Orange Cauliflower?!

Found these pretty babies at the farmstand in south Jersey today (it’s between the pretzel place and my father-in-law’s house). I’ve never seen orange cauliflower before, have you? They were only 75 cents each, so I figured it was worth a shot—I assume they’re going to taste just like the regular variety.

When we got home I did a quick google, and discovered that orange cauliflower is a relatively new, supposedly healthier variety, developed at Cornell just a year or two ago. The color doesn’t merely up the attractiveness factor (in fact, I was always quite fond of the snowy white florets), it also boosts the vegetable’s vitamin A some twenty-five times. So it’s nice-looking and good for you—how often does that happen?

At first I thought I’d make pasta with roasted cauliflower, figs, and mint, since we loved it so much and we haven’t had it since the warmer weather took hold. But now I’m thinking maybe we should try something that plays off its color more. Any ideas? I’ve also got zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes (red and green), red and yellow onions, flat parsley, mint, rosemary, thyme, and basil to play with, in addition to pantry staples.

Seriously, suggest away. I'm too pooped to be creative tonight...

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Baked Oatmeal

I woke up shivering this morning, and smiled. Overnight, fall had arrived. I snuggled up against my husband, pulled the covers up to my shoulders, and drifted back to sleep, dreaming of warm, comforting breakfasts.

S and I first tasted baked oatmeal at the Brook Farm Inn, back in February. I had meant to get the recipe, but never bothered to ask. Spring came, and then summer, and all thoughts of oven-based breakfasts fell by the wayside. And then today, finally, I woke up shivering. I wanted to welcome the cooler weather with a breakfast we could wrap around ourselves like an afghan, something with hints of cinnamon and soft, warm insides. Baked oatmeal fit the bill.

A quick google gave me some basic guidelines—most recipes called for eggs, which we just ran out of, so I wound up winging things for the most part. And in a last-minute fit of inspiration (literally—the oatmeal was in the oven and I was washing up when it occurred to me) I dotted the dish with slices of slightly overripe nectarine—the last gasp of summer, atop the first breakfast of autumn. Sweet.

Baked oatmeal has a different consistency than the stove-top version, though the flavor is very similar. It’s got a mix of textures—there’s a slightly firmer, almost crusty part, and then a meltingly soft interior. Cooking it with milk also makes it more substantial and filling—the ingredients here are basically the same amounts I use when making it on the stove, but I do that with plain water. As much as we enjoyed our baked oatmeal this morning, I was surprised but we ended up with leftovers—we were both completely satisfied with a smaller serving than usual. That's not a bad thing, eh?



Baked Oatmeal
Serves 2-3

2 cups lowfat milk
1 cup water
1 t. vanilla extract
1 t. almond extract
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
1 ½ cups rolled oats
½ cup dried fruit of your choice [I used raisins and cherries]
½ cup toasted pecans, roughly chopped [or walnuts, or almonds]
1 t. cinnamon
1-2 pieces fresh fruit, peeled, pitted, and sliced [I used a nectarine, but this would work equally well with plums, apples, pears, apricots…]

Preheat oven to 350. Spray a small rectangular baking dish with nonstick spray and set aside.

Combine milk, water, extracts, and sugar in a medium bowl. In a large bowl, combine oats, dried fruit, nuts, and cinnamon. Pour in the liquid and stir, then pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish. Top with the sliced fruit and sprinkle with additional sugar, if desired [I didn’t, but I think it might look pretty]. Bake for ½ hour, or until all liquid is absorbed. Serve with additional milk.

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Pretzel Nirvana: Pennsauken Mart Pretzels

When I slyly alluded to our hunt for the famed soft pretzels of south Jersey last week, I piqued the interest of one smart reader (who turned out to be the husband of a friend). Did we find the pretzels, he demanded?

Indeed we did!



Cass’s Pretzels sold freshly baked soft pretzels in the Pennsauken Mart for 39 years. Being from the suburbs of NYC, I don’t know from Marts. Turns out they’re the slightly grungy precursor to the shopping mall, with long rows of stalls owned by individual vendors united under a common roof—it’s like 14th Street, only all in one building. But S, in his Maple Shade childhood, not only spent more than a few afternoons at the local Marts (in Pennsauken and Berlin), he also grew up eating some fabulous soft pretzels. The Pennsauken Mart has fallen into some disrepair so we’ve never gone there, but B, one of S’s closest friends, runs a thriving electronics business in the Berlin Mart. We’ve visited him a couple of times. That Mart’s pretzel bakery churns out the thin, spindly variety, and when they’re fresh out of the oven (as they pretty much always are) they’re quite good. But B and S both insisted that they were nothing, nothing in comparison to the ambrosial twists from Pennsauken, which were bigger, fluffier, and many thousands of times more delicious than their Berlin cousins. Sadly, that business closed a few years ago.

