Sometimes, life just seems to work out: when we least expect it, opportunities and roads and sometimes even bridges fall from the outer sphere of our lives and make themselves right at home, where they hadn't been before. Especially, especially, when life seems to be drifting into tedium and lack brightness or edge; those are the moments right before the storm, if we keep a lookout.
You see, it seems to often take us leaving our surroundings and our frustrations before we realize and finally see what had been right there in front of us the whole time, which we had not, in our oblivion, been able to decipher before. But then, it's a Pow and a Slam (think: old Batman tv shows) and all of a sudden, WE KNOW. We know the things we did not know just a few moments before. We can see clearly in front of our selves, just as though we finally got around to renewing our contacts prescription and oh yeah! this is what seeing is really like.
For me, I keep forgetting and then remembering that I have to travel and Keep Moving in order to find or recall all or most of the things which are significant or momentous. This week, for instance, I'm traveling to Portland, OR to visit some wonderful friends nestled in the outer inner skirts of a city I've of recently found myself pining for. It doesn't help that my wise old uncle suggested to me that I should find love and stay here, when I had always mostly thought that the East coast was where I would be 'expected' to stay.
But really, who is the one expecting? Is it I, who is expecting that others have something they expect to say? Or is it others, who expect me to figure it out on my own.
Somehow, I feel that assuming is not the way to figure it out.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Christening
First of all, let's get one thing straight, before I actually get to the post I was planning on posting last week: This post is late. But really what I wanted to say
is following:
Currently, I live in the South. Not the Deep South (does anyone who lives there actually call it that? Deep Southerners?), but the medium South, where you can find biscuits easier than you can find homemade pasta and you can be sure that a country music star will not be left with an empty venue, ever.
Also, because we are in the South, we don't usually have to deal with snow storms. Actually, that is only true for the eastern and central part of the state--Western North Carolina still has snow, and ice, and storms. Those of us in the east, we are not familiar with things such as snow mobiles and plows attached to the front of the truck. We know how to run to the grocery store and stock up on bread, milk, and junk food; we know how to stay home and watch movies until we explode.
On that note, last weekend my sister and I decided to go to Myrtle Beach, SC. There was a marathon going on there, and we had a friend to cheer on. Plus, who would say no to a weekend trip to the beach, out of state?
As we all know, in the last week 49 states received some sort of winter weather. SC, my dear friends, was not exempt. As we were driving down 95, getting close to the destination of our choice, we spotted those small, tiny flakes known as snow. They would get 'heavy' for a while, and then peter out. Then, just like hair-washing, the cycle would repeat itself.
As we were getting closer to the beach, we finally arrived at My destination: the Lodge outlet store. Because in addition to cheering on my sister's friend, I was also going to undertake the important and daunting task of Purchasing My First Cast Iron. When I walked into the store, I felt something like joy, which many get when around babies or cute petite animals. There was cookware, everywhere! All kinds of little doo's and thingy's to keep anyone busy in front of their heat source of choice.
After much deliberation, I finally settled on a 5 qt dutch oven, and an 8" skillet. The lid fits both perfectly and their heaviness is comforting in the hand. Best of all, they were 'seconds', which although pretty much impossible for an indestructible substance such as iron, equates to a lower price at the register.
Now, all I have to do is christen them, and my journey will begin.
is following:
Currently, I live in the South. Not the Deep South (does anyone who lives there actually call it that? Deep Southerners?), but the medium South, where you can find biscuits easier than you can find homemade pasta and you can be sure that a country music star will not be left with an empty venue, ever.
Also, because we are in the South, we don't usually have to deal with snow storms. Actually, that is only true for the eastern and central part of the state--Western North Carolina still has snow, and ice, and storms. Those of us in the east, we are not familiar with things such as snow mobiles and plows attached to the front of the truck. We know how to run to the grocery store and stock up on bread, milk, and junk food; we know how to stay home and watch movies until we explode.
On that note, last weekend my sister and I decided to go to Myrtle Beach, SC. There was a marathon going on there, and we had a friend to cheer on. Plus, who would say no to a weekend trip to the beach, out of state?
As we all know, in the last week 49 states received some sort of winter weather. SC, my dear friends, was not exempt. As we were driving down 95, getting close to the destination of our choice, we spotted those small, tiny flakes known as snow. They would get 'heavy' for a while, and then peter out. Then, just like hair-washing, the cycle would repeat itself.
