Page One Hundred-Fifteen.
Here's an appetizing topic to discuss today: fiber. Are you getting enough?
In the olden days (pre-1980's) fiber was referred to as roughage. People used to talk about getting their daily roughage because if you didn't eat it, you might not be "regular". Around one hundred years ago, the public believed that many, many health issues could be traced back to irregularity. During the decades leading up to the twentieth century, American bowel habits were the open topics of conversations. As delicate as Americans think they are, we just love to talk about our bowels and whether or not they're working properly.
A few pages back (page 108) I wrote about how I'd recently been sick with the flu and wasn't eating properly for a few days. I took advantage of that illness to allow my stomach to shrink so I could jump start a little weight loss diet. Nobody would ever accuse me of being obese, but for a few years now, I've been wanting to loose a couple inches around the waistline, nothing more. Well, it's worked and my stomach has definitely shrunk. With a shrunken stomach, less food is required to feel full so less is consumed, thus fat loss. What a concept.
For eighteen days now I've been consuming maybe 40-50% of the fat and calories that I had been eating. I'm rarely hungry because I usually feel full (see shrunken tum-tum, previous paragraph), my energy level is normal, my color is good and I'm doing my complete weight training routine. I'm taking my beloved 3-5 mile hikes around the neighborhood, biking, jogging... everything is good in spite of the fact that I'm eating half of what I had been. It's really shocking to discover how little food I really need to live. I'm sure that I could eat more, but my current mindset is such that I'm really enjoying getting back to the body shape that I'm most comfortable with. Basically, right now my higher priority is to loose some of the fat I've put on in the last eight years as opposed to stuffing my face and stretching my stomach back to what it was. Who knows how long this will last, but at my current rate, in about eight weeks or so I'll be where I want to be. And, in fact, if this little experiment works, I'll actually be in better shape that before because I'm substantially more muscular today than I was back then. So, my torso will be more of a "V" than it was. We'll see... I'm choosing not to stress too much over this whole thing.
Getting back to roughage, I've been concerned that I haven't been consuming enough of that. So yesterday I resorted to a trick I learned while working at Fancy-Schmany Nursing Home. I mixed some Miller's Bran into a dish of apple sauce. I'm sure I added way too much bran, but I ate it. Was it as tasty as, say, a slice of Death By Chocolate cake? Probably not. In fact, definitely not. (But then again, you don't eat Death By Chocolate cake exclusively so it'll make you move your bowels.) But it really wasn't terrible. And in fact, that bowl of applesauce/bran was so filling that it ended up being my dinner. Seriously. I don't know if that's a commentary on how filling it was or how little it takes to stuff my stomach right now. But regardless, it was my 6PM snack.
Americans are notorious for not getting enough fiber as much of our food is highly processed. So, even after this little weight loss experiment ends, for good or bad, I should probably consider incorporating this trick on a regular basis. But one thing at a time. First, loose about ten to fourteen pounds (optimistically) and stabilize at that spot. Yeah! Second, have a slice of Death By Chocolate cake again. Yum! Third, eat more fiber. Yum!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Monday, July 29, 2013
A Terribly Unhealthy Diet
Page One Hundred-Fourteen.
What's the most unhealthy series of things you've ever eaten during a short period? I mean, have you ever had a day or two when, for some reason, you ate only trash? Think Holden Caulfield. In Catcher In The Rye, there's a period of days when Holden basically lives on cigarettes and coffee. That simply isn't as healthy as eating your daily vegetables.
In the autumn of 2007 I went to Europe for a short vacation. One of my former roommates was German and I visited him, plus I stopped in to see Paris and Barcelona. Well, while I was in Paris, the entire country was undergoing a transit strike, so getting around was no small endeavor. (Thankfully, I'm a walker. On my first day I walked from my hostel to the Eiffel Thing and then all over the city: about ten miles.)
I'd arranged to be in Paris for two nights, three days, but the strike started on my second day there. So my plan to take the train to Barcelona on day three ended up being a problem. Being the eternal optimist, I officially postponed my train ride twenty-four hours and extended my hostel one night. Thankfully, they were able to put me up that extra night, but I had to switch rooms. Was I surprised when my new bunk mate was an older American lady? No more surprised than she. But we agreed that Paris loves to inflict it's moral code on others. If adult male and female strangers sharing bunk beds in a small, single hostel room was no big deal to Parisians, then, by golly, it would be no big deal to us. (And, in fact, she gave me some wonderful suggestions concerning my eventual days in Barcelona.)
So on day four, when I went to the train station and they said, "nope!", I promptly got miffed. They explained that those strikes, though usually quite short, can sometimes linger and this one was clearly going to be the latter. So, I was stranded in Paris, literally. Lemme tell ya, it isn't quite as happy as you'd think. I was really beginning to get pissed actually.