When S and B were in parochial school, one of the nuns sold these magical pretzels in the schoolyard at lunchtime. Some of S’s fondest memories involve biting into the slightly warm, not-too-salty, chewy dough. Considering everything that’s been happening with his dad, it makes sense that he’s been thinking about them lately, and mentioned them to B. If you could’ve seen S’s face when B told him that the Pennsauken pretzel people had recently reopened in a new location! He may have been more excited than he was the day we got married. All B could remember was that the new store was somewhere on Route 130. That little snippet of information was enough for S, though, and soon we were off on the Great Pretzel Hunt.

They turned out to be easy to find—at the very first place we asked, the people knew exactly what we were talking about and told us the precise location, in the Pep Boys shopping center in Cinnaminson. Yes, these pretzels are that famous. S was positively giddy.



We walked in and the first thing I noticed was how shiny everything was. It looked like the place had literally just opened—and it turned out they had, three days before. Our conversation with B was quite serendipitously timed. After a few moments of gaping and bouncing on his toes excitedly, S bought three. As you can see in the picture above, these are not small pretzels. They’re about the size of a NYC bagel, I’d say. Y’know, big. Mere minutes later, we’d finished them and were ready for more.

But I’m skipping ahead—you want to know what that first bite was like, don’t you?

Piping hot. Firm, chewy crust. A perfect scattering of kosher salt. Mild, almost sweet, ethereally light inside. With a squirt of yellow mustard giving it spice, it was the Platonic Ideal of pretzeldom. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat a flaccid, doughy, half-cold-half-burnt NYC street pretzel again. We’re talking pretzel nirvana here, folks.



When our pretzel lunch was over, we looked at each other and agreed: We’re coming back, next week. And the week after that, and the week after that…

We did return last weekend, with a camera.


Brothers Jim and Don Fraser, baking the pretzels


The pretzel ladies


That’s the sign from the Mart. S recognized it immediately, and it made his pretzel experience all the sweeter.

On our second visit, I chatted with the ladies behind the counter between customers—sometimes the line was nearly out the door, and people were constantly congratulating them on their rebirth, thanking them for restoring the pretzel balance to south Jersey. Turns out the Frasers had closed the Mart bakery because Don, the gray-haired gentleman in the photo above, had had a heart attack. He’s fine now, so they decided to reopen, and from the looks of things the entire southern half of the state is thrilled.

I tried to get some hints about what makes their pretzels so much better than everyone else’s, but the otherwise friendly and talkative Frasers clammed right up whenever I broached the subject. Example:

Me, watching Jim skillfully dunk the unbaked pretzels in what seems to be a vat of boiling water: “It looks like the process is similar to baking bagels—are they boiled before baking?”

Frasers: “No.”

Me, a few minutes later: “What is it that makes the dough slightly sweet? Is it malt, maybe?”

Frasers: “No.”

You get the idea. This is a family recipe, their trade secret, and they’re not sharing. But that’s cool, I respect them for it. One thing they were willing to tell me is that their pretzels freeze well—a very important factor in our purchasing decision, since based on that knowledge we bought a dozen. I was instructed to leave the paper bag open to let the steam escape (otherwise condensation would form, melt the salt, and soften the crust), then wrap them tightly in foil—not plastic—and freeze as soon as possible. To reheat, I’ve been experimenting with a microwave defrost/toaster oven combo: the best mix seems to be 1 minute in the micro on defrost, and 5 minutes in the toaster oven at 300 degrees. They come out heated through, with a nice crunch to the crust. Not quite as good as fresh, but since we live two hours away it’ll have to do. And a dozen seems likely to last a week, which isn’t so bad really, is it? What’s that average out to, less than one a day for each of us?

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Taming the Wild Spice Rack (Garam Masala Chicken)

My spice rack was looking pretty good not too long ago:



But that was before I started ordering like a freak from Penzeys. In no time, my orderly spice rack resembled the inside of my closet—jumbled and borderline dangerous, with bottles of all different shapes and sizes shoved in wherever I could find a sliver of space. And then I had one of those moments, when you hear a chorus of angels singing: aaaaaAAAAAA!