As we were getting closer to the beach, we finally arrived at My destination: the Lodge outlet store. Because in addition to cheering on my sister's friend, I was also going to undertake the important and daunting task of Purchasing My First Cast Iron. When I walked into the store, I felt something like joy, which many get when around babies or cute petite animals. There was cookware, everywhere! All kinds of little doo's and thingy's to keep anyone busy in front of their heat source of choice.
After much deliberation, I finally settled on a 5 qt dutch oven, and an 8" skillet. The lid fits both perfectly and their heaviness is comforting in the hand. Best of all, they were 'seconds', which although pretty much impossible for an indestructible substance such as iron, equates to a lower price at the register.
Now, all I have to do is christen them, and my journey will begin.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Maryland
Last weekend, my aunt and uncle stopped in. They had just been visiting my grandparents, where they were doing things such as taxes, making pizza, and ordering feasts.
It is important to note that my grandparents have spent almost all of their married lives in the DC metropolitan area. Which of course means one thing:
They love crabs.
Any homegrown boy or girl from the Bay area would feel the same. After all, what's not to love about steamed crabs crusted with Old Bay, salt, and the seasonings of the sea?
Nothing!
And how then should I feel: as a goodish, elder-respecting, born-in-the-District, Maryland-loving, free-wheeling eater?
Exactly the same way.
I love crabs. Very, very much. So much that when I turned 21, all I wanted was just to eat crabs and drink the beer I was finally entitled to. And although I didn't have a chance to do these things exactly on my birthday, I was surprised with a brown, greasy bag and a 6 pack during a visit to my grandparents soon after. Thanks, dad! I had no idea you were going to find a crab-guy when you left abruptly; I just thought you were going out for a walk.
I repeated this ritual on my 23 birthday: good friends who were (and some still are) volunteering with me at Camphill Soltane noshed on crabs, beer, hushpuppies, and laughter. We happened to be in Chincoteague Island vacationing with the lovely men and women with whom we lived. Afterwords, we went next door for a fresh, homemade ice cream cone and I got two--it was my birthday after all!
This past weekend didn't disappoint, either. My uncle brought three crabs in a cooler, covered with fresh snow (a la the 'snowmagggedon' in the Washingon area) the 300+ miles to the Raleigh area, where my family lives. I was touched that he remembered us; that he didn't just share with us the feast--she-crab soup, chowder, steamed crabs, fries, crabcakes, among other things--that took place at my grandparents house in Md. Instead, he brought us a taste of the delicious salty, soily crabs which we have been reared to love.
It is important to note that my grandparents have spent almost all of their married lives in the DC metropolitan area. Which of course means one thing:
They love crabs.
Any homegrown boy or girl from the Bay area would feel the same. After all, what's not to love about steamed crabs crusted with Old Bay, salt, and the seasonings of the sea?
Nothing!
And how then should I feel: as a goodish, elder-respecting, born-in-the-District, Maryland-loving, free-wheeling eater?
Exactly the same way.
I love crabs. Very, very much. So much that when I turned 21, all I wanted was just to eat crabs and drink the beer I was finally entitled to. And although I didn't have a chance to do these things exactly on my birthday, I was surprised with a brown, greasy bag and a 6 pack during a visit to my grandparents soon after. Thanks, dad! I had no idea you were going to find a crab-guy when you left abruptly; I just thought you were going out for a walk.
I repeated this ritual on my 23 birthday: good friends who were (and some still are) volunteering with me at Camphill Soltane noshed on crabs, beer, hushpuppies, and laughter. We happened to be in Chincoteague Island vacationing with the lovely men and women with whom we lived. Afterwords, we went next door for a fresh, homemade ice cream cone and I got two--it was my birthday after all!
This past weekend didn't disappoint, either. My uncle brought three crabs in a cooler, covered with fresh snow (a la the 'snowmagggedon' in the Washingon area) the 300+ miles to the Raleigh area, where my family lives. I was touched that he remembered us; that he didn't just share with us the feast--she-crab soup, chowder, steamed crabs, fries, crabcakes, among other things--that took place at my grandparents house in Md. Instead, he brought us a taste of the delicious salty, soily crabs which we have been reared to love.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Julia, Julia, Julia!
