Author: overdoneandundercooked_mararn

I made a mental note to myself, that I would not let another year go by, without apologizing.  You see it started way back at the beginning of the very first school year; when I received your first parent handout…on the last day of school.

When I originally suggested, that as parents we would appreciate some sort of weekly correspondence, to the other moms, they all turned and looked at me like they had never heard a simple suggestion before.  As years went by I grew suspicious when I found out there was a… weekly handout.

But I considered that small potatoes when my children came home in their pre-school years and could finally tell that a nickel was not more money, just because it was bigger, than a dime.

I was pleased to see the few notes that did come my way.  If you’re keeping track I have given notice as a volunteer.  How was I do know that the entire homeroom phone tree collapsed because I did not get my weekly notice?  The request seemed reasonable.  Call parents in case of an emergency.  Unfortunately, they sent my list of parent’s names, home with the weekly notice.  As for poor, Barb Shertzer, homeroom parent, I apologize.

It never occurred to me that you may not realize the true reason why I am writing you today.  It is–well–it’s embarrassing.  I mean I wouldn’t bring it up, but yes–that was–my signature on all those excuses and notices that did make it home.  You–did get them, right?

I know what you’re thinking how could anyone have such bad handwriting.  Well, let me tell you it wasn’t easy.  I was never in a relaxed upright position, with glasses on, cup of coffee next to me, sitting in my easy chair.  Oh…no.

I don’t think that there is anything that can make my moment like hearing a hysterical 11-year-old brooding over the urgency of a school note that must be signed NOW!  There was no doubt in my mind that she was talking directly to me even though I could not see her; as I had an armful of laundry, newspaper in my teeth, just hit my crazy bone while going down the stairs.  I had to sign my John Henry with my toes.

Or the time I was on my hands and knees, hoisting the mattress on my back trying to flip it over, when junior who I had just seen kiss the dog on the lips, kisses me goodbye.  Leaving for school, tears welling in his eyes, he explains the crumpled paper in his hand, is the note to allow him on today’s field trip.  I used my teeth to glide the pencil across on that note.

Let’s see there was the time in the car I had to use the steering wheel to write my name; while being kicked from the back seat from the neighbor’s kid…What the heck.  This is like yesterday’s leftovers.  Old news.  I promise that next year will be different.  There I feel better.

Sincerely,

A Parent

P.S.  I have never found it a sound practice to compare myself to other people, (up until a few days ago) so I would like to share with you this great recipe.  I know you might get a lit–tle bored this summer without your students and cooking is a practical hobby.  “Aw, c’mon forgive me please…”

TROUT FOR TEACHER

4 Large Trout

1 Tablespoon olive oil

Sauce: 2 Tablespoons Dijon Mustard, 2 Teaspoons wine vinegar, 2 egg yolks, salt and pepper, 6 Tablespoons unsalted softened butter, 2 Tablespoons chopped fresh chives, ½ cucumber sliced thin.

Wash and clean the trout.  Cut off the heads and dry the fish.  Wrap each trout in a piece of oiled aluminum foil and put them in a baking dish.  Bake in the center of a preheated oven at 425 degrees for 15-18 minutes.

Remove the dish from the oven and open the foil packages to allow the trout to cook slightly.  Slice each fish among the underside and with appointed knife carefully loosen the backbone. Ease the backbone out gently so that most of the small bones come away with it.  Set the trout aside to cool.

To make the sauce:  Beat the mustard, egg yolks, and vinegar together until well blended; season to taste with salt and pepper.  Gradually add butter to egg mixture, beating all the time, until the sauce has the consistency of thick cream.  Stir in the finely chopped herbs.

Before serving, peel the skin from the cold trout.  Cut each into 2 fillets.  Arrange on a serving dish.  Pour the sauce over the fillets.   Lay thin slices of cucumber on top of trout.

I stopped on the top step of the Marriott Hotel entryway and sucked in as much fresh San Francisco air as I could.  In my hand I held a check made out to me, Shanna, for $1 million.

Winning the Pillsbury million dollar bake-off was as nerve-racking as a teenager out past curfew, as painful as a root canal, and as difficult as preparing your taxes.

I ought to know, I can now afford to chuckle, but up until this minute, I vowed never to be so humiliated again.

You might think a cooking aficionado, such as myself, would be thrilled and honored to participate in such a wonderful time-honored event. But cooking is not without its dark side.

This is what happened to me.  This is my story.