Gladware to the rescue.



Who knew something so simple, so basic, could make such a difference? Granted, the containers aren’t perfect for my little cabinet—the door has thick outer edges, so the nifty new spice tubs jut out just enough to keep it from closing unless they’re placed squarely down the center—but it’s making me mighty happy. The wide-open tops make it super-easy to measure, and having (nearly) everything one size neatens things up considerably. They hold a lot more than I expected—in most cases a full standard spice jar. Throw in a chance to use our new label maker, and I’m happy as a clam.



But perhaps the biggest benefit of this sudden organizational spurt was that I became reacquainted with the contents of my spice rack. Especially in summer, when fresh herbs are so easy to find, I have a tendency to forget I even have a spice rack. For instance, I had no memory of ordering Garam Masala from Penzeys, but there was a pristine jar of it, still sealed shut. When I was transferring it to its new Gladware home, I noticed that the label had a “recipe”: use one teaspoon per pound of chicken, with lime juice, oil, and salt, as a rub/marinade. I figured it was worth a shot—heck, it couldn’t be easier.

Turned out pretty good, if a tiny bit sweet:



I served it with a curry rice pilaf (another find from the spice rack) and vegetables sautéed in an Indian-style sauce I found in Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian. The sauce called for fresh ginger, which I didn’t have, so I subbed in dried, and toasted and ground cumin seeds—two more neglected spice rack residents.

Four spice tubs in one meal. That’s a pretty good total, if I do say so myself.

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Order Up! Facon and Eggs

Can you smell that bacon sizzling in the pan, the smoky promise it makes? Um, me neither. In fact, I’ve never cooked bacon in my life. I grew up kosher, and bacon is pretty much the poster child for Unkosher Deliciousness. Sure, pepperoni pizza is a double-whammy since it combines pork products (Not Kosher), which of course is meat, with dairy (result: Extra Super-Duper Not Kosher), but the smell of bacon cooking travels for miles; it's downright rude in its in-your-face unkosherness.

Weekend mornings were torture for me during my adolescence—I had a paper route in our apartment complex, and the weekend papers were expected to be delivered before 8. As if the waking up early part wasn’t hard enough for a young teen, in my dazed state I’d wander the building's hallways toting stacks of smudgy newsprint, floating from doorway to doorway on the aroma of my neighbors’ breakfasts. Were the people in 3A having eggs with their bacon, or pancakes? Perhaps 2K was firing up the waffle iron. Whatever it was, the whole building would be suffused with that unmistakable, intoxicating scent. My stomach would growl plaintively, and I’d feel guilty for wishing I was a bacon eater.

There were a variety of substitutes—facon—available to us, and if memory serves my brothers and I ate them all enthusiastically. The big treat was Beef Fry:



It sort of looks like bacon, doesn’t it? The big problems with Beef Fry were that a) it was expensive, and we were poor; b) it didn’t smell much like bacon while cooking; and c) the end result was always tough and chewy, not fatty and crisp and gently yielding to the tooth, as I fantasized bacon must be. We’d get all excited whenever my parents sprung for a package, but in the end I was always mildly disappointed. Our other option was both more workaday and more satisfying—Morningstar Farms Bacon Strips:



Are you familiar with Morningstar Farms? As far as I can remember, they were the first vegetarian brand to appear in neighborhood supermarkets. Their bright green boxes were frequent residents in our family’s freezer, especially the ones containing faux breakfast meats. While I like the faux-sausage links a lot (and still eat buy them every so often), my favorite growing up was the facon (which back then was called “Breakfast Strips,” but now they’ve gone all-out and labeled it as Bacon—not sure how they get away with that, exactly).

Way back when I’d cook ‘em up in a frying pan, with oil—they’d turn a lovely shade of golden reddish brown, and the smell was almost exactly what I’d experience while delivering the newspapers. And by frying them, they’d pick up some of that fatty goodness I’d drool over on other people’s plates at the IHOP. Not quite the same, but as close a substitute as I was going to find.