There were buses and trains running, barely. A skeleton crew drove when they could and after waiting an hour for a train to Orly airport, it finally showed up. It was packed and people were angry at me for taking up extra space with my backpack. After arriving at Orly, I investigated and discovered that I could get to Barcelona in only one hour if I paid one billion dollars or I could purchase a ticket for the next day at a substantially less fare. So I opted for the next day. Problem was, I was terrified to leave the airport for fear of not being able to get back again the next day. The situation really was that desperate in Paris. So... I spent twenty-four hours in Orly airport, starting at about noon. Incidentally, taxis were so busy, you absolutely couldn't get one, so that wasn't an option.
I had books and puzzles. I had my Walkman. I had no food. They sold food there, of course, but it was those same roast beef, turkey or chicken on baguettes that I'd grown sick of by that point. Really sick of. Those baguettes look so glamorous and romantic in the shop windows when you walk the Parisian streets on your first evening. But four days later,while stranded in the airport, they loose their luster. So for dinner that night I had the French version of a Dove Bar. And for breakfast the next morning: another Dove Bar. That's all I ate for twenty-four hours. And, when I landed in Barcelona and took the bus into the city I promptly walked into a Burger King and got two Whoppers and two orders of fries. (You see, I was hungry.)
So, I didn't really eat healthfully for that couple of days. However, I survived. I certainly wouldn't encourage anybody else to do it. Nor do I condone that type of behavior at all. But, it gave me the energy I needed to survive the next few hours when my hostel told me that they never received my reservations and had no room at the inn. But that's a separate story.
(For more on the German leg of this trip see page Forty-Two of this blog: My Most Memorable Meal.)
What's the most unhealthy series of things you've ever eaten during a short period? I mean, have you ever had a day or two when, for some reason, you ate only trash? Think Holden Caulfield. In Catcher In The Rye, there's a period of days when Holden basically lives on cigarettes and coffee. That simply isn't as healthy as eating your daily vegetables.
In the autumn of 2007 I went to Europe for a short vacation. One of my former roommates was German and I visited him, plus I stopped in to see Paris and Barcelona. Well, while I was in Paris, the entire country was undergoing a transit strike, so getting around was no small endeavor. (Thankfully, I'm a walker. On my first day I walked from my hostel to the Eiffel Thing and then all over the city: about ten miles.)
I'd arranged to be in Paris for two nights, three days, but the strike started on my second day there. So my plan to take the train to Barcelona on day three ended up being a problem. Being the eternal optimist, I officially postponed my train ride twenty-four hours and extended my hostel one night. Thankfully, they were able to put me up that extra night, but I had to switch rooms. Was I surprised when my new bunk mate was an older American lady? No more surprised than she. But we agreed that Paris loves to inflict it's moral code on others. If adult male and female strangers sharing bunk beds in a small, single hostel room was no big deal to Parisians, then, by golly, it would be no big deal to us. (And, in fact, she gave me some wonderful suggestions concerning my eventual days in Barcelona.)
So on day four, when I went to the train station and they said, "nope!", I promptly got miffed. They explained that those strikes, though usually quite short, can sometimes linger and this one was clearly going to be the latter. So, I was stranded in Paris, literally. Lemme tell ya, it isn't quite as happy as you'd think. I was really beginning to get pissed actually.
There were buses and trains running, barely. A skeleton crew drove when they could and after waiting an hour for a train to Orly airport, it finally showed up. It was packed and people were angry at me for taking up extra space with my backpack. After arriving at Orly, I investigated and discovered that I could get to Barcelona in only one hour if I paid one billion dollars or I could purchase a ticket for the next day at a substantially less fare. So I opted for the next day. Problem was, I was terrified to leave the airport for fear of not being able to get back again the next day. The situation really was that desperate in Paris. So... I spent twenty-four hours in Orly airport, starting at about noon. Incidentally, taxis were so busy, you absolutely couldn't get one, so that wasn't an option.
I had books and puzzles. I had my Walkman. I had no food. They sold food there, of course, but it was those same roast beef, turkey or chicken on baguettes that I'd grown sick of by that point. Really sick of. Those baguettes look so glamorous and romantic in the shop windows when you walk the Parisian streets on your first evening. But four days later,while stranded in the airport, they loose their luster. So for dinner that night I had the French version of a Dove Bar. And for breakfast the next morning: another Dove Bar. That's all I ate for twenty-four hours. And, when I landed in Barcelona and took the bus into the city I promptly walked into a Burger King and got two Whoppers and two orders of fries. (You see, I was hungry.)