Last December, 100 Bake-Off entrants were notified that their recipes had been selected for the contest finals, which were held last month.  For me, this meant an expense-paid trip to the competition finals in San Francisco, the opportunity to win $1 million and most importantly national recognition.

If only my Aunt Maddie had lived to see this-she had won every blue ribbon at every state fair for the last 60 years of her life for her famous apple pie.  If she had found out I put her recipe in the Pillsbury Million Dollar Contest she would have throttled me.  She was a mean old bat.

Only on her death bed, when all the relatives were lined up around the bed, did Aunt Maddie point her crippled, arthritic, 90-year-old finger at me.

At a whisper Aunt Maddie said, ‘Tell the family the jokes on them (sickly cough.) The secret in my famous apple pie, (a very long silent pause) I never used apples, (weak laugh). It was pears!” I tore out of that room and immediately sent the recipe in.

Me and a zillion others were flown straight to an oven, where the immense pressure began.  Immediately, when I saw the new crust-free, stainless oven, I became confused and disoriented.  There was no messy kitchen attached to it.  There were no toddlers hanging on my ankles, nor teenagers yelling that they refused to eat that slop another night.

I announced to the group that I could not cook under these sterile circumstances and I threw down my apron ready to walk home a beaten women.

If it wasn’t for Pills, the Pillsbury Doughboy, I–I don’t even want to think about it.   He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes.  Still, even as a crusty old man, he was a roll model for millions.  He persuaded me to stay.  I rolled up my sleeves and began to dirty up that oven.  I threw flour in all directions. I greased the burners and started a smoke fire.  Finally, I was comfortable enough to cook.

Panic ensued anyway.  Even a cool-headed cook such as myself began to succumb to a culinary meltdown.  Unfortunately, I set my finished creation, Aunt Maddie’s Apple Pie, onto the chair to cool, then absent-mindedly sat on it after hearing this doozy from a co-contestant:

My personal new best friend, Veteran Pillsbury spokesman.  The Pillsbury Doughboy, had died of a severe yeast infection and complications from repeated poking to the belly.  He was only 71.

My co-contestant explained to me (she is from Jersey) “Hey, get over it! You’re not his only friend, ya know. I hear Mrs. Butterworth, The California Raisins, Hungry Jack, Betty Crocker, The Hostess Twinkies, Captain Crunch, and many others gonna be thar to help deliver the eulogy.”

Lucky for me, and so typical of Pills good nature, one of the rules he created was to allow for making the recipe three times. I figured, good enough.  That is when I baked a new pie for the judges…it was the winner.

But naturally I knew this would happen because a dessert always wins. One top winner will be chosen in each of the four recipe categories: Yada, yada, yada. BUT first place is always the fourth category: desserts and treats.

What judge is going to remember that simple shrimp taco when dessert is coming around the corner?  I know I’m not alone here because what it boils down to is what does everyone remember about a meal–DESSERT!  What tastes best in a meal–DESSERT.  Why do you eat a meal–DESSERT.

I returned home to an ungrateful family. “Shanna, don’t you think you’re crying over split milk,” my husband said. “I can handle it!” I would holler. “Without Pills do you think I would have won? Huh? Huh?

I’m feeling stressed again.  Having money is nothing but work.  This is my last column. OVERDONE and UNDERCOOKED is POOPED and EXHAUSTED.

Besides, I don’t need the money.

 

 

Something strange happens to me when I spend a day without my list.

Whassamatter?  You think I mean a grocery list?  Oh, no, I’m talking about THE list.  You know, the one and only, ‘What-You -Have-To-Do-Today,” list.

Let me run you through a short lesson on list assembly, OK, let’s take today for instance.  Today is Wednesday, so Wednesday would be written in large, bold, block print (all capitals) at the top of the paper.

Then below that, write “1.” followed by the most important thing you need to do that day.  Continue adding items, with each being a little less important than the previous one.

Well there you go. OK. So the list is very important because without it I’m lost all day.  I have no direction. My friend, Margo, finds it ridiculous that I use a list.

“For crying out loud, that’s why you have a brain,’ she’ll holler.  “Just remember what you got to do.”

This from a friend who begs me to help her find her car keys… over the phone.

What can I tell you? Lists to me are like pet peeves to others.

You know how they collect them and then share them with you, over and over.

My friend, Margo, I’m sure has broken the world’s record for the longest sustained continuous sentence of pet peeve gripes.

Here let me go get my list and read it off to you.  Margo’s biggest pet peeves:

Hot jean zippers grabbed right out of the dryer, lipstick on your teeth, the grocery card with wobbly wheels…I mean the list just goes on and on.