Now that I’m not kosher anymore, I’ve rediscovered exactly how fabulous and irreplaceable the real piggy strips are. When I worked back-of-the-house at Café St. Bart’s, nothing would make me happier than their fantastic Cobb salad—hold the avocado and blue cheese, dressing on the side, and extra Niman Ranch applewood-smoked bacon. Oh. My. God. Bacon is goooooood. But in the nearly twenty years since I’ve observed the laws of kashrut, I still have yet to cook bacon in my own home. And likely, I never will, for two reasons: First, I have a definite mental block on allowing blatantly nonkosher items into my kitchen. There’s been no pig of any kind here, nor any shellfish. It’s just too far over the line, I guess. And second, bacon in particular is crazy unhealthy. Between my weight issues and S’s cholesterol ones, it’s just not worth it. Doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy an occasional strip outside our home, though.

On one of our recent trips down to south Jersey, we stayed overnight with S’s brother and sister-in-law. At breakfast, L served bacon—the familiar yellow Oscar Mayer box, which I’ve picked up more than once in the supermarket over the years before deciding not to put it in the cart—which she cooked in the microwave. It was pretty darn fabulous, let me tell you. Both S and I reconsidered our no-bacon-in-the-home stance for a few minutes after that. But then I remembered the facon of my childhood, and thought perhaps it was worth a shot. I picked up a package, and yesterday I cooked some facon for our breakfast—in the microwave, just like L did with the real thing.



It wasn’t half bad. Crispy, salty, smoky . . . and that smell! It’s exactly like bacon (although I suspect that it might not be exactly like the real thing if one were to put them side-by-side—but since that’ll never happen in my kitchen, I’ll consider it an exact match).

Oh, and the best part:



They make a mean FLT.

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Did Somebody Say “Binge”?

Raise your hand if the first thing you thought when you saw this article was Great, now I can eat the whole package!

Yeah, me too. If City Bakery’s chocolate chip cookies are my upscale downfall, Chips Ahoy are my . . . downscale downfall? Seriously, I’m not sure I can allow these babies into my home. They’re dangerous, I tell you, dangerous.

UPDATE 9/19/05:

I saw them at the supermarket over the weekend. Man, it was tough to put that package back, but a side-by-side comparison with both full-fledged Chips Ahoy and the Reduced Fat version made it clear that you're not really gaining all that much by buying these. Essentially we're talking about 10 calories and 1 gram of fiber. Sooo not worth it.

Not to mention that S doesn't even like Chips Ahoy (I know, I was aghast too when he told me), so if I were to buy a bag, I'd definitely eat the whole thing myself. Sigh.

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Sometimes You Just Don’t Feel Like Cooking (Artichoke Ravioli with Herb Sauce)

Sometimes stress makes me want to cook (well, bake). And sometimes it makes me want to do anything but cook. This week has been much more of the latter, so Tuesday night we ate out and Wednesday night we ordered in. By Thursday night, I still didn’t feel much like cooking, but our wallets were feeling a little light. Fine, I’ll cook, I thought, but don’t expect anything fancy. (For those of you wondering why I’m the one who has to cook: My schedule usually gets me home before 5, while S’s keeps him at work past 7 most nights. If I’m here and able, it just makes sense for me to do it. Plus, let's not forget, I'm supposed to like doing it.)

I pulled out fresh broccoli and zucchini, thinking I’d do some sort of simple primavera with pasta, but I just couldn’t face the prep work. There’d be garlic to peel and chop, onions, herbs, and that broccoli… I know, I could’ve dispatched all that in under ten minutes, but some days even a little bit of effort seems like a lot. The broccoli and zuke went back into the crisper. When S got home, he waxed nostalgic about his bachelor days, when a can of turkey chili made a fine dinner. Did we have any frozen burritos? he asked. A quick look in the freezer: no. But I did spot a box of artichoke ravioli I’d bought at the local handmade ravioli store. It just needed a sauce. We had jars, but that seemed too heavy for a flavor as delicate as artichoke…

I decided to cook, if you can call it that, a very quick, very simple herb sauce. Essentially I chopped up a bunch of herbs, sautéed them for a minute in olive oil, and added chicken broth. A box of artichoke hearts, rescued from the depths of the freezer, added a bit of texture. It was about as basic a recipe as I can imagine, and it was good.

Tonight, we’re having something with broccoli and zucchini. I swear.

Artichoke Ravioli with Herb Sauce
Serves 4 with a salad, 2-3 without

1 package artichoke ravioli (or whatever kind you like, as long as it’s a relatively delicate flavor)
Olive oil
Handfuls of assorted herbs, finely chopped (I used chives, basil, oregano, and lemon thyme)
1 box frozen artichoke hearts, thawed
1 cup chicken broth
Salt & pepper

Cook the ravioli according to package directions, but cut the boiling time short by 2 minutes.

