Tag Archives: Cooking

The Velveeta Verdict

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There are several things in life I swore I’d never do.

  1. Shop at Walmart.
  2. Listen to country music.
  3. Go bungee jumping.
  4. Read a single page of any of the Twilight books.
  5. Buy Velveeta.

So it is with great consternation that I must confess to committing a cardinal sin this weekend, and breaking one of my own hard-and-fast rules. I certainly didn’t set foot in the dreaded big-box retailer that I despise; couldn’t tell Tim McGraw apart from Blake Shelton if my life depended on it; would have to be all kinds of crazy to strap a rubber band around my ankles and willingly jump from a bridge; and prefer my vampires to be of the non-sparkling variety. I did, however, break down and not only buy Velveeta, but I actually cooked with it, too.

Oh, the shame.

Velveeta is such a weird product. First of all – what IS it?! I’ll tell you what it isn’t: cheese. I had to ask one of the grocery store employees at Winco where to find it the other day, because it wasn’t where I expected it to be. In the dairy aisle, you know. Instead it was stacked up like a pile of bricks (and is just about as heavy as one) on the end cap of one of the meat sections, but wasn’t refrigerated because – even though it contains ingredients like milk and whey – it’s also got alginate and apocarotenal, not to mention a really long shelf life. Using Velveeta in lieu of cheese is cheating, and I like to call anybody who does so a velcheeta. I first wrote about this nearly two years ago, when hardly anybody read my blog and I could get away with insulting my mom over the internet. Nowadays I’m more careful, but the fact is, she does happen to have a fondness for this foil-wrapped loaf of fake cheese that defies explanation and makes me think I just might have been adopted. In fact, she insists that the next time Tara and I have a grilled cheese sandwich challenge, we try her version of this American classic, which is made with Velveeta and Miracle Whip.

I almost want to cry.

With such an obvious distaste for this product, you’re probably scratching your head right about now and wondering what on earth possessed me to buy a block of the stuff. The truth is, before this weekend I figured I’d be much more inclined to give in to country music, because if nothing else Johnny Cash is considered country and I actually love the Man In Black’s music. I might even dig a Miranda Lambert song or two. Rest assured though, indie and alternative rock still comprise 90% of the music on my iPod. The Velveeta, then? The reason is simple.

I was on a quest for a really good macaroni ‘n cheese recipe.

Actually, I have a really good recipe. It’s Alton Brown‘s. I’ve been making it for years, and it’s delicious. But when it comes to cooking I like to experiment and even if something is tried and true, the temptation to mix things up occasionally is too powerful to resist. So I ventured on over to allrecipes.com and plugged in a search for mac ‘n cheese, sorting the results by rating. And quickly discovered that the four highest-rated recipes called for a mix of real cheese and – gasp! – my dreaded processed nemesis. I assumed that this was some kind of joke, but in reading the comments from people who had tried the recipes discovered that they actually LIKED them. A lot. They praised the creaminess that Velveeta imparted to the overall consistency of the dish.

Don't let the advertising fool you. There is nothing sexy about Velveeta.

“Perhaps,” I said to myself, “You are being too quick to judge, Mr. Petruska.”

I’m what you’d call an adventurous sort, and always eager to try new things. Plus, I hate to discriminate. Finally, I figured that since the recipe I chose called for plenty of real cheddar – hello, Tillamook! – that I could go ahead and also mix in 8 ounces of Velveeta, as per the instructions. The good news? That’s only 1/4 of the loaf. The bad news? That leaves me with 3/4 of a loaf of Velveeta now taking up valuable refrigerator space! Suggestions are welcome, please. And mother, I know: grilled cheese sandwiches.

So I bought Velveeta for the first time in  my life and I cooked Velveeta for the first time in my life. I had my doubts upon removing it from the box and slicing off a hunk. I really got nervous when I realized it felt like a greasy rubber ball, and was about as springy. Still, I was determined to give it a chance. And the verdict?

Let’s just say instead of a fork or spoon, I’d have been better off using one of these. 

The flavor wasn’t bad. The mac ‘n cheese had a nice tang to it, though that could have come from the addition of prepared mustard. Or, you know, the linear sulfated polysaccharides playfully known as carageenan. No, what got to me instead was the consistency. It was thick. Much too thick. Mac ‘n cheese shouldn’t be chewy, right? It should be creamy. I probably could have spackled my walls with this stuff (and conveniently, they are orange – the color would have blended right in).

I’m still not a fan. Next time, I’ll stick with my old recipe. There’s a reason Alton Brown is so popular. The dude doesn’t cook with Velveeta.

Other than my Velveeta-fied take on mac ‘n cheese, the weekend was pretty low-key. Ran errands, watched a really lame movie called The Big Year (seriously, who decided a comedy about people who go birdwatching would be funny – and why did Steve Martin agree to star?!) and did my taxes. I’d been dreading that last chore because of my unemployment status and the fact that I made a withdrawal from my 401K last spring, but it turns out I had nothing to fear as I ended up with a substantial refund. Whew! That is money I can really use, trust me. If I can manage to land a job sometime in the next month or so, I might actually be on Easy Street for a change. Fingers crossed, dare to dream, and all that jazz. With Tara moving in soon, it does feel like everything is falling into place rather nicely.

The kids are officially on Spring Break, and my parents are taking them to the Oregon coast for three nights. I might drop by their beach house myself on Tuesday and hang out overnight. Anything to get away from the constant, noisy construction taking place on my townhouse.

Oh, and great news – Tara has started a WordPress blog! It feels like everything has come full circle, considering we met through blogging way back in 2003. Feel free to check her out at Tara Piece Of Paper. She’s a rather talented writer, if I do say so myself.

