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Champagne: cooking, cleaning and drinking


Stuffed turkey breast roll. Scallops. Vegies. Salad. Pie. Saison beer. Champagne. Dreams for thanksgiving………..

I’m the person who happily stands at the kitchen sink eating from a can of beans or carton of cottage cheese with a spoon and calling that a meal. My culinary skills are basic grub. Crockpot. One skillet dishes. Open the fridge and cut/chop vegetables soon to be past edible and tossing with a big jug of V8 into a pot and making soup. Rarely caring to tax myself beyond the steps of boiling pasta and tossing something with it to make a casserole. LAZY/peasant. That’s me. (although I have a major crush on anthony bourdain, and he’s the reason i finally and impulsively made a 3 week trip to spain/italy to drink wine and eat tappas). btw – i managed to drop 10 pounds despite gluttonly quaffing fine spanish wine and italian gelato. how bad was that? hee.

Last month my sunset magazine arrived in my mailbox and I gave it my usual cursory glance thru prior to taking it, along with assorted books and magazines, to my used book store that offers cash or store credit. It was a thanksgiving issue, duh, but I was uncharacteristically  captivated by the rustic meal and tablescape. It grabbed me. Hard. Like the first rough and deep embrace of a lover. Yum. And long sigh……..anthony? anthony bourdain???

So today I find myself in my awkward kitchen making sundried tomato pesto to smear along with bacon and chopped mushroom stems into a pounded turkey breast, rolling and tying with butchers twine into a roll for thanksgiving. Like a pork loin. And of course I immediately thought of the mess and cleanup, as well as wanting a clean fridge. Well! I spied a long forgotten bottle of champagne, remember?, the fridge is not my fave hang out place. I thought why not? And with a whooshing pop that only sounds like what it is, I poured my first glass. Into a beer glass. gasp. And BTW, listening to my created pandora station heavy with bluesy rockabilly throaty female singers and twanging guitar coupled with Leonard Cohen. Sweet.

I managed the pesto, and thankfully, rather than blithely following the pinterest recipe and dumping a full cup of grated parmesan in, tasted it. WOW. Good thing as didn’t realize how the parm would dry up the tongue taste. Finished the pesto, had an obvious oily, basil, sundried toms in oil, parm and salt/pepper mess to clean up. Another glass of champagne please. Poured the pesto into a jar and placed right up front, all importantly, center stage on my fridge shelf.

So now I have the clean up and scrubbing of counters, the floor (i’m messy) and had to clean the fridge, which I managed, plunking my butt on an old, old, old milk stool between the door and shelves. Yuck.

I’m spent. (smile).

Happy Thanksgiving to all who have managed to bear with me on this laborious post. The chef in me  (wink) honors the chef in you…..namaste.

 

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Salvation

Slowly and shuffling with glowing pearls wrapping round parchment skin necks or tattered cuffs mended, then tenderly mended again, all are dressed in their version of Sundays best. Parishioners solemn and dutiful, hands tightly clasping, heads and chins downcast, side glances darting like a lizard from their eyes at the column to their left or to the right. The smell of incense slips into their souls as the brass bowls swing with a whoosh, then clang in this otherwise quiet moment.

The line is long today though not a special day other than Sunday, the Lord’s day, the day before Monday, and the priest chants and sways in the gilded and embroidered frock, all white and starched, covering his emerald green underskirt, black scuffed shoes peeping out, giving forth a secret to be noticed and notated by skillful feet watchers and soul judgers, dressed in their Sunday best.

Tongues sticking out to feel the touch of the host quickly recede and saliva flows as the host melts in the mouth and for that second, that nano moment of time comes relief or tears or guilt or nothing and expresses itself in soundless silence.

The back of the church filled with the unworthy, the sinners, the forbidden from standing in 2 columns up front in Sunday’s best, resolute on their knees, resting on padded softness. The saved and the unsaved, the used to be saved and the never will be saved, you realize in the moment, host or no host, all are the body of Christ.

 

 

 

 

 

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Uncategorized

Nightshade Clan

I expected to have glorious mounds of tomatoes. I had recently downsized and was intent upon gardening, but in large containers. I trotted off to the nursery, spending hours negotiating with myself and the selection of plants. Will you grow for me? I would ask, stopping and pausing, debating with each specimen. Will you resist the gnarly bugs that wish to devour your pungent leaves? Recently, discovered in making tomato sauce was San Marzano plum tomatoes from Italy, and I doggedly made my way to the display full of plants. I asked several of the nursery workers, who all said yes -this is the best – you will have more fruit than you can give away, even in containers. So hauling large pots and heavy soil I made my way to my new home and began planting. I gently rubbed on leaves to smell them as I placed them with care, as a new parent will lay their newborn in the crib. I planted herbs for neighbors with them. Mint, parsley, dill, chives. Gently I watered and told them I love you. I promised to water them well. I will block the hot afternoon sun and provide you proper shade. Daily I went to water and talk and touch them. Massive amounts of blossoms appeared. Baby tomatoes poked from the vines and said look at us! Look at us! So I continued to look and water and love and care for them. I dreamt of plucking the juicy fruit and biting into them, joyfully plopping them into my mouth, seeds and juice running down my chin. But those damn tomatoes grew stubborn and said we will not ripen for you! We will not share our juices and skin and seeds. We will turn green leaves to crispy brittle brownness and drop our babies into the soil and we don’t care how much you love us. And they did not forgive me my dreams of fresh salads, and BLT sandwiches and sharing with neighbors. No! They grew scrawny and long stringy vines. So the summer heat is fading and I thought I will cut them down. I will give them new vigor. And they became vigorous but again, refused to bear.

Yesterday I yanked those sons of bitches out of their homes and tossed them into the trash.

This morning I planted radishes in their place.

 

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