Ah, but I digress.

I am absolutely awestruck by this sheer power of those folks who never write a list.  Margo, can call it a hokey ritual, but without my list I could not remind her to try this recipe.  It is as yummy as a box of chocolates, but it is also a low-fat treat.  Enjoy.

PEPPERMINT CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CAKE ROLLS

Be prepared to fix this healthy recipe with a light cake mix,  low-fat ice cream and a fat-free topping. This recipe makes 3 cake rolls, about 5 servings each. 

Confectioner’s sugar

1 package light devil’s food cake mix.

1 – 1/3 cups water

3 eggs

1/2 gallon low-fat vanilla ice cream, softened

1/3 cup crushed peppermint candy

Light (fat-free) hot fudge topping

 

Spray 11 x 17  1-1/2 inch glass baking dish with nonstick cooking spray. Line bottom with waxed paper and spray again.

Generously sprinkle three clean kitchen towels with confectioner’s sugar. Set aside.

Prepare cake mix batter according to package directions using the water and eggs.

Spread 1/3 of the batter (about 1-3/4 cups) in the prepared dish. Microwave at medium (50 percent) for nine minutes, rotating dish a half turn after our minutes.  Microwave at High (100 percent) for 1-1/2 minutes.

Let stand five minutes.  Loosen edges and invert onto towel that is laid out flat.  Carefully remove waxed paper. Generously sprinkle cake with confectioner’s sugar.  Starting with shorter end of cake, roll up into the kitchen towel.  Set aside.  Let cool completely.

For each cake roll, carefully unroll cooled cake.  Quickly spread it with 1/3 of the ice cream. (Soften ice cream on low in the microwave for one minute)

Sprinkle with 1/3 of the crushed candy.  Roll up and wrap securely in foil. Freeze until firm.

Serve a slice on a beautiful plate and top it with hot fudge sauce!

My curiosity, such as it is, was piqued the other day as I glanced at a flyer in the Sunday paper.  Our own local Darigold was on a quest for a new ice cream flavor.  If you want to see a flagrant and spectacular violation of the known laws of physics, watch how fast a half-gallon of ice cream can disappear when I am near.

So being the ice cream hound that I am, I immediately sat down and sent them 23 flavors.  I thought I had been clever with fun names and whimsical ingredients:  Maui Waui, Shanna Banana, Seattle Grunge, and was counting the days until September 20 when the finalist would be notified.  But as the count-down continued, the complacency gave way to the grim, clear-eyed reality that I lost.

Whipped into an emotional frenzy, I had almost succeeded in driving the thought of doing two of my favorite things–eating and eating ice cream good-bye, when I received this letter:

“Dear Darigold Concoction Contest Entrant: Congratulations!  While your ‘flavor’ was not one of the winning entries your letter convinced us that you deserve a seat on Darigold’s Feature Flavors Selection Panel as a VIP guest taster.  You will be sampling 48 different flavors of ice cream to help us select the flavors that will be included in next year’s Darigold Feature Flavors program.”

I naturally was delighted, yet became delirious when Jan Roberts, consumer scientist for Darigold, informed me there were over 10,000 entries!

“They had all been very clever,” she explained.  “Some went as far as sending ingredients with their recipe.  Out of all the entries there seem to be a trend towards coconut, pretzel, lemon, and mint flavors.”  And she continued chuckling as it was quite a challenge to narrow 10,000 entries down to four flavors; one for each category of fruit, nut, chocolate and candy.

How long did it take to compose one of the four winning flavors?  Four weeks.  The flavor was sent to the manufacturer who took about a week with special instructions from Darigold.  A quart would then return to the consumer science lab where the staff would taste and approve the flavor. When approved, the design for the box would start and ample ice cream would be made for the VIP taste testers who would choose the winners.

First we started with fruit and used the two-spoon method.  I was ready for the big one spoon method but rules are rules.  We had 20 minutes to take ice cream from a big metal spoon and put a scoop of ice cream on a little pink plastic spoon.  Savor the flavor (as many times as we wanted) then rate it on a scale of 1-5 for the overall reaction to the flavor, name and carton design.

I will not here or anywhere describe what I remember of eating 48 flavors of ice cream in 2-1/2 hours, which is almost everything.  Enough to say that having not eaten 48 flavors of ice cream in one sitting  before, I was surprised that by the time we had reached the fourth category (candy) I wanted to shout, “Enough already! My teeth are getting fuzzy!”  But I did not because the four finalist and the 17 invited guests would have turned on me, and my lifeless body would have been found later in a butter vat, covered with tiny plastic spoons.