So, I didn't really eat healthfully for that couple of days. However, I survived. I certainly wouldn't encourage anybody else to do it. Nor do I condone that type of behavior at all. But, it gave me the energy I needed to survive the next few hours when my hostel told me that they never received my reservations and had no room at the inn. But that's a separate story.
(For more on the German leg of this trip see page Forty-Two of this blog: My Most Memorable Meal.)
Friday, July 26, 2013
America's Most Bipolar Food
Page One Hundred-Thirteen.
There's one food which is exceptionally satisfying and glorious when done properly, yet atrocious and proof of the devil's existance when done poorly. Only one. No other food item runs to the extremes as this one particular thing. Most foods, if they're inherently tasty are never truly awful, even when done badly. Conversely, no matter how well you cook, there are certain items which simply cannot be redeemed.
An example of an item which is virtually impossible to ruin is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I've never in my life had a lousy scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream. That's all there is too it. Likewise, it's absolutely impossible to make a good version of vegan meatloaf. I mean, why do they even bother trying? It always ends up tasting like ground up Tyrannosaurus Rex bones. But back to my point, there's only one item which can be so good or so bad, depending upon the mood of the universe.
When I was little my mother would sometimes treat us to hot pretzels when we went shopping. There was a pretzel stand in one of my mothers favorite stores and often when we went there we'd end up with a pretzel or three. This was during the 1960's and I loved them. That store eventually took the stand down and I didn't really miss the pretzels that much, mostly because I didn't think about them. Then at some point in the '80's hot pretzel began appearing in malls and at concert/sport venues. I'd occasionally treat myself to one and that's when I noticed how schizophrenic those things can be. Only every once in a while were they actually good. Most often they were okay and occasionally they were so bad that I literally threw them out for fear of death by pretzel poisoning. How can one item be so bipolar?
I think that part of the problem is that these companies really put their money and research into the toppings. If you dump enough stuff (such as: plastic cheese sauce) onto a pretzel, then you don't really taste the pretzel. Meanwhile, you get to charge more money for the plastic cheese sauce. So they don't really care about the quality of the pretzel. Also, if the pretzel's been hanging in the little warming oven for too long, it begins to develop the taste and texture of an old sleeper-sofa. It just isn't delicious. And then, sometimes, it's covered all over in goo. There's one company which is famous for coating their pretzels with "butter". First of all, who knows what they're actually coating it with and second of all, see my previous comment. If the dough is really good: moist, chewy yet tender, etc. then no coating or topping is needed.
I think that I consistently get my worst hot pretzels at arenas and nightlife events though. I don't know why I keep buying them? It's because I'm an eternal romantic optimist, that's why. Hoping, always hoping... But I'll tell you, those things are bad, they're just awful. In this case, see my reason: "sitting too long in warming oven". They're just dead. Dead I tell you. Dead. They should be buried in the backyard underneath the apple tree.
About one month ago, a good friend treated me to a play downtown. Now, I'm not going to say too much about the play itself because it would be negative. You see, I'm to the point in my life where I've seen so many extraordinary plays, orchestra concerts, dance performances, rock shows and so forth that when I see one which is sub-par, I'm particularly disappointed and curse the universe for stealing three hours of my life. But I enjoyed spending time with my friend and I appreciated her treating me to what she thought would be a wonderful evening. During intermission, I took my life in my hands and purchased a hot pretzel, Lord help me. Well, let me tell you, that was one of the best, if not the best, hot pretzel I've ever had in my life. May Shirley Temple strike me down if I'm lying. It was glorious: fresh, tender, flavorful, salty, hot. In a word: perfection. So it ended up okay that the universe ripped me off of three hours of my life. That horrible play was worth it for that spectacular pretzel.
I'm eating a hot pretzel right now while writing. It's one of those frozen things in a box from the grocery store. It sucks too, but at least it didn't cost $5.00 and look wonderful hanging in a warming oven. And, it was warm, what a concept. Tough, but warm.
There's one food which is exceptionally satisfying and glorious when done properly, yet atrocious and proof of the devil's existance when done poorly. Only one. No other food item runs to the extremes as this one particular thing. Most foods, if they're inherently tasty are never truly awful, even when done badly. Conversely, no matter how well you cook, there are certain items which simply cannot be redeemed.
An example of an item which is virtually impossible to ruin is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I've never in my life had a lousy scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream. That's all there is too it. Likewise, it's absolutely impossible to make a good version of vegan meatloaf. I mean, why do they even bother trying? It always ends up tasting like ground up Tyrannosaurus Rex bones. But back to my point, there's only one item which can be so good or so bad, depending upon the mood of the universe.