The Great Grilled Cheese Experiment of 2012

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A few weeks ago, I wrote about grilled cheese sandwiches. The feedback was impressive; I received more comments on that post than any other. Go figure! And I have to say, you guys inspired me. There were so many creative suggestions for different types of grilled cheese I decided I’d have to give some of them a try. Thus, the Great Grilled Cheese Experiment of 2012 was born.

The truth is, I was itching for an excuse to do something fun like this. Over the years, I’ve taken a scientific approach to figuring out some of the mysteries of daily life. In fact, I sometimes think of myself as the unofficial third MythBuster. Adam, Jamie and Mark. Has a nice ring to it, no? (And yes, I get that there are other people on the show who could already lay claim to that title. Humor me here, okay?). In the past, I have tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk; held a blind ketchup taste test; and grown mold in the back of the refrigerator. That last one was unintentional, but whatever. With such a storied pedigree in my blood, the idea of whipping up a bunch of these sandwiches and seeing which one was best appealed to me. Once I mentioned it to Tara, she was on board, too. So I went to the store to stock up on a variety of different cheeses and breads, and on Monday the two of us prepared four different sandwiches, all taken from comments left on my blog post. The contenders were:

  • Pear and brie on rye, as mentioned by The Edmonton Tourist.
  • Havarti, swiss and brown mustard on wheat, as mentioned by my friend Jonna at Read Between The Whines.
  • Mild cheddar and colby on white bread and dipped in salsa, suggested by Tara’s mom, Tracy.
  • Mozzarella and sharp cheddar on rye, courtesy of a woman who goes by the moniker SoCalGal.

The sandwiches were all quite different from my go-to sharp cheddar on white, and Tara and I were eager to try them all. So, come lunch time, we fired up the Foreman Grill (a wonderful device for preparing grilled cheese – actually, that’s the only thing I ever use it for), and commenced to sampling the four varieties. Surprisingly (or maybe not, since we are so in tune with each other already and are quite the perfect match), she and I not only agreed on the winner, but also the exact order of the four sandwiches sampled.

Clockwise from top left: Jonna's sandwich, The Edmonton Tourist's, Tracy's, and SoCalGal's.

First up was the pear and brie on rye. The cheese was creamy and the sweetness of the pear perfectly contrasted it, as well as provided a nice crunch, giving it some much-needed textural variety. We found the rye to be a bit overpowering, however. Perhaps a different bread would work better?

Next up was the havarti, swiss and brown mustard on wheat. We were both somewhat leery of the mustard, not being fans of anything with the word “poupon” in it, but actually this condiment provided a nice tang, and the dual cheeses melted together perfectly. The sandwich was tasty, though the mustard did, indeed, claim dominance.

Our third sandwich was the mozzarella and sharp cheddar on rye. Again, the cheeses melted together beautifully and I’m already a sucker for sharp cheddar. And again, the rye bread was a little overwhelming.

Last up was Tracy’s mild cheddar and colby on white. A classic combination, made unique with the addition of a side of salsa. We did half cheddar, half colby jack, in order to try both. What can I say? Every bite was delicious.

So, who was the big winner? The plates speak for themselves…

The amount of sandwich left on each plate directly correlates with our enjoyment of each grilled cheese concoction.

Congratulations to Tracy for the winning sandwich! I was somewhat surprised with the result, figuring one of the more exotic combinations would take the prize (really, there is no prize other than bragging rights, to be technical), but wouldn’t you know it, the simple sandwich on white bread appealed to our taste buds the most. I especially enjoyed dipping it in the salsa; this gave it a nice, tangy kick that elevated the sandwich above the others.

Gooey, cheesy goodness!

Tara and I enjoyed the challenge so much, we’re thinking there may be another round in the future. We’ve already received suggestions for other grilled cheese sandwiches that sound good and worthy of sampling. Maybe we can turn this into a Sweet 16-style elimination tournament with one eventual grand prize winner. The things we do in the name of science, kids!

Have you ever had a similar food challenge? What tempts your palate and teases your taste buds most? And, for crying out loud, have you ever tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk and had success?? I’m 0 for 2 there.

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If It Slices or Dices, It Entices

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Last week, I bought a mandoline. And by mandoline, I mean this:

NOT this:

Captain Corelli I am not.

I do, however, have a fondness for kitchen gadgets. Let’s just say if it slices or it dices, it entices. This is why I think Tara’s mom is so cool. She has both a miniature blowtorch and a set of battery-powered salt and pepper grinders that I oohed and ahhed over during my visit in October (an identical pair of the latter subsequently found their way beneath Tara’s tree on Christmas day, proving that Tracy actually paid attention to the attention I paid to (confused yet?) her gadgets. Hmm, maybe I’ll find a blowtorch stuffed in my stocking this year?! Dare to dream, Petruska).

Anyway.

The point is, anything that is cool and handy and helps out around the kitchen makes my heart beat faster. This applies to both my girlfriend and inanimate objects. I found myself in Fred Meyer last week with a little extra cash and a mandoline that happened to be on sale. Ooh, I thought. I can’t believe I’ve survived all these years without one of those! And into my baby cart it went.

Bread? Check. Milk? Check. Mandoline? Check.

Sadly, the next few dinners I made did not call for any sliced ingredients. I was beginning to think my poor, lonely mandoline might be forever regulated to the Second Drawer Down, destined to gather dust, when I found a new casserole recipe that I wanted to try that called for, among other ingredients, sliced shallots. Be still my heart! It was time to bust out the mandoline!!

I grabbed a shallot and commenced to slicin’. Everything was fine and good – I had perfectly uniform sliced shallots piling up in a neat little stack on the cutting board – until I nearly severed my thumb.

