Gone Bananas!

Those of you who visit regularly, know I have a thing about stupid.  And, a thing about labels.  This story has them both, dipped in chocolate.  So, keep reading.

My son, Jonah, likes frozen bananas.  He gets a box as an occasional treat.  You can buy a box of four at Trader Joe's.  Or at least you could, until recently.  Maybe you still can.  I don't know.  The last time I was there, they were clean out.  In their place, were these:

Trader Joe's Frozen Banana Slices. 

Jonah was more than willing to take frozen banana slices in place of a whole banana on a stick.  The boy ain't dumb.  One look at the box and he knew the chocolate to banana ration had gone up considerably.  Or, had the ratio gone down?  This has something to do with fractions, right?  If I could do math, I'd be a doctor, not a lawyer.  The point is, there was gunna be more chocolate.

It wasn't until I got home that I read the label.  Not the back label, with all that boring nutrition information, but the front.  Do you see that line of tiny print across the top of the banana?  It says "serving suggestion."  Really?  You suggest I serve them like dominoes tumbling out of a fresh banana? 

I was about to go off on a screed about stupid marketing people, when I realized it is not their fault.  If you package food, and your packaging shows food that is not in the package, you are required by law to tell the buyer that.  This is because of lawyers.  Or, legislators.  But, they are all lawyers, too.  So, yeah, lawyers.  Stupid lawyers.  Or it is stupid buyers, because they can't tell that a box of frozen bananas won't contain half a fresh banana?

This depressed me.  This, the small box, the disproportionately high price (the ratio of the price to the number of slices in the box).  I was totally off Trader Joe's Frozen Banana Slices.  Then, I ate one.  Then two.  Then three.  Then I had to leave the room until Hubband and the children had finished the box.  (It is a very small box.)

These are so good, I wouldn't care if the "serving suggestion" showed chocolate covered banana slices shooting out the monkey's butt.  They are worth every penny!

So, run, don't walk.  Heck, DRIVE to a Trader Joe's near you and get a box.  GO!

Mint Flavored Ice Cream with Chocolate Flavored Chips

The world since facebook is a funny thing.  Three years ago, I had never heard of it.  Now, not a day goes by that I don't hear of it.  Though, ironically, it does not show up in the spell check dictionary.  Not even on facebook!  But, I digress.  (Can one digress before one has actually begun?  I think one can, and this one has.)

I'm not really here to talk about the pervasiveness of the word facebook, or the social networking site, except to mention that I use facebook, and on Wednesday, not one, but two people I know, used the term Mint 'N Chip to refer to ice cream I have always called Mint Chip.  I have to admit, this threw my already wobbly world just a bit off kilter.  Have I been saying it wrong all these years.  Is it really Mint 'N Chip?

I had to know for sure.  Research was needed.  I did not want to rely on the internet.  Any crazy wacko with a laptop and an ice cream spade to grind can post stuff on the internet.  I had to go to the labels themselves.  This meant field work.

I entered the grocery store, as if I belonged there, and casually walked the frozen food isle, as if this were something I do every other day or so.  I have a lot of practice, as this is something I do every other day or so.  I found the ice cream section, predictably, where it had been last week.  Ice cream, it turns out, is grouped first by type (premium, low fat, low sugar, etc.), then by brand, and then by flavor.  The Mint Chip, or Mint N' Chip, was to be found in several locations along the isle.  I had my work cut out for me.

I have to admit, I was a little nervous.  I was worried an under-appreciated employee or an over eager assistant manager would come by and scold me for staring so long at their ice cream.  I had a back up plan, in case I was caught, and had to escape quickly.  I would simply have to buy one of every type and brand, so that I could read the labels at my leisure, preferably over a bowl of ice cream.  Sadly, it did not come to this.  I was able to gather all of the information I needed in the field.  My findings will shock you.  (Mostly because I went to the trouble to find them.)

I started with the biggest national brand, Dreyer's, also known as Edy's east of the Rockies, or the Mississippi, or some such.  The same places they put Hellman's instead of Best Food's on their sandwiches and drink MelloYellow instead of Mountain Dew.  I could find no Dreyer's mint flavored ice cream with chocolate flavored chips among the premium ice creams.  I did find Mint Brownie.  I noted that it was not Mint 'N Brownie.  Further down, Dreyer's light and no sugar varieties were called Mint Chocolate Chip.