When I was little my mother would sometimes treat us to hot pretzels when we went shopping. There was a pretzel stand in one of my mothers favorite stores and often when we went there we'd end up with a pretzel or three. This was during the 1960's and I loved them. That store eventually took the stand down and I didn't really miss the pretzels that much, mostly because I didn't think about them. Then at some point in the '80's hot pretzel began appearing in malls and at concert/sport venues. I'd occasionally treat myself to one and that's when I noticed how schizophrenic those things can be. Only every once in a while were they actually good. Most often they were okay and occasionally they were so bad that I literally threw them out for fear of death by pretzel poisoning. How can one item be so bipolar?
I think that part of the problem is that these companies really put their money and research into the toppings. If you dump enough stuff (such as: plastic cheese sauce) onto a pretzel, then you don't really taste the pretzel. Meanwhile, you get to charge more money for the plastic cheese sauce. So they don't really care about the quality of the pretzel. Also, if the pretzel's been hanging in the little warming oven for too long, it begins to develop the taste and texture of an old sleeper-sofa. It just isn't delicious. And then, sometimes, it's covered all over in goo. There's one company which is famous for coating their pretzels with "butter". First of all, who knows what they're actually coating it with and second of all, see my previous comment. If the dough is really good: moist, chewy yet tender, etc. then no coating or topping is needed.
I think that I consistently get my worst hot pretzels at arenas and nightlife events though. I don't know why I keep buying them? It's because I'm an eternal romantic optimist, that's why. Hoping, always hoping... But I'll tell you, those things are bad, they're just awful. In this case, see my reason: "sitting too long in warming oven". They're just dead. Dead I tell you. Dead. They should be buried in the backyard underneath the apple tree.
About one month ago, a good friend treated me to a play downtown. Now, I'm not going to say too much about the play itself because it would be negative. You see, I'm to the point in my life where I've seen so many extraordinary plays, orchestra concerts, dance performances, rock shows and so forth that when I see one which is sub-par, I'm particularly disappointed and curse the universe for stealing three hours of my life. But I enjoyed spending time with my friend and I appreciated her treating me to what she thought would be a wonderful evening. During intermission, I took my life in my hands and purchased a hot pretzel, Lord help me. Well, let me tell you, that was one of the best, if not the best, hot pretzel I've ever had in my life. May Shirley Temple strike me down if I'm lying. It was glorious: fresh, tender, flavorful, salty, hot. In a word: perfection. So it ended up okay that the universe ripped me off of three hours of my life. That horrible play was worth it for that spectacular pretzel.
I'm eating a hot pretzel right now while writing. It's one of those frozen things in a box from the grocery store. It sucks too, but at least it didn't cost $5.00 and look wonderful hanging in a warming oven. And, it was warm, what a concept. Tough, but warm.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
On Deep Cleaning A One Hundred Year Old Basement - Part Two
Page One Hundred-Twelve.
I'm currently engaged in one of the most gruesome special projects I've ever undertaken. I'm deep cleaning the Shapiro's basement*. See page seventeen of this blog for the background, or part one, of this story. But in a nutshell, the Shapiros moved into their home in the early '70's and have had the basement cleaned twice prior to now. Both times I was the unlucky sap who did it. But, both of those times it was really more of a straightening up affair than an actual deep cleaning. I was allowed to throw away almost nothing. And immediately upon finishing, both times, it was messed up again by young boys. This time, I'm really allowed to eliminate stuff.
Last December when I began this project, I loaded up an entire U-Haul truck with crud and was allowed to neutralize it all. That element to this project probably eliminated 75% of all the unsavory detritus. What's left is the most messy and cluttered workroom you've ever seen, so many tarantula skeletons you can't believe it, 732,216,929,738 cans of dried paint, all the authentic cobwebs left over from the filming of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and lots of old porch furniture. And keep in mind, this is the basement to a five thousand square foot home; so this basement is sizable. And I'm telling you, it's gross.
The Shapiros are getting older and one of these days it'll be time to sell and that's why they're letting me do what I do rather well: throw things out and organize what's left. In fact, Mr. Shapiro had some surgery last week to increase his mobility. But, at a certain point the surgery will no longer work. Mobility issues and stairs don't mix. The asset here, though, is that he might, finally, be willing to get rid of some of his tools. Therefore, I can clean and straighten his workroom which is one massive mess. I know that Habitat For Humanity would gladly accept these items and I wouldn't have to clean around them a fourth time in another decade (by which time I'll begin having my own mobility issues).
Won't you please help and pray that he allows me to get rid of his tools? I'd appreciate it.