In case you’re not familiar with a mandoline, it’s got a very sharp blade that slices through a myriad of vegetables – onions, carrots, potatoes, turnips – with ease. And also, I might add, human flesh.

I didn’t even realize I’d cut myself at first. There was a sharp pain and my reflexes kicked in immediately. I examined my thumb and it wasn’t bleeding, so I figured it had been a close call and nothing more. But then it did turn red and, upon closer examination, I discovered a chunk of flesh missing.

Ouch.

You know, being a fan of the cooking show Chopped, I have never been able to understand why it is that on nearly every episode somebody ends up cutting him- or herself. Is one of the mystery ingredients blood? But after my own close brush with a heinous cooking injury, let’s just say I’m a little more sympathetic to their plight. I get it now. Cooking is dangerous. It is not for the faint of heart.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. “Chunk of flesh” might be a bit extreme. But there was a knick in my thumb, and it smarted a little.

Fortunately, the casserole turned out delicious.

Here Today, Gone To…day!

All my wishes for snow, I’m happy to report, came true. Around 8:30 Tuesday night it began snowing, and was piling up nicely by the time I went to bed. By daybreak we had 3″ on the ground, and school was cancelled.

Unfortunately, by daybreak it was already 40 degrees and raining. Alas, within a few hours all traces of snow had disappeared. It’s often like that around here; it rarely lasts more than a day or two. The high temperature yesterday reached 52. Our meager three-inch snowpack never stood a chance.

But it was beautiful while it lasted, and winter isn’t over yet!

Rx For a Successful LDR

Tara and I are approximately 12 hours away from seeing each other again. Woohoo!

The thing that has made this long-distance relationship bearable is the frequency of visits we have made back and forth. We’ve never been apart too terribly long, despite fears to the contrary when we first started dating. Of course, I don’t think either of us expected our feelings toward each other to be so intense in the beginning, either. We are both very anxious for Tara to move here, and looking forward to starting that chapter of our lives together. In the meantime, we’ll keep enjoying these little get togethers.

The last time she was here, I ended up in the hospital while she was stuck in my house by herself for three nights. We definitely hope to make up for that this time around. We’ll have a day to ourselves, a day spent adventuring with the kids, a birthday dinner for my dad, and then on Sunday we fly out together to Vegas. We’re not staying there this time – our destination instead is lovely Pahrump, Nevada – but it’ll be fun regardless. We wanted to take advantage of some work she had to do down south by spending a couple of extra days together. Translation: free hotel room.

Hey, a bargain is a bargain.

I fly back Tuesday night, so it won’t be a long trip to Nevada this time, but even a couple of days will be worth it.

Then, we’ll reset the countdown clock to our next visit, in February.

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(Don’t Fear) The Pepper…or Salt

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I hate when you order something that looks delicious, only to take a bite and find that the chef under seasoned it.

Case in point: I went to the farmer’s market earlier today. Part of the fun is in stocking up on fresh produce, and I definitely came away with my share. Apples, cherry tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, and fresh dill. But it’s also an excuse to grab lunch on the go, and the Portland Farmer’s Market has no shortage of vendors serving great food there. Salvador Molly’s, Pine State Biscuits, and C’est Si Bon all serve wonderful meals. I like to try new things though, and today a Mexican place called Verde Cocina caught my eye. They were selling Huevos Rancheros, Chilaquiles, and Gringas. Their menu describes these as:

Gringas are soft, rolled tacos made from our handmade corn tortillas, spread with garbanzo-white bean mash, filled with either fresh local pork or fresh local veggies. They are covered with our signature housemade molé sauce, and served with whole beans and a mountain of veggies.

Sounded too good to pass up, so I opted for the pork version, which cost me $9 (ouch – that’s more than any of the other aforementioned vendors charges for lunch, but I was in a generous mood and the aroma from the freshly grilled sweet onions beckoned to me). They handed me my plate, and it was piled high with a colorful, appealing mound of fresh vegetables smothered in a thick, brick-red sauce. Yum, right?!

Not so much.

Dude. We rock! Food needs us!!

I found a spot to sit, eagerly dug in with my fork, and was dismayed to find the food bland and largely flavorless. This sucked because A) It wasn’t cheap, and B) There were plenty of other options available with proven track records. But what could I do at that point? Maybe if I’d been in a restaurant I’d have sent the meal back, but I had already wandered away from the booth and there was a long line of patrons waiting to order there anyway. It’s not that the food was bad…but it positively screamed out for salt and pepper. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who are afraid to season their food. A little salt and pepper goes a long way toward bringing out the flavors in a dish! I know I’m not alone in this way of thinking. I watch a lot of cooking shows, and the judges always gives chefs a hard time for under seasoning their dishes. It’s a cardinal sin! My meal would have been so much better with a sprinkling of both. You know how some people carry around flasks filled with the booze of their alcoholic choice? I’m tempted to start packing a flask full of salt, and another filled with pepper. And if that insults the sensibilities of the cook who prepared the dish, they can bite me since they have no business serving me something that lacks flavor in the first place!

I should’ve known better. This place was all hey, we have vegan dishes and our meals are all gluten-free!! Then again, that describes the majority of Portland restaurants, so it probably wouldn’t have done me any good. I ate most of it, and it filled me up. That’s about the best I can say, other than lesson learned. Next time I’m going for the biscuit topped with fried chicken, cheese and gravy. Gluten-free? Nope. Healthy? Not a chance. But you can bet your ass it tastes good!

/Seasoning rant.