Breyer's was the second national brand I surveyed.  This was tougher than I thought.  For one thing, Breyer's has a mint leaf on every box of their ice cream, regardless of the flavor.  And their Mint Chocolate Chip, once I found it, was white, not green.  Better for you, but harder to find.

Next was Sunnyside.  This is a generic brand, I think.  It may be a local generic, specific to the grocery chain whose store I was patronizing, but I think it is available in several states.  Since I am too lazy to look this up, and so are you, I am just going to assure you, they have enough market share to influence the ice cream naming culture in this country.  Sunnyside carries Mint Chocolate Chip, Mint Moose Tracks, and Mint Chocolate Flake.  Not Mint 'N Chip, Mint 'N Moose Tracks, or Mint 'N Flake.

At this point I was feeling just a wee bit smug.  Mint 'N Chip?  What crazy talk!  There is no such thing.

Then, there, at the end of the isle, before ice cream ends, and other frozen desserts begin, I found it.  A five quart plastic tub of Bayview Ice Cream, calling itself Mint 'N Chip.  The kind of giant ice cream trough you buy for a child's birthday party, or a particularly heinous bout of PMS.  I've had the stuff. (Only because we needed the tub to make homemade babywipes, I swear.)  It's horrible.  And, the only one, of all the varieties and brands, to not actually mention the word chocolate.

In conclusion, I can only suggest to you my dear readers, that if you want mint flavored ice cream with chocolate flavored chips, you buy Mint Chip.  If you want large quantities of cheap, sweet, green goo, by all mean, stick with the Mint 'N Chip.

Now, if you will excuse me.  I have a petite helping of Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie to eat.  A small price to pay for my science.

UPDATE:  Based on the first few comments, I would like to amend my post.  What do you call mint flavored ice cream with chocolate flavored chips where you live?  Or, if you are more ambitious, can you help me flesh out my research by letting me know what some other brands call it?  Be careful in the field dear readers.  Don't get frost bite.

Pumpkin Season

Everyone has been talking about Fall, but I have remained silent.  Fall is my favorite season, so I am as excited as everyone else, but sadly, Fall, true Fall, comes late here.  It was over 100 degrees here last week.  Only now do I feel safe welcoming you to Pumpkin Season.

Though most of the leaves are still on the trees, the weather is cool-ish and breezy.  And, while there is no frost on the pumpkin, there is a pumpkin on my mantel, so I am very happy.

I am ready for shorter days, and heavier clothes.  Warm meals cooked in a hot oven.  I even went so far as to cook the roast chicken on the cover of this month's Sunset Magazine.

Bengali Five-spice Chicken.  It was yummy.  And made the whole house smell exotic.  (The twenty dollars in gas it cost me to drive around and find all of the ingredients is a story worthy of it's own post.)

I hope you are all enjoying your Fall.

Blogger on a Mission

Post 190/200

A Fat Chick Goes to Chipotle

Okay, so I have just finished eating my second Chipotle burrito.  I mean my second ever, not my second today.  In either case, my stomach is so full, if I were to place myself in a horizontal position, I would probably lapse into a coma.  Or vomit.  So, here I sit, at my computer, sharing with you the culinary indulgence that is the Chipotle burrito.

First, a few definitions.

Chiptole: A smoke-dried jalapeño which tends to be brown and shriveled, used primarily in Mexican and Mexican-inspired cuisine, such as Mexican-American and Tex-Mex.  Also, a national chain of restaurants serving obscenely large burritos.

Burrito: A Spanish word meaning, "small burro."  Also, a Mexican-American food consisting of a tortilla, wrapped around a pile a squishy goodness.

Tortilla: A Spanish word that means, "little pancake."  Also, a Mexican flat bread made from lard and white flour.  Lard and white flour.  Nothing bad has ever, and quite a few things decadent and delicious have, come from that.