Slightly off the subject, their next door neighbors are putting an addition on their home. Now, that's nothing noteworthy, except for the tiny detail that the house next door is massive, perhaps eight thousand square feet or more. There are two powder rooms on the first floor, one on each end of the home; there's a full kitchen on the third floor (the old servants quarters); the dining room is oval and still has the original 1920's hand-painted pastoral garden scene on the walls and aside from the main bedrooms on the second floor there's another distant wing with four more large guest bedrooms and accompanying baths. (Once, in the '80's, I watched the house for the weekend while the former homeowners were out of town. I gave myself a self-guided tour and got turned around and lost on the third floor, literally.) Who in the world puts an addition on a home like this? And what in the world is needed? The Shapiros are even curious about this and it takes a lot to get their eyebrows raised. What's confusing is the addition itself.
Lena Shapiro told me that the neighborhood gossip has it that it's going to be something of a spa. I can sort of see that with perhaps an indoor/outdoor pool with retractable covering. It also looks like they may be building a decorative river or the most bizarrely shaped pool ever. For the time being, they've completely ripped out all the green space in back: an area maybe 75' X 75'. That's where they're doing the work. I can't wait to see how they put it back together again. But, as I said to Lena, "they're keeping a lot of people employed". She agreed.
*The Shapiros are the family whom I lived with for eight years during the '80's and early '90's and who's three boys I nannied.
I'm currently engaged in one of the most gruesome special projects I've ever undertaken. I'm deep cleaning the Shapiro's basement*. See page seventeen of this blog for the background, or part one, of this story. But in a nutshell, the Shapiros moved into their home in the early '70's and have had the basement cleaned twice prior to now. Both times I was the unlucky sap who did it. But, both of those times it was really more of a straightening up affair than an actual deep cleaning. I was allowed to throw away almost nothing. And immediately upon finishing, both times, it was messed up again by young boys. This time, I'm really allowed to eliminate stuff.
Last December when I began this project, I loaded up an entire U-Haul truck with crud and was allowed to neutralize it all. That element to this project probably eliminated 75% of all the unsavory detritus. What's left is the most messy and cluttered workroom you've ever seen, so many tarantula skeletons you can't believe it, 732,216,929,738 cans of dried paint, all the authentic cobwebs left over from the filming of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and lots of old porch furniture. And keep in mind, this is the basement to a five thousand square foot home; so this basement is sizable. And I'm telling you, it's gross.
The Shapiros are getting older and one of these days it'll be time to sell and that's why they're letting me do what I do rather well: throw things out and organize what's left. In fact, Mr. Shapiro had some surgery last week to increase his mobility. But, at a certain point the surgery will no longer work. Mobility issues and stairs don't mix. The asset here, though, is that he might, finally, be willing to get rid of some of his tools. Therefore, I can clean and straighten his workroom which is one massive mess. I know that Habitat For Humanity would gladly accept these items and I wouldn't have to clean around them a fourth time in another decade (by which time I'll begin having my own mobility issues).
Won't you please help and pray that he allows me to get rid of his tools? I'd appreciate it.
Slightly off the subject, their next door neighbors are putting an addition on their home. Now, that's nothing noteworthy, except for the tiny detail that the house next door is massive, perhaps eight thousand square feet or more. There are two powder rooms on the first floor, one on each end of the home; there's a full kitchen on the third floor (the old servants quarters); the dining room is oval and still has the original 1920's hand-painted pastoral garden scene on the walls and aside from the main bedrooms on the second floor there's another distant wing with four more large guest bedrooms and accompanying baths. (Once, in the '80's, I watched the house for the weekend while the former homeowners were out of town. I gave myself a self-guided tour and got turned around and lost on the third floor, literally.) Who in the world puts an addition on a home like this? And what in the world is needed? The Shapiros are even curious about this and it takes a lot to get their eyebrows raised. What's confusing is the addition itself.
Lena Shapiro told me that the neighborhood gossip has it that it's going to be something of a spa. I can sort of see that with perhaps an indoor/outdoor pool with retractable covering. It also looks like they may be building a decorative river or the most bizarrely shaped pool ever. For the time being, they've completely ripped out all the green space in back: an area maybe 75' X 75'. That's where they're doing the work. I can't wait to see how they put it back together again. But, as I said to Lena, "they're keeping a lot of people employed". She agreed.
*The Shapiros are the family whom I lived with for eight years during the '80's and early '90's and who's three boys I nannied.
Monday, July 22, 2013
A Macaroni And Cheese Sandwich?
Page One Hundred-Eleven.
Please indulge me for a moment and let me tell you of a current food fad I just don't get: the concept of turning everything and anything into a sandwich. This morning on TV, I watched a cooking show which taught how to make a macaroni and cheese sandwich with tomato and more cheese. I'm sorry but that doesn't even sound good to me. Clearly, some people must like it, but Lord knows, I'm not one of them.