I was incredibly full.  Me–an ice cream addict who in a million years would never have thought ice cream could be filling.  But each taste was better than the last, every bite burst with creamy rich flavor; with wonderful ingredients and surprising names such as, Mud Puddle, Cloudy With a Chance of Cookies, Chocolate Freckles, Muddy Snowshoes and Cluster’s Last Stand.

The winning flavors for the four categories were: Mad About Chew (chocolate category) with chunks of brownies, mini candy coated chocolates, ribbons of peanut butter, and chocolate flavored ice cream; Red Hot Java (candy category) with cinnamon red hot candies, and cinnamon-coffee-flavored ice cream; Internut (nut category)with roasted almonds, white chocolate chunks, webs of chocolate fudge, and pistachio-flavored ice cream; and English Lemon Meringue Custard (fruit category) with lemon meringue swirl, pie pieces, and lemon-custard flavored ice cream.

They were all delicious.  My favorite, even though I am a chocolaholic, was the English Lemon Meringue Custard.  It was delightfully different.

As a parting gift, Darigold each gave us a talking  Ice Cream Man scoop.  It yells, “Ice Cream” and then you hear bells ringing from an old fashioned ice cream truck.  Unfortunately we ice cream addicts don’t like a lot of noise when we are sneaking the last bites out of the box, so I think I will keep that hidden in the drawer.

 

 

The cantaloupe hits the big time during its peak June through October. Believed to be a native of Asia he currently resides in warm and sunny California.  New in our town and only playing for these few weeks of summer, Cantaloupe is currently starring at your local produce department in “Fruit Cup” where he has teamed up with Honeydew and Watermelon.

Rich in vitamins A and C and potassium, and containing a fair amount of niacin and iron, he’s America’s answer to a sweet bargain for any dieter.  Half of a 5-inch melon provides the day’s requirement for vitamins A and C and has only 82 calories.  An incredible 825 milligrams of potassium along with low levels of sodium and fat, makes it the perfect treat for those concerned with blood pressure.

He’s everywhere you look but unfortunately he is still confined to bit parts such as this Scenario:  For many Americans, the fourth of July means fireworks, parades, picnics and watermelon.

I caught up with Mr. Cantaloupe backstage at Safeway’s produce bin.

Q. The fact that watermelon is still number one at picnics, does that make you bitter?

A. Who me? I’m not bitter, I’m sweet.  Ask HoneyDew.  Between you and me I’d say she was a little green with jealousy.

Q. You and Honeydew were linked romantically for years.  Is it all over between you?

A. We will always have our differences. But she is well loved, served plain or fancy.

Q. The melon is a vegetable that is eaten as a fruit.  Melons belong to the Curcurbitaceae botanical group that is also called the gourd family.

A. Yeah, what is your point?

Q. Well, some could say you are quite rotund.

A. Big Deal. Look at Watermelon. He’s HUGE.

Q. Well, no offense, but you are very difficult to tell when you are ripe.

A. Puh-leeze.  Number one, a ripe cantaloupe has a characteristic sweet and delicate odor. If it’s not fragrant, leave it at room temperature for a few days to ripen.  A well-rounded, much better word than rotund I might add, melon should have a depressed smooth scar at the stem end and a slight softness when pressed at the bottom end.

Q. You do have a lot of seeds inside of you.

A. Implausible that some people think shaking my seeds around means I am ripe. You estimate a good melon by checking my underbelly.

Q. Your underbelly?

A. Of course, that is the part that rested on the ground when I was growing.  A pale yellow color indicates a ripe, flavorful melon. Green areas may be under ripe.

Q. They say you are delicious snack as well as an appetizer, dessert, or a main meal.

A. All that stuff, yeah. I’m really well rounded in that you can make dinner by scooping chicken salad inside my beautiful orange flesh or top me with ice cream.  I have even been know to be peeled, sliced, and tossed with berries.

Q. You know a very good treat on a hot summer day is to puree cantaloupe and make it into a sorbet.

A. You think so? I personal think that people are too quick to gobble me as a snack and not appreciate the fact that I can come to the table as a gourmet meal.

Q. How so?

A. Psst, come a little closer and I’ll tell ya. You know that cute little peach over there? She and I have been known to be good together.  Peel one peach and cube 1/4 melon, sprinkle with lemon juice. Place in blender with 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice, grate an orange rind for a little zest, just a pinch or so, and my favorite part, 1/4 cup white wine.  Puree until smooth.  Add a little sugar to your taste.  Serve cold and you have a melon soup for one.  Use your good china naturally.