Afterwards, I wandered around downtown Portland for an hour, just walking and enjoying what may be the last warm weekend day of the year. OK, “enjoying” is too strong a word because it was too hot for my blood and also humid, but the weatherman is calling for rain the next few days so I won’t complain too bitterly. Besides, today is only the 2nd day of autumn. I had no destination in mind; I just wanted to wander the streets, taking in the sights and sounds. That’s the great thing about P-Town; you’re guaranteed to spot something out of the ordinary, every time. Today it was a homeless man asleep in a doorway who demonstrated terrible fashion sense by wearing mismatched shoes: one was black and the other, white. Tsk-tsk. A little coordination next time please, buddy! I also spied a man in a white mariachi suit blowing a horn on a spare corner for change, another man yelling at everybody to Repent Now because The End Is Near but don’t worry, Jesus Loves You. This was topped off with a bunch of new solar-powered trash compactors lining the streets. I’m telling you, this was all a veritable smorgasbord of Portlandia.

Properly seasoned, of course.

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You Want Me To Put That Arugula WHERE?!

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Shut Up And Let Her Cook

I’ve been watching a lot of cooking shows lately. I mean, I’ve always been into them - but now, even more so. I go through phases with what I watch; for a while it was nothing but true crime shows. Then old sitcoms. Now, if a show’s got the word “chef” in it, you can pretty much guarantee I’m watching it. Top Chef, Master Chef, Extreme Chef…and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Let’s not forget Chopped and Hell’s Kitchen and Diners Drive-Ins and Dives. I am fascinated watching a group of competitors open a mystery box to reveal ingredients they must use to create a dish. Some of these shows really stretch a chef’s creativity by including oddball ingredients like blueberry jelly beans and duck testicles and cheese crackers. I get a kick seeing what the contestants will come up with, and I think the reason for that is simple:

What on earth can you come up with using these ingredients that's not only edible, but actually tastes good?! (Courtesy of sidereel.com).

I’m a foodie.

Which is really just a fancy term for “culinary snob.” Whatever – I can admit it. If it’s processed, frozen or comes in a box, I typically wrinkle my nose in disgust. I’m a fan of Richard Blais on Facebook.  Plus, I’m not afraid to pay $6.00 for eggs. I am forever trying new recipes, and the fancier, the better. Last night for dinner, I had my parents over, and I wanted to dazzle them with my cooking prowess, so I whipped up a sage and black pepper crusted pork tenderloin served with green chile and garlic grits cakes, an apple slaw, and portobello mushrooms brushed with basil oil. It was all quite good – but man, a lot of work! And for the record, I don’t really think I’m special because I can put together a meal like that – cooking doesn’t require much more than the ability to follow directions. I’d be more impressed if I create recipe ideas from scratch, like the contestants on those cooking shows do. When confronted with a basket full of hot dogs, butterscotch candy, carrots and chia seeds, they do not wither under the pressure. Instead, they create dishes that are original, daring, and usually – according to the judges – pretty good. Until I can do that, I’m very blase over the whole thing.

Even when I don’t have the kids and am not having company over – when it’s just me – I tend to go overboard with my meal creations. The stereotypical bachelor lives on Top Ramen and bologna sandwiches. Not me, though I wish that were the case sometimes. It would be a lot less work. Occasionally, I’ll grow bored with cooking or feel too tired to whip up something gourmet, and will resort to the ol’ guilty pleasure standby: a tuna fish sandwich. And if there are Cheez-Its on hand, even better.

I have to admit it, I get especially excited when somebody else is doing the cooking. My parents usually have me over once a week, and those are good days because I don’t have to lift a finger. I do sometimes find myself telling my mom to soak her chicken in buttermilk first, or use smoked paprika to bring out the flavors in such-and-such a dish, and I’ve got to knock that off. She’s been cooking since before I was born, after all. We foodies can be an annoying lot, I’ll be the first to testify to that. I’m making a vow from now on to just shut up and let her cook.

Cover Me

The highlight of this past weekend? On Sunday, I received an e-mail from Todd, the graphics designer with Booklocker tasked with creating the cover for my novel. For two weeks I’ve been anxiously awaiting his response, dying to see if the cover he came up with would do my story justice. I had communicated my ideas to him early in the process, suggesting things like incorporating red to signify bloodshed and green for the environment, while keeping the tone of the cover dark. I mentioned some possible images that would fit the story – a whaling trawler, black helicopters, the planet earth. All I can say is, Todd paid attention. When I opened the attachment and got a first look at my cover, I gasped out loud. He did a fantastic job with it, turning out something I find not just visually appealing, but stunning. Much better than I’d hoped for.

No Time For Kings

I sat there and stared at the cover for a full hour. I am not even exaggerating! I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to see it…one of my friends remarked, Holy Smokes!! It looks so “REAL”!! And I get that, I do. One of the most important things a book needs – self-published or not – is a good cover, one that will grab your interest, and I think this one does exactly that.

Plus…there’s my name. In print. With a barcode and an ISBN # on the back. This is real…and it feels amazing! The culmination of so many years of hard work. Best of all, I’ve got an amazing and supportive group of friends who are contributing their time, money and talent to give me a fighting chance at success. Heidi, my friend who puts out Sacramento Book Review and its sister publication, has promised me not only a free review of my book – something that is crucial for exposure and sales – but also a half-page ad that she will personally design. Another friend knows somebody who owns a bookstore in the area and says she can get my book on the shelf there. This outpouring of support has me stoked, and while I have no illusions of becoming either rich or famous off this book, at least I am content in the knowledge that I have some big advantages other new authors don’t, and am grateful as can be for that.

I suppose if I don’t make it as a bestselling author, I can always train to be a chef.

If At First You Don’t Succeed Pop, Pop Again

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I had such an outpouring of comments in favor of stovetop popcorn after I wrote about how difficult it was to make that I couldn’t help but come to a rather unpleasant conclusion afterwards.