Ever since discovering Julia Child, I've had something of a fascination with one thing:
Poached eggs.
I mean, how is it possible, to boil an egg, without the protective cover of a shell? Doesn't the egg just turn into egg-water, like rosary water but with more protein? How is it possible to make something solid, which is only half so, and delicate as a newborn at that?
So, I finally decided to try it. I regularly make a scene in whatever kitchen I am current inhabiting, be it my parents', grandparents', friends', or one in this community where I used to live and volunteer. With that, what would make more sense then making one away from home, where everyone stands around and watches?
Yeah. I couldn't do it either.
Now, with the delicate cooking of a raw egg, one of the most important things (or to clarify, the only thing you really need, above all else) is an egg. And not just a drug-store egg; a fresh, I know-where-to-find-another egg. These days, it's either really easy to answer that call, or it isn't. Personally, I don't know anyone in the current perifory of my house who has chicken squatters. Luckily, this place does, in addition to great pottery. And as read, I recently did some traveling. So, what would make more sense then coming home not only with a new outlook, a happy heart, a sandwich, but also some eggs? Nothing, I know.
With my fresh eggs in luggage, and the inspiration of several food blog entries of some talented and interesting folks, I set to work. I used my love to simmer one inch of water. READ: cast iron skillet. I broke the egg into a small, glass pyrex dish, and waited. Soon, I saw the small bubbles at the bottom of the earthy pan, just as I had been instructed. Then, steam. Finally, small bubbles on the surface.
Taking my knife, I stirred the water to create a whirlpool, as others had instructed. Then, holding my luck in my hand and the pyrex in the other, I slipped the egg into the pan. Waiting a second, and then stirring the water slowly, hoping for the best effect, I waited. It turns out, I didn't need to stir the water once the egg was submerged; instead of solidifying the egg, the stirring only released a lace-like stream of whites into the water. Still, I was hopeful.
After a minute or two, I scooped the egg out, with a slotted spoon.
And then, I ate it, with seedy toast.
It was perfect. Oooey, gooey, yolk, surrounded by a solid, tender, white.
The next time I made it, however, I didn't use the cast-iron skillet. Also, I didn't wait for the water to be hot enough. So what did I make?
Egg-water.
.
Poached eggs.
I mean, how is it possible, to boil an egg, without the protective cover of a shell? Doesn't the egg just turn into egg-water, like rosary water but with more protein? How is it possible to make something solid, which is only half so, and delicate as a newborn at that?
So, I finally decided to try it. I regularly make a scene in whatever kitchen I am current inhabiting, be it my parents', grandparents', friends', or one in this community where I used to live and volunteer. With that, what would make more sense then making one away from home, where everyone stands around and watches?
Yeah. I couldn't do it either.
Now, with the delicate cooking of a raw egg, one of the most important things (or to clarify, the only thing you really need, above all else) is an egg. And not just a drug-store egg; a fresh, I know-where-to-find-another egg. These days, it's either really easy to answer that call, or it isn't. Personally, I don't know anyone in the current perifory of my house who has chicken squatters. Luckily, this place does, in addition to great pottery. And as read, I recently did some traveling. So, what would make more sense then coming home not only with a new outlook, a happy heart, a sandwich, but also some eggs? Nothing, I know.
With my fresh eggs in luggage, and the inspiration of several food blog entries of some talented and interesting folks, I set to work. I used my love to simmer one inch of water. READ: cast iron skillet. I broke the egg into a small, glass pyrex dish, and waited. Soon, I saw the small bubbles at the bottom of the earthy pan, just as I had been instructed. Then, steam. Finally, small bubbles on the surface.
Taking my knife, I stirred the water to create a whirlpool, as others had instructed. Then, holding my luck in my hand and the pyrex in the other, I slipped the egg into the pan. Waiting a second, and then stirring the water slowly, hoping for the best effect, I waited. It turns out, I didn't need to stir the water once the egg was submerged; instead of solidifying the egg, the stirring only released a lace-like stream of whites into the water. Still, I was hopeful.
After a minute or two, I scooped the egg out, with a slotted spoon.
And then, I ate it, with seedy toast.
It was perfect. Oooey, gooey, yolk, surrounded by a solid, tender, white.
The next time I made it, however, I didn't use the cast-iron skillet. Also, I didn't wait for the water to be hot enough. So what did I make?
Egg-water.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)