Q. You may be a bit player, but your character will never go out of style.

A. Nah. I am here for the long run.  Hey, you see rhubarb over there? We were never a good match.  I think it had something to do with the fact she wasn’t well rounded enough.  How about you introduce me to that red heart plum…

Deep thinkers throughout the ages have devoted themselves to solving the mysteries of life.  Where are these guys when you are trying to find your car keys?

Anxious moments are spent looking on top of the fridge and in drawers (stopping to put the cap on the toothpaste and straightening pictures on the wall) then finally all hopes exhausted, there they lay…inside a sweaty tennis shoe, under a pile of wet towels in the the laundry basket.

As usual I was in my typical morning panic.  There was nothing in the pantry to make a decent kid’s lunch.  So I had to cleverly create with the half-wrapped saltines way in the back.  I slapped them together with honey.  I sequestered all the loose grapes in the bottom of the fruit bowl and threw them in a baggy.  Thank goodness there was a string cheese stuck in the corner of the fridge light bulb and a lone pickle in the pickle jar.  No drink.  Do you think she will mind?

Who am I kidding?  I will hear about this rotten lunch for days.  There is no more dragging my feet.  I have got to buy some groceries.

It was of no comfort to me whatsoever knowing that I had found my car keys only to have misplaced the grocery store coupon book.  Without it, I knew the consequences: looking around each isle cautiously, as an on-slaught of little red tags attached to all the items I need that day wag their tongues at me chanting, “What a dim bulb you are for missing all these exceptional savings.”

I dropped everything and took a deep breath and tore through the house.  I couldn’t leave without it.

Twenty minutes later I finally arrive at the store.  Grabbing a cart (which by the fourth aisle is a third full of groceries)the wheel wobbles and squeaks.  (Why me?  I always get the bent fork at dinner, too.)  I breathed a sigh of relief when I remembered what a luxury it was to shop without children.

It is downright expensive to grocery shop with that toddler strapped to the front of the cart.

Your mind is trying to decipher a mathematical equation “Is the two for $5 a good deal?” when out yells, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Now.”

After three turns down the isle you have noticed 17 items, “sticky fingers” has flung in the cart, a headache and a broken vinegar bottle you left in the last aisle.  You spend more time picking them up and putting them back in the cart than shopping.  You end the whining and get the cookie, only to have them take one bite and fling it.

It was bad enough that they insisted on wearing the Halloween cape they have had on every day for 40 days and nights and the Burger King crown. By the time you get to the check-out stand, your hair is standing on end and you have spend the entire month’s budget.

Call it woman’s intuition, but I’ve never trusted the grocery clerk who is chewing gum and wants to talk about everything you’re buying.

“Hmmm, I see were having pork chops tonight,”they say knowingly.  They tilt their head and accusingly ask if you’re going to have those canned cherries for dessert, too.  Or, they hand you the candy bar with a little wink and say, “Bet you want this now.”

‘Ohhh, nooo,”you say, “Throw it in the sack.”  Even though it is the only thing you have thought clearly about all day- but the heck if you’re going to let this squirrely guy know that.

Or the box boy who thinks he can stuff your $100 groceries all into one bag, and is proud of it.

But my personal favorite is the guy who picks up the perfect peach you spent 10 minutes checking for bruises, and rolls it down the counter as you watch it bang against the wall.  Then the box boy picks it up, throws it in the air and slam dunks it into the grocery sack and whole time they are talking to each other about that lousy clerk who takes too many breaks.

You know life is out of control when your only form of entertainment is to find the longest line and speed read every magazine in sight, hoping the clerk doesn’t pick you to start a new line so you can finish that article on Jean Claude Van Damme.  Or when you see a magazine you would love to have and suddenly realize that you do and it has been sitting on the coffee table for a week and you have never opened it.

For a reason I can never understand, I always get the box boy who walks out behind me pushing my loaded cart, and when I reach my car I turn around and he is across the parking lot following another woman.

But I know we agree, the best part is getting them home and finding someone else to take them out of the car!

Oh, by the way, since school is out early tomorrow, maybe when the kids come home we should have an extra special lunch, considering…

A GREAT KIDS LUNCH

This crunchy stir-fry is easy to put together.

1-1/2 cups cooked, chopped chicken

1 -10-oz package frozen stir-fry vegetables

1/4 cup water

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 cup orange juice

2 teaspoons cornstarch

1  3-oz can chow mein noodles

Mix in saucepan chicken, vegetables, water and ginger.  Stir.