It must have been “operator error.”

Case in point: You are CRAP at stovetop popcorn, wrote PlaneJaner, whose blog is one of my favorites despite the dis. When I replied that it might have been my fault, she responded again – in all caps this time – indicating that it was, indeed, all my fault. Talk about a woman who calls ‘em like she sees ‘em. Plenty of others told me how much more superior stovetop popcorn is to microwave popcorn, and gave me plenty of tips on making it just right.

Being a person who never quits…wait, that’s not true…well, anyway, after receiving so much positive feedback, I decided to make a second attempt at stovetop popcorn one day last week. So, Friday night I once again hauled out the frying pan, popcorn kernels (which I had very nearly tossed into the trash following my last disastrous attempt but, fortunately, had hung onto), oil, salt, and butter.

Stovetop popcorn: it's the shizzle. (Courtesy of thecookingphotographer.com)

“I’m going to make you my bitch,” I said out loud. This might strike you as odd, but it shouldn’t. I always talk to inanimate objects when I’m alone. And, let’s face it, the unpopped popcorn had to be put in its place, so a little verbal smackdown was in order.

I decided to read the back of the bag this time, rather than follow that so-called recipe for “the perfect stovetop popcorn” which turned out to be anything but, plus utilize the tips and techniques my fellow bloggers and readers shared with me. Stage one called for a scant two tablespoons of oil on the bottom of the pan instead of the veritable sea of grease I’d used last time. I was instructed to add three unpopped kernels, turn the heat to medium high, put the lid on, and wait. When the first kernel popped, I was to add 1/3 cup of kernels to the mix.

Since it took some 40 minutes for the popcorn last time, I assumed I’d have another long wait ahead of me, but before I could even begin to work up a bad mood over what was sure to be another failed attempt, I was greeted to a most glorious and unexpected sight and sound.

A kernel had popped.

So I dumped the rest of the kernels in, and they came to life almost immediately. I shook the pan occasionally as suggested, popped the lid open once to let out a quick burst of steam, and – voila! – had a perfectly full pan of popcorn, with nary an unpopped kernel to be found.

I still had doubts about the finished product, but one bite erased those. The popcorn was, in a word, delicious. It wasn’t greasy or burned like my last batch, but instead turned out light and golden and fluffy. A little bit of melted butter, a dash of salt, and I experienced popcorn nirvana.

And now, of course, I can never go back to microwave popcorn. PlaneJaner was right. Stovetop really is “the shizzle.”

To top it off, even the movie I watched was better. Netflix sent me this little film called It’s Kind Of A Funny Story. Other than Zach Galafianakis, there were no big stars. It was one of those indie dramedies that I seem to really enjoy, about a teenage boy who almost commits suicide but checks himself into a mental hospital instead. LMAO!!! I know, right?!

No, but seriously. It was good.

The rest of the weekend was kid-free and cool and showery, so I didn’t do all that much. Ran some errands. Waged a fierce battle with the ex over e-mail. Made homemade lumpia and fried rice. Probably the highlight was creating a homemade mashup on Sunday.

About a year ago, I heard this great song on the local alternative radio station. It was a mashup of Coldplay’s “The Scientist” and Extreme’s “More Than Words.” Two great songs, and mixing them together turned them into one great song. Way to go, Mighty Mike! And then Glee (which I’ll admit to watching as a guilty pleasure) had an episode this season that featured mashups and I started thinking, hey, it would be really cool if I could make one of those. Well, my Mac came preloaded with this great music software application called GarageBand that does everything from teaching you how to play guitar to allowing you to record tracks and create mixes.

To record a mashup, you need an a-capella vocal track and an instrumental track. The goal is to take two distinctly different songs and sync them together so that you have a fresh new mix. It’s a ton of fun and a great way to get creative. I took Janis Joplin’s vocals and Queen’s instrumental and created a song I’m calling We Will Rock Your Mercedes Benz. Check it out if you’d like!

 

I guess I’ll have to add DJ to my resume now. In addition to writer, ghost hunter, Portland food blogger, stovetop popcorn aficionado…

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“The Turkey Exploded!”

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I had a minor turkey crisis this evening – and there’s still 14 hours before the bird goes in the oven. Hope this isn’t a sign of some impending holiday disaster.

Who wants a Scooby snack? (Image courtesy of dailyworldbuzz.com).

Knocks on pressed wood.

(Stupid cheap prefabricated computer desk…)

I was busy making dinner. Macaroni and cheese, from scratch, because I must be a glutton for punishment. Seriously, who goes to a lot of trouble preparing a fancy home-cooked meal the evening before The Biggest Cooking Day Of The Year? I should have taken it easy and ordered a pizza or something. Only there’s the whole being unemployed thing to consider, plus two growing kids, which would have meant either a ginormous Family Size deal, or multiple pizzas. Frugality won out. I had macaroni on hand. I had cheese. I had the other ingredients, so I sucked it up and started cooking.

I opened the refrigerator to grab the milk, and that’s when I spied it: a pool of red liquid seeping over the bottom shelf, and dripping into the meat and produce trays beneath.

Turkey blood.

“Wow!” K2 (my daughter) exclaimed. “The turkey exploded!”

Well, okay, it didn’t actually explode. The turkey had been defrosting in the fridge since late last week, and somehow a good portion of blood had seeped out of the bag. Still, this was not good. I had water boiling for the pasta, butter melting in a pan, and a major mess on my hands requiring my immediate attention. Putting dinner aside, I busied myself removing shelves and trays and blood-soaked bags of hot dogs and celery. I salvaged what I could – which was pretty much everything, thanks to tight Ziploc bags – but it took quite awhile to clean everything up. And then, because I had the turkey sitting on the counter, and I was planning to brine the thing anyway, I figured there was no time like the present. I would have been doing this tonight, anyway. Just not in the middle of making dinner.