The sandwich was a slice of bread with a generous helping of mac 'n cheese placed on. Then, on top of that were a couple slices of tomato. Then a slice of cheese topped by the second piece of bread. The entire mess was then grilled as usual. I think that's one disgusting dinner.
There's an extremely popular restaurant chain here in Cleveland which makes things like that. I went there soon after a nearby branch opened and was at a loss as to what to order. My friend ordered a lasagne sandwich (on garlic toast). I probably got a basic cheese sandwich or something like that. Don't get me wrong, I love cheese sandwiches and I enjoy the sandwiches concept in general. But, I just can't grasp the pleasurable aspect of eating simple carbs for their own sake, in spite of the fact that I truly love good bread. Or, put another way, in what way is it advantageous to eat a lasagne sandwich when I can order lasagne with garlic toast on the side? How is the meal improved?
I think that this stuff is "macho food" which America is currently into. We all know those restaurants that dare you to finish some horrifically over-sized meal, and if you do, you get it for free. These sandwiches are an outgrowth of that, I think. "Let's see how many grams of fat, carbs and calories we can load onto a plate!" And we wonder why we have an obesity problem in America. This isn't the only reason, of course, but I think it's one little element of the problem. These foods simply didn't exist three decades ago. They just didn't. And again, how can people say that any flavor is improved upon?I don't get it. I just don't.
Please indulge me for a moment and let me tell you of a current food fad I just don't get: the concept of turning everything and anything into a sandwich. This morning on TV, I watched a cooking show which taught how to make a macaroni and cheese sandwich with tomato and more cheese. I'm sorry but that doesn't even sound good to me. Clearly, some people must like it, but Lord knows, I'm not one of them.
The sandwich was a slice of bread with a generous helping of mac 'n cheese placed on. Then, on top of that were a couple slices of tomato. Then a slice of cheese topped by the second piece of bread. The entire mess was then grilled as usual. I think that's one disgusting dinner.
There's an extremely popular restaurant chain here in Cleveland which makes things like that. I went there soon after a nearby branch opened and was at a loss as to what to order. My friend ordered a lasagne sandwich (on garlic toast). I probably got a basic cheese sandwich or something like that. Don't get me wrong, I love cheese sandwiches and I enjoy the sandwiches concept in general. But, I just can't grasp the pleasurable aspect of eating simple carbs for their own sake, in spite of the fact that I truly love good bread. Or, put another way, in what way is it advantageous to eat a lasagne sandwich when I can order lasagne with garlic toast on the side? How is the meal improved?
I think that this stuff is "macho food" which America is currently into. We all know those restaurants that dare you to finish some horrifically over-sized meal, and if you do, you get it for free. These sandwiches are an outgrowth of that, I think. "Let's see how many grams of fat, carbs and calories we can load onto a plate!" And we wonder why we have an obesity problem in America. This isn't the only reason, of course, but I think it's one little element of the problem. These foods simply didn't exist three decades ago. They just didn't. And again, how can people say that any flavor is improved upon?I don't get it. I just don't.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Grandma Ginny
Page One Hundred-Ten.
My mother's best friend, Virginia, was seriously old-school when it came to "old, protestant, white lady cooking". Which is to say that cooking was so low on her list of priorities that she probably spent more time plotting to overthrow the British throne. She liked to eat, and she enjoyed good food as long as it was severely overly salted, but making it? Not her strength. Interestingly, she did like to entertain. She probably made dinner for the two of us about ten times per year after I became an adult.
Virginia died in '89 when I was twenty-seven and I will admit that she introduced me to a cooking concept that I value to this day: Stouffer's. She could put some romaine lettuce and a peeled, chopped cucumber in a bowl and it was a first course. She could cook up some salt/rice/salt mixture and heat up some frozen Stouffer's creamed chipped beef and it was a main entree (with a can of peas on the side). She could open up a box of Pepperidge Farm chocolate fudge cake and it was dessert. And we were both happy and satisfied. I'll tell you something else, I wouldn't have eaten during my college days if not for Stouffer's and I learned that trick from her.(Interestingly, she could make a great crudite. Baby beets, sweet gherkins, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks, all fair game.)
She did occasionally, truly, cook. Shudder. One time she had me over and prepared beef heart because she said she had a taste for it. I was polite and ate it, but believe me, I'd have preferred a colonoscopy. Even she admitted that it was too dry. Yeah right. We all know that "too dry" is a delicate Wasp euphemism for shoe leather. (Do you remember that scene where Charlie Chaplin eats his own shoe in the 1925 flick The Gold Rush? Well, I can say, "been there".)
My sister once told me that Virginia invited her over for lunch. My sister arrived to discover that "lunch" consisted of two slices of Brownberry Health Nut bread with Hellman's and a couple slices of tomato and a glass of iced tea. The bread was cut on the bias though, so it looked cute. Virginia explained that these were tomato sandwiches and weren't they just wonderful and refreshing on a warm summer's day? My sister had to stop at McDonald's afterwards to avoid fainting of malnutrition.