Set pan on medium-high heat.  Cook till bubbly.  Cover. Turn to low heat cook five minutes.

In bowl, put orange juice and cornstarch.  Stir.  Stir juice mixture into chicken mixture.  Cook and stir till thick and bubbly.  Then cook and stir for two minutes more.

For each serving, arrange one quarter of the chow mein noodles on each plate.  Spoon the chicken mixture over the noodles.  Makes four servings.

 

My shoulders sagged, my mouth was drawn and tears filled my eyes. I sat cowering in the corner of my airline seat.  I would be gone only three days visiting a relative, but the car was barely out of the driveway when my husband announced his plans.

“What are you going to do with yourself?” I lovingly asked my husband, as he drove the car.

Coughing slightly, he whispered. “Move the washer and dryer out of the kitchen.”

My head jerked up and my eyes flashed widely. “What!  Oh no, don’t start any remodeling projects while I’m gone,” I pleaded.

But I knew it was too late.  The look was there.  As I sat in my airline seat I envision what was going to happen.

I suppose I have myself to blame.  If I hadn’t been so vocal about the fact that some fool who designed the house put the most used appliance (the washer and dryer) in a 58 3/4-inch space inside a closet!  In the kitchen?

May that person be cursed with a bread board on top of their silverware drawer.

You see, for years I had struggled with this dilemma.  Dragging the dirty laundry down the hall, squeezing it into the washer with naturally no place to put it after the dryer cycle but on the kitchen table.

Did this architect just assume that the kitchen table would be empty? Architect, you are either naive on the subject of living space or think that games, toys, bills, mails, keys and fondue forks have drawers with their names on them.

Naturally, on my busiest of laundry days the doorbell rings.  I tiptoe to the curtain, peek through, and there stands Aunt Mable and Aunt Violet who have never been to my home and I haven’t seen in two years.

You know darn well that they won’t stop at ringing the bell, they will be turning the door knob next.  Of course, they will give you the obligatory “Don’t worry about your messy house, dear, we just came to see you”as their eyes roam wildly about in fright.

Desperately I swooped the laundry off the table after kicking the table contents under the floor mat.  I race down the hall and fling the laundry onto my bed.

They don’t leave until 11:30 p.m that night.  Somehow, managing to keep them out of the bedroom, exhausted I collapse.  Too tired to fold the laundry I gently roll them on to the floor where they mingle and mate with dirty clothes and I realized the next day to my dismay I have to start the entire process again.

But now the problem had worsened.  My husband, the world’s handiest handyman- Not!- was tired of hearing the whining and had decided to do his favorite project – FORMICA.  This man learned how to apply Formica on toilet partitions during a part-time job in college.  He has had the fever ever since.  We have in a lovely array of colors, a Formica coffee table, sewing table, chest of drawers, closet door and TV trays.  I have no idea what wood looks like.

I had an inkling that by removing the washer and dryer would leave a large (well 58 3/4- inch gap) in our kitchen.  What does this mean? I will tell you what it means.  A total kitchen remodel!

Lucky you say? Huh.  I don’t think I will be seeing Granite counters and oak cabinets.  Oh no, it will be FORMICA.

CROCKPOT DINNER  Cooks all day while your husband destroys your kitchen into no-man’s land. You need a Crockpot.  Remodeling?  Get one soon.

2 lbs. stew meat, cut in 1-inch cubes

1/4 cup flour

1 – 1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. pepper

1-1/2 cups beef broth

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

1 bay leave

1 tsp. paprika

4 carrots, sliced

3 potatoes, diced

2 onions, chopped

1 stalk celery, sliced

Place stew meat in Crockpot.  Mix flour, salt and pepper, pour over meat; stir to coat.  Add remaining ingredients and stir.  Cover and cook on low 10 to 12 hours

     ‘Twas the night before Christmas,

When wrapping gifts in the spare bedroom,

Mom and Dad were sitting in a puddle of ribbon, paper, and warranties.

By midnight it was plain to see, that they were getting cranky.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

 In hopes that Santa would soon be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

With flashlights and blueprint’s to catch Santa, danced in their sleepy heads.

And Mommy in her bathrobe, tape stuck on her nose and I in my ski jacket, raced out into the cold.

The easy-to-assemble dinosaur diorama (with 99 parts and one -soon to find out-missing) in the car I went to pluck.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I hit my head on the trunk, like to see, what was the matter.

Away to the street I flew like a flash.