While it’s boiling, heat olive oil in your largest sauté pan. Add herbs and stir, cooking for about 30 seconds, until they’re bright green and the aroma fills the kitchen. Add the artichoke hearts and the chicken broth and let it bubble—the idea is to reduce the broth somewhat. Drain the ravioli and add it to the pan—they’ll finish cooking in the broth, and it will result in a saucier consistency. Add salt & pepper to taste, and you’re done.

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Lemons: Lemonade: Easy Gingersnap Peach Crisp

We went down to south Jersey again this weekend, to visit S’s dad. It’s all so draining, both physically and emotionally, that we’ve begun to look for other “reasons” to make the trip—little upsides to cheer us through difficult periods. This time it involved food.

On our way home, we drove off in search of some mythical soft pretzels from my husband’s childhood, which he had heard were now available in a new location. The hunt took us down roads I’d never been on before—typically when we visit, we cover the routes between S’s father, his brother, his mother, his grandmother, and his great-grandmother, but little else. We drive through some semi-rural areas, but always on major arteries; there are fields all around us, taunting us with their corn stalks and greenery, but never a farm stand. Honestly, I’d become convinced that it was all Big Farming, harvested before ripeness and shipped off in cartons to some other place. From what I’d seen drifting by our car windows, it didn’t seem possible to buy any just-picked produce. And then, the pretzel hunt took us a new way. After crossing a one-lane bridge and making a sharp turn, there it was: the New Jersey farm stand of my dreams.

The setting was humble, dusty, with misshapen cucumbers and fruit flies feeding on the sweet offerings piled high in rough wooden display cases. The bright pink flesh of an eaten-out watermelon in a large cage caught our attention. We wandered over to investigate: a pair of birds nestled inside, dazed and bedraggled. To our city minds, this felt like a real farm. Jersey tomatoes for $1 a pound! Whole watermelons—and not those cute little Sugarbaby balls, we’re talking real, oblong, oh-my-god-it’s-heavy watermelons for $4 each! The last strawberries of the season, $2.50 a quart! Corn, $3.75 a dozen! We loaded up the back seat with berries, corn, zucchini, tomatoes, and peaches—the greatest hits of summer produce—and went on our way, in search of soft pretzels.

The gingersnap-topped peach crisp I made when we got home last night was truly a case of turning lemons into lemonade, although I suppose it would be more correct to say Peach: Peachade…


Easy Gingersnap Peach Crisp
Serves 4

5 medium peaches, very ripe
1 T. dark brown sugar
1 T. flour
Sprinkle each of cinnamon and powdered ginger
15 gingersnaps, crushed
2 T. sliced almonds
2 T. butter, melted

Preheat oven to 375. Spray an 8 x 8 glass baking dish with non-stick spray and set aside.

Skin the peaches: cut a shallow “X” in the bottom of each and drop into boiling water for 20 seconds, until the skins feel loosened. Plunge immediately into ice water to prevent cooking, then remove skins. Cut into slices, toss with brown sugar and flour, then pour into prepared baking dish.

Combine crushed gingersnaps, almonds, and melted butter—don’t worry if the butter doesn’t coat everything—and pour on top of the peaches. Bake for 20 minutes, until top is browned and peaches are bubbly.

We didn’t have any vanilla ice cream or frozen yogurt, but this would be extra-fab topped with a little of either.

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New Product Alert: Peppadew Splash-On Sauce (with recipes for Herb-Crusted Baked Chicken Breasts and Tomato-Peppadew Salsa)

It was only a matter of time. As soon as I saw jarred Peppadew* peppers I should’ve realized that line extensions were sure to follow. And there it was, atop the deli case in the supermarket this afternoon: Peppadew™ Sweet Piquanté Pepper Splash-On Sauce. S spotted it—not only is he credited with introducing me to these juicy little flavor bombs in the first place, he’s also our home’s resident hot sauce fan. I was powerless to resist; everything from the sexy little bottle to the punchy design of the label said Put Me in Your Cart, Now.