Do you know how hard it is to brine a turkey? Last year I did it in an ice chest in my garage, but was worried the whole time that the temperature wasn’t cold enough. Nobody came down with salmonella, so that fear was for naught, but regardless, I told myself I’d either find some heavy-duty brining bags this year and keep it in the fridge, or just forego brining altogether. You have to understand, I’m a self-professed foodie, so not brining the turkey would have left me feeling empty inside. Even though I’ve been cooking turkeys every Thanksgiving for many years without ever brining them, but that’s neither here nor there. Fortunately, on my trip downtown last week, I stopped at Sur La Table (which is not pronounced “Sir La Tay-bull” but, rather, “Sir La Tob” – oops, my apologies to any Frenchies I might have offended with my funny Yankee pronunciation, although in my defense, we do not sit down to eat at “the dining TOB” here in the good ol’ U.S. of A) and found a package of turkey brining bags. Best of all, they were 40% off. So I bought them. It’s a package of two, so guess what I’ll be doing 365 days from now? Anyway, I muscled open the bag, and this thing is huge. It looks like you could park a cadillac inside.

Step one: fill with 2.5 gallons of water. I’m no math whiz, so I raced upstairs and consulted Dr. Google for a handy, dandy conversion table. That worked out to 40 cups of water. OK, I can handle that. I got a giant soup pot to place the bag in, and spent the next several minutes filling it with water from my 2-cup measuring cup. Took forever, but man, my biceps are going to be ripped now! I then dutifully measured and added the required amounts of kosher salt, sugar, thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns, allspice, and garlic. Mixed it all together until the sugar and salt dissolved, and then it came time to add the turkey to the bag. I quickly realized this was a two-person task, so I called K1 (son) over. He lifted the turkey and gently put it in the bag, which I then sealed up. It’s like a hangar-sized Ziploc bag with a double fastener closure. And, I might add, a very heavy-duty plastic that feels like a bullet could bounce off it. Nevertheless, I was a nervous wreck, carrying this turkey-taking-a-bath to the now-clean refrigerator. I placed it in there, and then spent another ten minutes shifting it around, moving it, propping it up, turning it this way and that, trying to position it just right so that it’s covered in water and the top of the bag is facing UP, just in case the inevitable worst-case-scenario transpires. Which, I have to admit, has me a little on edge, even now. I know the bag will be okay. I’m confident it won’t rip or split open along the seams. Yet, stranger things have happened, and so I doubt I’ll rest easy until the time comes tomorrow morning to transfer the turkey from the fridge to the roasting pan.

Whoever said the holidays were stressful wasn’t kidding!

Neil Page and Del Griffith. (Image courtesy of nocaptionneeded.com).

I finally finished making dinner, we ate, I cleaned up, and now I’m taking a much-deserved break. But only for a few minutes. Because there’s still a pumpkin pie to be made (from scratch, including the crust), eggs to hard boil, and perhaps it would be wise to get a head start on the cranberries so I’m not totally bombarded with cooking tomorrow. After all, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is on in the morning, and I’m usually so busy I only catch bits and pieces of it. I’d like to be able to relax a little more this year and actually sit down to enjoy it, but I doubt that will happen. Every year, I take it upon myself to whip up this amazing meal for the entire family, parents included. (See above: glutton for punishment).

It’s all worth it in the end, though. I have always cherished Thanksgiving more than any other holiday. There’s something about the combination of a warm home filled with the wonderful aroma of cooking food while being surrounded by loved ones that makes this guy feel good all the way to his very soul.

That, and our annual ritual of watching Planes, Trains And Automobiles. Steve Martin and John Candy. “Those aren’t pillows.” The best Thanksgiving movie ever made, hands down.

What Thanksgiving traditions do you have? Is there anything you do that makes the holiday extra special? Besides stuff your face full of food, of course…

Crystal Skulls And Giant Dogs

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It’s odd seeing Facebook status updates from my friends reading TGIF! or some similar variation of the theme.  When you’re unemployed, Friday is just another day.  It’s really no more special or different than Monday, which is kind of sad.  I loved loving Fridays!  Fridays were like a beacon in the dark, a light at the end of a tunnel.  A goal to aspire to.  Friday signified that the weekend was here.  Ahh, the weekend!  Now I can sleep in!  Err…wait a second.  Well, now I can go do something fun during the day instead of having to work!  Umm…yeah, hold the line.  See?  For me, it’s all arbitrary.  I might as well feel the Wednesday love or get all excited about Sunday evenings. You know what else I miss?  Hating Mondays.  Every story needs a villain, and Monday was like Darth Vader, Lex Luthor, and Cruella Deville all rolled into one.  How I despised Monday!  Couldn’t wait for Friday to swoop in and kick his ass!  Every week was like an epic adventure.  I loved watching Friday slip through the gates of Mordor and carry Monday to the very top of Mount Doom, tossing him into the volcanic crater bubbling with molten lava and saving humanity, with a noble assist from humble little Tuesday.

Into the fiery pit of Mount Doom, Monday!! (Image courtesy of giantbomb.com)

Alas, now it’s just another random day.

Last night, however, was not just another random night.  I got a chance to see how The Other Half lives, and lemme tell ya – I want in!