Tore open my jogging pants and fell across the grass.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to our roof’s clogged gutter.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleight and eight tiny reindeer,

With a lump in my throat and noticing a beaming light in the kid’s room I ran like crazy and tumbled into the living room.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!  To the top of the porch!  To the top of the wall! Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

I gasped for air and calmed my jitters,

By laying under the Christmas tree glitter.

It was a shiny silver aluminum tree,

With red and green strobe lights sitting below, that twirled and danced and splashed all over me.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof.

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew out my head, from under the tree,

Down the chimney, Santa came to greet me.

Tarnished with ashes and soot, he was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf.

With a bundle of toys, he had flung on his back, he gave me a lecture on yearly chimney cleaning, sighting a danger, that was sitting there brewing.

We talked of life and what the last year had brought,

I told him we paid off the freezer and tried to be good.

He paused and drank the glass of milk,

And ate the plateful of cookies the children had left.

He went straight to his work,

Filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

With a wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

He spotted the bowl sitting by the fireplace ledge.

I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

My wife’s homemade carmel corn had glistened from the bowl.

One bite and with a shout of glee,

He asked for the recipe, please.

7 quarts popped corn

2 cups brown sugar

1/2 cup white Karo syrup

1 teaspoon salt

2 sticks butter

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

l teaspoon vanilla

Boil the brown sugar, Karo, butter and salt for five minutes.  Remove from heat and add soda and vanilla.  Pour over the popcorn and mix well.  Pour into cookie sheets and bake in a 250 degree oven for one hour.  Stir several times during baking.  Delicious!

 

It’s a pleasant, wet and rainy day, and I am standing in a semicircle of approximately 133 “you cut ’em” Christmas trees.

My husband is running with a sawblade in his left hand, a blue tarp in his right hand, and a translucent look in his eyes.  Evidently, he has spotted yet another tree that might meet his specific conditions.

My 7-year old daughter is lying on the ground at my feet, moaning deliriously that she is “tree sick.”  Her tiny limp body is lying quietly as she explains that after rows and rows of trees she can no long muster the energy to walk another step.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to ‘cut’em” I don’t waste a lot of time. I stride briskly to the most attractive tree standing and shout, “Here!”

Your professional Christmas tree cutter (husband), on the other hand, does not even think about cutting until he has conducted a complete tree study of the site-circling the selected tree warily, as though it were an alien space-ship, checking it out from every possible angle, squatting and squinting, finger in the air checking the wind, feeling the needles, analyzing the distance from the road to the truck, back to the tree…

And so, amid an atmosphere of unbearable tension, comparable to not being able to find your car keys when you are already late to that very important meeting, my daughter and I wait, and wait, and wait.

By now our daughter is trying to make snow angels in the mud and I am unbelievably letting her.  I see other families in the tree farm.  They’re staring intently at trees way off in the distance, but I think they’re staring at us.  We have been here so long.

I think about grabbing my daughter’s hand and pulling her up to her feet and taking her down the hill for our third cup of hot cider and her second candy cane, but too late, she has been entertaining the crowds by holding her breath as she runs up and down the tree rows.

The more time that passed with virtually nothing happening, the more excited I got about that cider.  I started down the hill when suddenly I heard a loud, long, whopping yelp that I recognized as my husband.

I turned to see him stand up, wipe tree pitch off his hands, and in a voice that would have made a gold digger stop, announced, “This …is the tree.”

There it stood in all of its glory-all 14 feet of it.

“That’s too big,” I said.

“Not so,” he said. “I will trim off the bottom.  You’ll see.”

“Don’t you remember last year?” I asked.  “It was too big, you did not trim enough.”

“Did so.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.

“Did not.”

“Did.”

“Not!”

Like anything else, success depends on the proper tools, so in the back of our truck is an assortment of many saws, blue tarps, gloves, rope and any necessity to fall Paul Bunyan’s tree.

“Quick, run back to the truck and pick out the yellowed handled two blade milliliter saw.  Oh, and by the way, grab me a cider,” he says with a big smile.

Rolling my eyes back in my head and shrugging my shoulders, I approached the tree surgeon punched him in the arm where he pretended to be knocked into the fir tree, and I headed to the car trying to consider the many, many complex factors involved in the “you cut ’em tree man.

This is, after all, a once a year experience.  And this tree-prepare to experience a heart tremor- was home cut.  How were we going to get it in the truck, let alone through the front door?  At least when I finally do get home I can make a nice hot cup of:

HOT SPICY APPLE CIDER

6 cups apple cider, 1 cinnamon stick, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, 3 tablespoons lemon juice, 1 teaspoon lemon rind, 1 can (2-1/2 cups) unsweetened pineapple juice.