Squishy Goodness:  Rice, beans (preferably pinto), sour cream, cheese, salsa, and guacamole.  Some definitions may tell you that guacamole is "optional."  Those definitions were written by communists.

Second, my story.

Until last Friday, I had never eaten at a Chipotle.  I do not know why.  They have been around for years.  There is one on a prominent, and frequented, intersection in my town.  Several people I know have spoken highly of it, but I did not listen.  Then, last Friday, finding myself, hungry, without my children, and parked in front of my local Chipotle, I thought, "Hey, I'll give this place a try."

My first Chipotle burrito was chicken, with guacamole.  I have to mention that I added guacamole, because it does not come standard.  (Communists?)  I had to pay extra.  Two dollars extra.  Making my first Chipotle burrito, my first eight dollar burrito.  But honestly, that was only about a dollar a pound.  I ate half of it, and took the rest home to my mother.

Once I shared the tale of my Chipotle initiation, I got feed back from several people, telling me ways to improve this experience.  As if that were even possible, I thought.  One friend (she knows who she is) suggested I try a vegetarian burrito.  For two reasons.  One, gauc is included (yeah!) and it has a better texture.  She finds that the meat ruins the consistency.  I was able to confirm that by "ruins the consistency" she means that it requires chewing, and therefore slows her down, because, honestly, without the chicken, I probably could have just swallowed that thing.

Today, less than a week later, (This is how addiction happens, isn't it?)  I found myself similarly situated.  I only had one kid with me, I was parked across the street (only two red lights and a u-turn away), and I was going to be hungry soon, I just knew it.  So, I went to Chipotle, for another hit burrito.

This time I ordered the vegetarian, guac included.  Yum!  But wait, what manner of green crunchiness which requires chewing is this?  Bell peppers?!  Blech!  I hate cooked bell peppers.  I like them raw, and I like all kinds of vegetables, even the green ones.  Really.  But not, Not, NOT in my burrito.  It if is green, and it is not cilantro (my second favorite herb) or the tender, creamy flesh of a ripe avocado, it does not, Not, NOT belong in my burrito.  A shudder just went through me.

So, I picked the peppers out and proceeded.  I'm not going to lie to you.  I missed the chicken.  But, all in all it was good burrito. 

Now, I have another friend (she know who she is) who would say that Chipotle is not real Mexican food.  But, it is real good food.  Good and heavy.  Oh, and now that it has settled a little, I think I can safely lapse into a coma sitting up.  Later.

I'm Posting Again Soon...

...I swear.  I am still a little disoriented from our big news.  I skipped The Week in Kids last week and didn't even notice.  But, I will be back to some sense of normal soon.  We'll call it pregnant-normal.  Until then, I leave you with this candid shot (taken by my sister) of my mother and I enjoying our steam pots full of crab and other yummies on Mother's Day.  Bottom feeder are so tasty!

P.S.  If you are the praying kind, please send up one or two for our unborn.  We weren't expecting to be expecting, but now that we are, we really want to look into the face of God's baby.  (Proof that He has a sense of humor, no?)

The Highlight of My Week

Tuesday is taco night.  So,  I went to the store and bought taco shells.  Twelve taco shells.

Or, so I thought.  Let's count them shall we.

So, I called the store, and if I bring my receipt the next time I come in, I get a whole new box of taco shells.  Or, at least 10 or 11 taco shells.  For free.

Yeah, me!!!

(Not New) Delhi and My Date with a Pregnant Woman

If you ever find yourself passing through Delhi, California you must stop and ask yourself, "Why would any one stop here?"  You must stop, or you would miss the place all together before you were done asking.  And you must ask, because the place does not have much to recommend itself (with a few exceptions, to be noted later).  It is dry, flat, and sandy, with nothing nearby, but more of the same.  Yet, there lies a town.

It was founded in 1920 as an experiment in community farming.  It failed.  During the Depression, the federal government offered free land to get people to settle and farm there.  The people who came, were hardworking, salt-of-the-earth people, to be sure, but they must have been hardworking, salt-of-the-earth people with low self-esteem if this was the best they thought they could do.  Ninety years on, it is mostly a dairy town, with a housing development, two freeway exits, and some interesting cartographical quirks.  For example, when Second Avenue crosses South Avenue, it becomes Fourth Street.  This may have been done during the Cold War to confuse the Communists in the event of an invasion.  About this, I am not kidding.