I have these friends, E and J.  They started out as business associates – E owns an apparel/promotional marketing company, and J is his partner (literally – she’s his wife).  I introduced them to KNA, my former employer, and before long they became our vendor of choice. We struck up a personal friendship, and a year ago E and J suggested I stop by for dinner sometime.  J is Filipino and promised me an authentic home-cooked meal.  I love Filipino food – my ex-wife was half-Filipino – and so, I jumped at the chance.  We finally settled on a date: December 29.  Perfect!  I was on vacation that week (Christmas break) and kid-free.  That day dawned like any other.  Overcast, mid-3os.  The forecast was for rain.  Imagine my surprise, then, when a freak snowstorm developed mid-afternoon, just as I was showering and getting ready to make the trek over to their part of town.  Portland isn’t a very snow-friendly city; the littlest bit shuts us down.  Plus, E and J live on the side of a hill on a very steep street.  Suffice it to say, we had to scrap plans that afternoon.  ”We’ll do it again,” they said, but because Life Happens, it was ten months later before “again” rolled around.  We finally decided on November 4th.

Naturally, all day yesterday, I kept waiting for Mother Nature or Fate to step in and derail our plans a second time.  ”Hope it doesn’t snow,” I joked, and even though it was sunny and quite warm – 65 degrees – I kept a wary eye on the sky all day.  When I heard a distant buzzing sound drawing nearer to my house early in the afternoon, my first thought was “tornado!” rather than “leaf blower!” (which it turned out to be).  When it came time to leave, I half-expected to find my car had a flat tire or a dead battery.  On the road, I waited for the inevitable overturned semi.  Even as I pulled into their neighborhood, I feared I might find their house a stack of kindling at the bottom of the hill, compliments of a mudslide.  Fortunately, none of these events came to pass, and I pulled to a stop at their curb at 5:40, without incident.

My first reaction? Wow, my friends are well off! Their house was just like one of the Street Of Dreams homes they put on display every year.  Three levels, professionally landscaped, extensive stonework and fountains and their own private waterfall cascading through their backyard.  There’s a stone island with a firepit in the center and cozy outdoor chairs, surrounded by water (they’ve got a moat!!) that you cross a bridge to reach.  And I haven’t even seen the inside yet.  I rang the doorbell, and was greeted immediately by barking dogs.  Oh…right.  I forgot they had a dog.  Not just one dog, though.  Not even two dogs. They’ve got three of ‘em.  Which is all fine and good – I’ve got nothing against dogs – but I’ve only ever owned a cat, so I’m not real familiar with how to act around them.  Especially considering that two of the dogs were English mastiffs.  Seriously, they were approximately the size of horses.  E opened the door, and there they were, sniffing me and pawing me and slobbering on me (the dogs, not my friends, though they seemed happy to see me, too). It was a bit overwhelming at first, but by the end of the evening I’d made good friends with Lyla, the largest of the trio.  Over and over, we played tug-of-war with a piece of rope.  She kept grabbing it in her mouth and shoving one end into my lap, so what could I do but play along?  She was strong, too.  Literally pulled me right off the couch while I tried valiantly to hang onto my end of the rope. Dogs are fun, it turns out.  Even ones the size of minivans.

J was busy cooking, and the (enormous and ultra-modern) kitchen was filled with the heavenly scents of Filipino food.  I was drooling before I’d taken three steps.  E offered up a drink.  I asked for white wine, but it was a late harvest Gewurztraminer which was too sweet for my tastes, so he kindly offered to mix me up something else instead.  He suggested a vodka tonic with cranberry juice, which sounded great to me.  He then grabbed what had to be the biggest bottle of vodka I’d ever seen, a Belvedere roughly the size of a lamp.  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised – this was merely keeping up with the oversized theme (the house, the dogs, the kitchen). He mixed up my cocktail (which was awesome – Belvedere is considered a “super premium” brand and you could tell by the smooth finish) and gave me a grand tour of the house.  It’s every bit as beautiful inside as you would expect.  The second floor landing is roughly the size of my living room, though I didn’t have the heart to admit as much.  ”Talk about wasted space,” he said.  Hell, rent it out to me – I could live there and have plenty of room!  Eventually we found ourselves sitting outside on the upper deck, immersed in cozy patio furniture, listening to music over flush-mounted ceiling speakers that are part of the surround sound system that pipes music through the entire house, with a giant upright space heater taking the chill off the breezy November evening.  We drank our drinks and ate lumpia (mmm!) while chatting about this and that.  Soon, it was dinner time, so we went back inside and pulled up stools, eating at the polished granite bar.  J had made chicken adobo and rice, and a side of marinated cucumbers.  They asked if I’d ever had it with a fried egg on top, and though the combination sounded odd to me, I was game to give it a try.  When in Rome and all that jazz.  They served me my plate, with the egg sitting atop the rice, and when I broke into it with my fork, the yolk spilled over the rice.  The combination of chicken and egg (which came first? who cares??) and rice was absolutely delicious.  I’d have never thought of that, but after one bite I was sold.

The most awesome vodka bottle I've ever seen. (Image courtesy of crystalskulls.com).

After dinner E and I hung out in the living room watching the Blazers game and talking while J picked up their daughter from soccer practice.  When they got back we had warm pumpkin pie with ice cream, accompanied by a small glass of Crystal Head vodka over ice, another high-end brand that is “quadruple-distilled and triple-filtered through Herkimer diamond crystals” and advertised by Dan Aykroyd, the actor.  The bottle is a crystal skull.  How awesome is that?  I dared to ask E how much it cost. He told me it was $55.  First time in my life I ever drank vodka straight up.  And actually enjoyed it.

9:00 rolled around, and I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, since some people had to get up early the next day for work, so I thanked them for the wonderful dinner and the great hospitality, and made the long drive back home.  Back to reality, as it were.  I don’t have anything even remotely approaching a moat at my townhouse, though sometimes when it rains really hard the gutters overflow and I have to deal with really big puddles in the backyard.

Not quite the same thing, is it?

