was too fun for words and they served a great hot pretzel.
I was down at Playhouse Square a few weeks ago when I got the other really great hot pretzel, too. So I think I've hit a gold mine for good hot pretzels. (The play I saw a few weeks ago was awful, but the evening was glorious because of the wonderful pretzel.) On Sunday, August 11th, at 2PM, I'll be back down there to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I can't wait for that hot pretzel!
(Actually, I have quite a history with the Palace Theater. In the 1990's I was an extra in Cleveland Ballet's version of The Nutcracker for five or six years. So I was on that stage many times. Then in the late-90's I was once in charge of decorating the Palace lobby for a benefit party. It's a stunning, opulent theater. These are two separate stories that I'll share sometime.)
Well, it's official: there's one spot in downtown Cleveland where I can purchase a good hot pretzel.
On page one hundred-thirteen of this blog I wrote about my displeasure with the current state of affairs concerning contemporary, American, hot pretzels. However, I mentioned that I did eat a good one recently while downtown at a performance. Well, it happened again at the same location. So, I think I've hit on something here.
Playhouse Square is here in Cleveland, downtown, at the intersection of East Fourteenth Street and Euclid Avenue. It's a conglomeration of about eight or nine stages with over ten thousand seats. It's the largest theater complex in America outside of Lincoln Center in New York City. The buildings and primary stages were all built in the 1920's at the height of the "movie palace" era though some were intended to be Vaudeville houses, too. The theaters had a great run until the late '60's when they began loosing customers to the suburbs. Then, fires and vandals were a real threat to the buildings and there was serious talk of tearing the buildings down.
The Playhouse Square Association, a non-profit group, was formed in the early '70's to purchase and save the buildings and stages. Over the next twenty years, The Playhouse Square Association was extremely successful in their renovations and marketing of the venues. So nowadays, you can go down and see visiting Broadway musical productions, dance, Shakespeare, student theater, avante-garde theater, the occasional Rock show, you name it. (One of my brothers tells the story of how he saw the Doors at Playhouse Square in 1968.) Almost any evening of the year you can go down and see two, three or four different wonderful things. Well... maybe not quite that much all the time, but often it really is that much.
So, right now, and for the next two weeks, they're showing classic movies at the Palace Theater. Last Thursday at the opening night of the 16th annual "Cinema at the Square" they showed Grease. And, not only that, but it was a Grease sing-a-long, with all the lyrics superimposed onto the screen. The Palace is huge, a few thousand seats, and it was packed. It was too fun for words and they served a great hot pretzel.
I was down at Playhouse Square a few weeks ago when I got the other really great hot pretzel, too. So I think I've hit a gold mine for good hot pretzels. (The play I saw a few weeks ago was awful, but the evening was glorious because of the wonderful pretzel.) On Sunday, August 11th, at 2PM, I'll be back down there to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I can't wait for that hot pretzel!
(Actually, I have quite a history with the Palace Theater. In the 1990's I was an extra in Cleveland Ballet's version of The Nutcracker for five or six years. So I was on that stage many times. Then in the late-90's I was once in charge of decorating the Palace lobby for a benefit party. It's a stunning, opulent theater. These are two separate stories that I'll share sometime.)
Friday, August 2, 2013
One Picky Child
Page One Hundred-Sixteen.
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
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