Many years later I would learn that Virginia's heritage was heavily responsible for her distinctive perception of food and cooking. As much as the 17th century, white, protestant immigrants to the new world contributed to our wonderful country, a tradition of exotic food wasn't among them. (Virginia's ancestors came over, not on the Mayflower, but shortly thereafter, I believe.)
Only a couple of my nieces and nephews have vague memories of her , but they all know who she is. She's Grandma Ginny. We didn't call her that, my oldest sister came up with that name. (Not the sister Virginia almost starved, the other one.)
I think that Virginia simply got in over her head with my family. My mother was hired by Virginia on a pre-marriage job. Then, after my parents got married and created a large family, we adopted her and she very much became a part of us. Virginia however, had zero personal experience with Jewish or eastern-European culture. As an example, though she attended our Passover Seder every year, she continually exasperated my mother by bringing up the fact that it was Jesus's last meal. She was simply clueless to the irrelevance and insensitivity of a guest bringing something like that up at a traditional Orthodox Jewish Service.
But we truly loved her. She brought us countless gifts and invited us to do fun things. She was always kind and taught us how to play Scrabble. She was the never married elderly aunt that you occasionally read about in Victorian novels. And she was quite hip in her own way. She introduced me to the Congregationalist denomination - nowadays known as the United Church of Christ, a very cool protestant sect in which she was exceedingly active.
By the way, my sister who Virginia didn't try to starve thinks that she was a better cook than I do. So there you go.
My mother's best friend, Virginia, was seriously old-school when it came to "old, protestant, white lady cooking". Which is to say that cooking was so low on her list of priorities that she probably spent more time plotting to overthrow the British throne. She liked to eat, and she enjoyed good food as long as it was severely overly salted, but making it? Not her strength. Interestingly, she did like to entertain. She probably made dinner for the two of us about ten times per year after I became an adult.
Virginia died in '89 when I was twenty-seven and I will admit that she introduced me to a cooking concept that I value to this day: Stouffer's. She could put some romaine lettuce and a peeled, chopped cucumber in a bowl and it was a first course. She could cook up some salt/rice/salt mixture and heat up some frozen Stouffer's creamed chipped beef and it was a main entree (with a can of peas on the side). She could open up a box of Pepperidge Farm chocolate fudge cake and it was dessert. And we were both happy and satisfied. I'll tell you something else, I wouldn't have eaten during my college days if not for Stouffer's and I learned that trick from her.(Interestingly, she could make a great crudite. Baby beets, sweet gherkins, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks, all fair game.)
She did occasionally, truly, cook. Shudder. One time she had me over and prepared beef heart because she said she had a taste for it. I was polite and ate it, but believe me, I'd have preferred a colonoscopy. Even she admitted that it was too dry. Yeah right. We all know that "too dry" is a delicate Wasp euphemism for shoe leather. (Do you remember that scene where Charlie Chaplin eats his own shoe in the 1925 flick The Gold Rush? Well, I can say, "been there".)
My sister once told me that Virginia invited her over for lunch. My sister arrived to discover that "lunch" consisted of two slices of Brownberry Health Nut bread with Hellman's and a couple slices of tomato and a glass of iced tea. The bread was cut on the bias though, so it looked cute. Virginia explained that these were tomato sandwiches and weren't they just wonderful and refreshing on a warm summer's day? My sister had to stop at McDonald's afterwards to avoid fainting of malnutrition.
Many years later I would learn that Virginia's heritage was heavily responsible for her distinctive perception of food and cooking. As much as the 17th century, white, protestant immigrants to the new world contributed to our wonderful country, a tradition of exotic food wasn't among them. (Virginia's ancestors came over, not on the Mayflower, but shortly thereafter, I believe.)
Only a couple of my nieces and nephews have vague memories of her , but they all know who she is. She's Grandma Ginny. We didn't call her that, my oldest sister came up with that name. (Not the sister Virginia almost starved, the other one.)
I think that Virginia simply got in over her head with my family. My mother was hired by Virginia on a pre-marriage job. Then, after my parents got married and created a large family, we adopted her and she very much became a part of us. Virginia however, had zero personal experience with Jewish or eastern-European culture. As an example, though she attended our Passover Seder every year, she continually exasperated my mother by bringing up the fact that it was Jesus's last meal. She was simply clueless to the irrelevance and insensitivity of a guest bringing something like that up at a traditional Orthodox Jewish Service.