Revenge Of The Pod People

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In the old days, we sneered at them in derision.  They were called “roach coaches” and, when they blasted their horns to announce their lunchtime arrival, we rolled our eyes.  At best, we might end up with a lukewarm burrito or a sandwich that wasn’t too soggy.  We certainly didn’t expect haute cuisine.  And yet, these days, a full-blown revolution is under way in Portland, Oregon.  The once-lowly food cart has been elevated to a lofty new culinary perch, one in which the food is varied and ethnic and inspiring and delicious, giving regular brick-and-mortar establishments a run for their money.  And, you know what?  I want in.

Mum's Kitchen dishes out "Indian South African" cuisine.

I remember my first food cart experience fondly.  Wandering through the Farmer’s Market one spring afternoon, I stumbled upon a green-and-white trailer with the name Mum’s Kitchen.  It billed itself as offering “Indian South African cuisine.” I’m not real familiar with either, and even less so with a fusion of both, but it sounded much more intriguing than a tired burger from a fast-food chain, so I ponied up for their special of the day – “roti rolls” filled with pork and cabbage, and chicken curry.  One bite and I was hooked.  They were aromatic and flavorful, wonderfully exotic and spicy.  So much so that tears were streaming down my face as I munched away.  Oh, baby.  I like it hot.  I was in heaven.  My initiation into the Portland food cart scene now complete, I decided to hunt down the cart that Portland Monthly named their best last year, Nong’s Khao Man Gai, on my next free Friday.

Southwest Alder Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues, is one of a growing number of food cart “pods” in the Portland area: clusters of carts set up in parking lots or vacant fields.  Think of an outdoor food court, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what they are like.  There are at least a dozen carts in this particular pod, probably the best-known in the city, catering to office workers and tourists alike.  Food choices range from sandwiches and frozen yogurt to Vietnamese pho and Polish Hunter’s Stew.  Nong’s cart, which not surprisingly had the longest line, serves one dish, and one dish only: khao man gai, a popular Thai dish that is, literally, chicken and rice.  Doesn’t sound very inspiring, and yet, I was amazed by the depths of flavor.  The chicken, served atop a bed of rice, is wonderfully tender, and the accompanying broth – a gingery, garlicky, sweetly spicy Asian blend – is to die for.  You also get a cup of winter squash soup which is refreshingly hot and tasty, and a side of sliced cucumbers.  For $6, this is a steal.  Nong’s lives up to the hype.

Typical lunchtime crowd at Nong's Khao Man Gai.

With so many great food carts spread around town, many of them earning rave reviews, I’ve begun to think that this is something I’d like to do.  I’m a pretty good cook, and watching shows like Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, and Master Chef has awakened in me dreams of running my own kitchen.  Only I have no formal training and can’t exactly afford to go to culinary school.  Sure, it would be great to own a restaurant, and Portland is quite the hot spot for foodies.  But my chances for success in that realm are slim to none: I’m hardly a skilled chef, and it takes hundreds of thousands of dollars to open a restaurant.  You’ll have to deal with permits, zoning issues, leasing or buying a building, hiring and paying employees, etc.  Even then, roughly half go out of business within a year.  Not very good odds no matter how you slice and dice (and julienne) it!  However, with Portland’s growing reputation as a food cart mecca (articles extolling the local scene have appeared in newspapers like the New York Times and Washington Post, and  Budget Travel awarded Portland first-place for “World’s Best Street Food” in 2010), I figure my best shot at becoming my own boss lies right here in my own backyard.  I’d love to open my own food cart.  Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy – and considerably less expensive than you might think – to get started in the Rose City.

The biggest expense is going to be the cart itself.  Those little umbrella-covered push-carts so ubiquitous to hot dog vendors are a thing of the past; nowadays, food carts are likelier to be renovated campers or Airstream trailers.  Still, if you scout around for a good deal, you can pick one up for a few thousand dollars.  Add in the cost of plumbing and electrical modifications, equipment, and a license from the city of Portland, and you could get your venture off the ground and running for less than $10,000 – dirt cheap when you consider the cost of starting up your own business in a more traditional environment.

Proof that food carts have come a long way! Khao man gai from Nong's.

I’m under no delusions that the work is easy, or a guaranteed way to get rich quick.  Even though the majority of carts around town are open Monday-Friday from, say, 11:00 to 4:00, most vendors put in considerably longer hours.  You have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and get down and dirty.  You’ll wear many hats – chef, banker, carpenter, etc.  You’ve got to enjoy dealing with people, and you can’t escape health inspections just because you’re a restaurant on wheels.  But being mobile is an advantage itself; if one particular location isn’t working, you can simply move on to a new one tomorrow!  If you’re part of a pod, then your fellow food cart vendors become almost like a second family, offering encouragement, advice, and help when needed.  It’s hard work indeed, but at the end of the day, the person in charge is you, and that’s a pretty big draw in this era of downsizing.  I’ve been a part of corporate America ever since graduating from college nearly two decades ago.  Maybe it’s time I became an independent nation of one instead?

I’ve already decided on the cart.  I’ll cook, and serve, Hawaiian food.  I was born in Honolulu and pretty much grew up there, so I’m familiar with some of their more popular dishes, and adept at making them.  I figure I’ll do kalua pork, chicken long rice, a loco moco plate, macaroni/potato salad, and saimin.  I’ll have rotating specials periodically.  Oh, and hot malasadas for dessert.  I even have the perfect name: Ohana Nui, which is Hawaiian for “extended family” and also happens to be the name of the street we lived on from 1974-1977.

It’ll be a little taste of paradise in downtown Portland.  The perfect pick-me-up on a dreary winter’s day.

All I need now is ca$h!  Anybody want to invest in this little venture with me?