I wasn’t intending to use it tonight, but sometimes things just happen in the kitchen, you know? As I was throwing together a fresh bread crumb/mess o’ herbs coating for chicken cutlets, a row of lush ripe tomatoes, red and gold, danced across my line of vision. Perhaps a quick salsa, using some of the leftover chopped herbs, would go nicely with the simple chicken dish. I’d perk it up with the four little Peppadews lounging in the fridge (scuse me: the four little “piquanté peppers”), a squeeze of lime juice, a splash of pomegranate juice, and—wait a minute, hadn’t I just put the absolute perfect ingredient in the pantry? Yes!—a dash (or several) of our new Splash-On Sauce.

Before adding it, I shook a little out onto my finger—I wanted to know exactly what kind of flavor I’d be adding. The first thing to hit my tongue was heat: we’d bought the Hot version, and it definitely was hot. Not unbearable, though, not like those ones that brag they’re going to blast you out the back door and into your neighbor’s swimming pool. More of a soothing kind of hot, if that makes sense. And when that dissolved, it left behind an unmistakable sweetness, just a hint of it. For comparison’s sake I also dripped some Tabasco on my finger—while that started out similarly hot, heat’s just about all you get there. The aftertaste was more of an afterburn. (For what it’s worth, I’ve never been a huge fan of Tabasco added to things after they’re already cooked—I’ll use it within a recipe for heat, but not where I’m hoping to have a distinct flavor boost.)

Both the chicken and the salsa turned out pretty fantastic—we ate every drop. And that Peppadew sauce really did give a nice little zing to the whole meal.

*I’d always thought they were called Pappadew peppers—but it turns out Peppadew is the correct name and a registered trademark to boot—according to their web site, we should never casually say “peppadew peppers”—used as a descriptor, the proper nomenclature is “piquanté pepper”—not that it matters much to me, since they’re so damn yummy.



Herb-Crusted Baked Chicken Breasts
Serves 4

4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
2 T. lemon juice
Olive oil cooking spray
¾ cup fresh bread crumbs [cut the crusts off some leftover bread and grind them in the blender—I used a combo of whole wheat and Polish rye]
3-4 T. fresh herbs, chopped fine [I used chives, lemon thyme, basil, and oregano]
Freshly ground black pepper
Salt (skip this if you’re using kosher chicken)

Put the chicken in a glass (or otherwise non-reactive) bowl, and add the lemon juice. Cover and put in the fridge for an hour. [If you’re making the salsa, now’s a good time to throw it together—see below.]

Preheat the oven to 450. Spray a cookie sheet with the non-stick spray and set aside.

Combine the bread crumbs, herbs, pepper, and salt (if using) in a large, shallow bowl. Pull the chicken breasts from the lemon juice one by one and coat them with the bread crumbs, then place on the prepared cookie sheet. Don’t worry if there are bare patches of chicken showing—you’ll fix that in a minute. When they’re all laid out on the sheet, use your fingers to pat some of the remaining bread crumb mixture onto the chicken, but don’t go too heavy with it; the coating should be fairly light. Spray the tops of the chicken breasts with the cooking spray and bake for 20 minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Serve with Tomato-Peppadew Salsa…

Tomato-Peppadew Salsa
Serves 4

3-4 very ripe tomatoes, color of your choice, seeded and diced small
4-6 Peppadew peppers, diced fine
1 T. fresh basil, chopped
1 T. fresh chives, chopped
Juice of ½ lime
Splash of pomegranate juice [I used Pom brand, the tangerine flavor]
Peppadew Sweet Piquanté Pepper Splash-On Sauce, to taste [I used about a dozen good shakes of the bottle]
Salt & pepper

Combine all ingredients in a glass bowl and let sit for at least ½ an hour.

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Food Is Love: Oatmeal Cookies

It’s excruciating, waiting. S and I have some practice at it, after so many months of waiting for a positive pregnancy test, but nothing compares to what we’re going through now. We’re waiting for S’s father to pass away.

Don has had multiple sclerosis for 42 years. One of the first things S told me about MS, when he and I were newly dating, was that the disease itself wouldn’t kill his father. It would just weaken him and weaken him and weaken him, until something else finally sneaks in and does it. After decades of slow decline, drop by drop, 2005 has been something of a plummet. Multiple infections, and multiple trips to the hospital, until finally the doctors said there was nothing more they could do—“curing” Don was not an option. The best they could offer was to send him home to hospice care, to send him home to die as comfortably as possible. This has been our ongoing family emergency.