Heat cider and cinnamon stick in a large pan.  Bring to a boil and simmer covered for 5 minutes.  Add remaining ingredients and simmer uncovered 5 minutes longer.

SIMPLY DELICIOUS EGGNOG

1 egg, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 cup chilled milk, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla.  Beat egg and sugar together.  Beat in milk and vanilla.  Serve cold in a tall glass sprinkled lightly with nutmeg.  Serve immediately

Note:  This column was published in Sandra Haldeman Martz of Papier-Mache Press, anthology “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays”.  Where I was welcomed by two different Barnes & Noble bookstores that held a booksigning and reading. 

 

 

 

 

Back before microwaves and MTV (remember records?) there was a newlywed who thought she knew the whole kit and kaboodle of life.  She lived in Georgia surrounded by strange places and new faces. Her job at the local paper was to write obituaries, weather and TV highlights.

When the Family page editor’s pregnancy left an opening, she found herself writing a daily food column, which she crowned “Overdone and Undercooked,” the title coming from her unique newlywed cooking skills.

Back before yuppies (where did earthshoes and psychedelic painted vans go?), there was a married woman.  Motivated by the curriculum of her new college town, she surrounded herself in exams, parties, philosophy, parties and midnight snacks. The local paper was thrilled to run the new, “Overdone and Undercooked” that had recipes for beer bread and advice on how to feed a crowd of 50.

That is when she ran into an incredible phenomenon-sell all your wordly possessions and travel till your money runs out.

Back before “state of the art” and “Let’s do lunch,” there was a wife who ate her way through Mexico, half the U.S. and 18 European countries.  By Venice when the gondola started to tip precariously, and all the swimwear had shrunk in Mexico, she returned home and ventured that wearing all the culinary classics on one’s hips would never start a new trend.

But it did turn “Overdone and Undercooked” into a gastronomical gourmet event. (And she became addicted to eating and showed no signs of breaking the habit.)

After a decade of marriage, she was used to him being messy and he was used to her being chunky. Next came pregnancy and motherhood.

Before motherhood, she had told her best friend that the friend was raising her three sons all wrong.  She would never ever feed her kids Lucky Charms, or give ’em a nuki (pacifier), use plastic diapers, or forget to pick them up at school.  Now, tears welled in her eyes as the new mom fell to her knees and grabbed her best friend by the ankles, begging for forgiveness.

Back before our little town became a city, she was still living in her bathrobe, no makeup and picking up last year’s tinsel, when something life-changing happen.  The door slammed. It was 8 a.m. Silence. Her daughter started grade school. “Now,” her husband patted her shoulder, “you can come work for me.”  So, for the first time in six years, she grew fingernails, shaved her legs and finished a complete sentence uninterrupted.  The first client that was rude, she told them she was going to count to three.

Back before our town had a six lane freeway, the wife/mom/head chef/bottle washer saw her little baby had turned into a pre-adolescent, with a very busy social life and a request- that Mom’s name not appear on any more volunteer lists.  As she watched her child learn basketball and the tuba, she realized that there was a happy, healthy child and it was time…

She went to her closet and pulled out the special trunk, and in there she dusted off her ole friend. She realized that she knew squat about the kit and kaboodle of life, but she had become a better cook!  And she had something she hadn’t had in a while-time.  And tremendous energy and enthusiasm,for a desire to share with the world the joys and enjoyment of the pleasures of the table.

“Overdone and Undercooked” is a joy to share with you, my new friends.  Old columns, new thoughts and a recipe or two.

And since you always remember that sweet little baby this is a great recipe for new mom’s.  The women of today is an inteligent consumer.  She is concerned with value and nutrition and many have shunned the preservative ingredients of canned baby food.  That’s why I always enjoyed easy to make and serve Food Cubes.  Don’t laugh! These are the best way to serve your baby fresh food.  You heat and eat. And just need a blender.

Try this great recipe today:

Meal in One Food Cube      1 cup cooked poultry, meat or fish; 2/3 cup vegetables or fruit, raw or cooked; 1/2 cup cooked rice, noodles or cereal; 1 cup (or less) liquid cooking water from vegetables or fruit juice.

Place liquid in blender.  Add other ingredients. Puree to desired consistency.  Freeze in food cubes (ice cube tray) at once. Can be kept frozen for 1-4 months. Equals three cups, 15 food cubes or 4-5 meals.