But we truly loved her. She brought us countless gifts and invited us to do fun things. She was always kind and taught us how to play Scrabble. She was the never married elderly aunt that you occasionally read about in Victorian novels. And she was quite hip in her own way. She introduced me to the Congregationalist denomination - nowadays known as the United Church of Christ, a very cool protestant sect in which she was exceedingly active.
By the way, my sister who Virginia didn't try to starve thinks that she was a better cook than I do. So there you go.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
On Cooking For A Funeral
Page One Hundred-Nine.
I was just (last night) hired to cook food for a casual memorial luncheon in a few weeks. It's for the father of one of my hair clients, Sophia. Her entire family will be coming into town next month for a long-planned wedding. Dad died last December, was quite elderly and the family is spread out over the globe; so, they smartly decided to merge the two events and are having the memorial the day prior to the joyous nuptials.
Sophia and I haven't yet talked - just played phone tag, so I don't yet know what her concept is. I could grill chicken for everybody or make a couple trays of hearty, stick-to-your-ribs food: Lasagne and Beef Stroganoff or something like that. Perhaps she'll want a few different heavy pasta salads. With this type of event, the choices are endless. And she said it'll only be about two dozen people, so the number isn't daunting at all. (After preparing a community Passover Seder for two hundred-sixty people last spring, I feel that I can cater Prince Harry's wedding. See page Fifty-Five of this blog for that story.)
The coolest, hippest memorial or funeral I've ever attended was about five years ago. It was for a woman named Vi and she died of cancer at about age eighty or so. She'd been an acquaintance of mine for twenty-five years or so and she didn't have a care or enemy in the world. She wasn't a famous person in the traditional sense, but everybody knew who she was. After she died, her name popped up in a Cleveland Plain Dealer journalist's weekly column. In fact, the entire column was about her, her spirit and how just everybody knew her and loved her. The funeral service was attended by about seven or eight hundred people; this for somebody who, again, was not a public figure. Her mail carrier, the employees from the drugstore, the secretary whom she gave her monthly rent to... they were all there. All eight hundred of them. She was just that type of person.
Vi loved potlucks. So, she decided that for her after-funeral party there should be a potluck for all. The family rented out a local party center and by golly if eight hundred people didn't show up with eight hundred pots of you name it. Mac 'n cheese, meatloaf, green bean casserole, salad, pizza, brownies, ambrosia, fried chicken, tuna noodle casserole, Entenmann's cake and spinach/strawberry salad... times eight hundred. (I forget what I brought.) It was too fun for words. There was a disc jockey and here were balloons on the tables. Everybody just knew that she was thrilled.
In thirty-five years (?) when it's my time, I want the exact same thing.
I was just (last night) hired to cook food for a casual memorial luncheon in a few weeks. It's for the father of one of my hair clients, Sophia. Her entire family will be coming into town next month for a long-planned wedding. Dad died last December, was quite elderly and the family is spread out over the globe; so, they smartly decided to merge the two events and are having the memorial the day prior to the joyous nuptials.
Sophia and I haven't yet talked - just played phone tag, so I don't yet know what her concept is. I could grill chicken for everybody or make a couple trays of hearty, stick-to-your-ribs food: Lasagne and Beef Stroganoff or something like that. Perhaps she'll want a few different heavy pasta salads. With this type of event, the choices are endless. And she said it'll only be about two dozen people, so the number isn't daunting at all. (After preparing a community Passover Seder for two hundred-sixty people last spring, I feel that I can cater Prince Harry's wedding. See page Fifty-Five of this blog for that story.)
The coolest, hippest memorial or funeral I've ever attended was about five years ago. It was for a woman named Vi and she died of cancer at about age eighty or so. She'd been an acquaintance of mine for twenty-five years or so and she didn't have a care or enemy in the world. She wasn't a famous person in the traditional sense, but everybody knew who she was. After she died, her name popped up in a Cleveland Plain Dealer journalist's weekly column. In fact, the entire column was about her, her spirit and how just everybody knew her and loved her. The funeral service was attended by about seven or eight hundred people; this for somebody who, again, was not a public figure. Her mail carrier, the employees from the drugstore, the secretary whom she gave her monthly rent to... they were all there. All eight hundred of them. She was just that type of person.
Vi loved potlucks. So, she decided that for her after-funeral party there should be a potluck for all. The family rented out a local party center and by golly if eight hundred people didn't show up with eight hundred pots of you name it. Mac 'n cheese, meatloaf, green bean casserole, salad, pizza, brownies, ambrosia, fried chicken, tuna noodle casserole, Entenmann's cake and spinach/strawberry salad... times eight hundred. (I forget what I brought.) It was too fun for words. There was a disc jockey and here were balloons on the tables. Everybody just knew that she was thrilled.
In thirty-five years (?) when it's my time, I want the exact same thing.
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