Last week Don had a stroke. They’re not sure how big it was—he didn’t want to go back to the hospital for tests, a decision we all supported. But in his condition even a small stroke is a big deal. It wiped out his ability to speak, and over the last few days he’s done little but sleep. We spent two days with him, returning home only when it was apparent that Don didn’t really know we were there. Yesterday we were told he has an infection, so it’s likely a matter of days.

So here we are, jumping every time the phone rings, distracted at work, distracted at home. I watch S closely, searching for signs of depression or despair—lord knows I’m having a hard enough time keeping my own malaise at bay—but so far he seems to be doing OK. He’s been working on a project related to his dad, sorting through family photos and listening to Don’s favorite music. It seems to be helping. As for me, I can’t really make myself focus on anything. I’ve tried reading, I’ve tried watching tv, but I just can’t sit still. The only thing I feel like doing is cooking, or eating.

In an indication of how my mind works when faced with death and despair, I thought about oatmeal cookies all afternoon. I thought about getting home from work and baking a batch for S. The idea of them buoyed me, the comforting softness, the warm cinnamon scent, the smile they’d bring to his face. Oatmeal cookies seem like autumn to me, and I guess thinking ahead is what I need right now. It’s an odd form of therapy, baking, but it works—momentarily, at least.

And it seems to have worked for S, too…



Now, this is not my usual recipe. Part of the distraction came from trying something new, using my brain as much as my body to bake them. They came out pretty good, so I’ll share it with you.

Oatmeal Cookies
Inspired by the LA Times
Makes 5 dozen

¾ cup canola oil
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
½ cup Splenda
2 egg whites
¼ cup water
1 t. vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ t. salt
1 t. cinnamon
½ t. baking soda
3 cups old-fashioned oats
1 cup raisins
½ cup toasted pecans, chopped
½ cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat oil, sugar, Splenda, egg whites, water, and vanilla together until creamy. Sift flour, salt, cinnamon and baking soda into the bowl and blend. Stir in oats, raisins, pecans, and chocolate chips. Drop teaspoonfuls of the dough onto greased cookie sheets [flatten slightly unless you like a rounder, nugget-type cookie—these don’t spread at all]. Bake 12 to 15 minutes.

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Chipotle Turkey Burgers

Food is love.

I’ve said it before, and in the last few days I’ve heard it repeatedly.

Our ongoing family emergency took a turn for the worse this week, and S and I hurried back to south Jersey. After two nights sleeping on floors and seven straight meals in restaurants (mostly of the diner variety), we were relieved to return home last night. There was no fresh food in the kitchen, and while I suppose I could’ve rustled up dinner using pantry items, my brain wasn’t up to the challenge. We ordered in—our eighth straight purchased meal. After a (very) long night’s sleep in our own bed, though, I woke up ready to cook, ready to re-stock the kitchen, ready to show S some love. We made brunch together—oatmeal pancakes with blueberries—and savored the time alone with each other, the simple, distracting comfort of flipping flapjacks. And for dinner, I tried something new: Chipotle Turkey Burgers. They came out great, quite spicy and flavorful. S had his with melted cheese (“skunk cheese,” which we picked up in Maine—a variety of aged cheddar about which I can find nothing online), guacamole, tomato, and red onion (pictured above); since I’m no fan of either guac or cheese, I went the more traditional route and added a little ketchup and some piccalilli relish (another Maine find).

It was wonderful to eat at home again, side-by-side on our sofa, watching Local Hero on DVD. Yup, food is love.

Chipotle Turkey Burgers
Makes 6

Cooking spray
1 canned chipotle in adobo, plus 1-2 t. of the sauce
2 t. salsa [I used a green chili variety]
1 T. plum sauce [the Chinese kind, to give it a little depth and sweetness]
1 ½ lb. ground turkey [I used half breast and half 7%]
Cheese of your choice [I’d recommend cheddar or jack]
Hamburger buns, toasted
Guacamole
Sliced tomato and red onion
Whatever else you like on a burger…

Spray your broiler pan with cooking spray and set aside. [You could also grill these—prepare your grill however you normally do it.]

Puree the chipotle pepper, the sauce, and the salsa in a food processor or blender. Combine it with the ground turkey—don’t overmix it or the burgers will be leaden. Form into six fairly flat patties—you’ll want to be certain they’re cooked through, so flatter is better. Put the patties on the broiler pan and cook 5-8 minutes per side, depending on how hot your broiler gets. Add the cheese and return to the heat for about 30 seconds.

Serve on toasted buns, topped with whatever makes you happy.

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