Oh, I should also mention, it is not Delhi, as in New Delhi.  It is Delhi, as in, "Del.  Hi.  You get your new bull semen catalog, yet?"

This past weekend, I drove to Delhi--and not my first time, either--through four counties, to help my dear, and very, very pregnant friend, Jennifer, pack up her house, so she can move.  I have also made the trip to help pull weeds, plant hasta, take her dog on a bike ride, and bury my cat.  I have known Jen for a long time.

I have known her longer than her husband, Robert has.  This is actually a bit of a sore spot between us, so we don't discuss it much.  You see, Jen and I met Robert around the same time, at church.  He took to me quickly, attempting to woo me with song and pet names.  "Barracuda" is a compliment right?  As charming as this was, I put off his advances, until he gave up.  Jen has him now.  They're happy, and not just because they are moving out of Delhi.

So, I drove, and drove.  We packed, and packed.  It was the perfect opportunity to gossip about everyone we have ever known catch up on old times.  And when we were done, Jen and I left Robert home with their very tired little girl (and his melancholy over the-one-who-got-away) and went out to dinner, like grown ups.

We ate at a place calling itself, without any sense of irony, The Elegant Bull.  (Now, I am going to say a few words about this place, and all of them are true(ish) but I want to make it perfectly clear that I liked the place very much.)  From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a shack, painted an elegant shade of brick red, and nestled elegantly up against the freeway off-ramp.  The hours and dress code were displayed at the front door.  "No Tank Tops."  No shirt?  No shoes?  No problem, I guess.  But, bare shoulders are not elegant.

Upon entering the Elegant Bull, I was surprised to find that it was, well, kinda elegant.  Low light, cut-glass candle holders on every table, white linen table cloths.  By "linen," I mean a poly-cotton blend, but they were real cloth, as were the napkins.  We were shown to our table by a very professional waitress with a subdued voice and menus.  Nice, right?

Then I sat down and looked around.  This bull had a whiff of the elegant about it, but only from the chair rail down.  On the walls, there were shelves displaying ceramic barn yard animals, and not one of them was a bull, lest you think I was deliberately missing the point.  There was a bovine clock, the numbers printed on it's belly, it's udder, a pendulum.  At least, I hope it was an udder.  There were seasonal decorations as well: Shimmering paper shamrocks and a life-sized paper leprechaun.  I think it was life-sized.  How is one to know, really?  All of this, was accompanied by the dulcet tones of Willie Nelson.

You see, The Elegant Bull is like a mythical creature.  Half restaurant, half truck stop.  All Dining Experience.  The staff was friendly, the ribs were great, the prices reasonable, the bathroom clean.  So...

If you ever find yourself passing through Delhi, California, you must stop and ask yourself, "Why don't we go to the Elegant Bull?"  But don't look for Jen and Robert, because they moved.

What I Cherish

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

I am an American.  I have a lot of stuff.  Some of it, I like a great deal.  But, I don't cherish it.  I am not even particularly attached to it.  If you were to set it all on fire tomorrow, I would not care half a whit.  Assuming, of course, that I were insured, so that I could replace my charred stuff with new stuff.  Because, while I may not be attached to my stuff in particular, I think I am rather attached to having stuff in general.  I am an American.

There are a few items, however, which I do cherish.  Two of them are cookbooks, handed down to me by my Grandma Bunny, and (through her) my Great-Grandma Wieser.

We'll start with the oldest first.  Grandma Wieser's is a Woman's World Cook Book from 1931.

Well used, as you can see.  There is much text in the beginning of the book which I find quaint.  Menu plans for "reducing" and elderly couples, for example.  My favorite part though, is Grandma's notes.

On the title page she has made notes for herself on where to find, what I assume to be, often used recipes.  White sauce, page 315.  Standard Baking Powder Biscuits, page 252.  And, tongue, page 122.  Tongue?  As far as I know, Grandma Wieser was not famous for tongue.  She was famous for cinnamon rolls.  Unfortunately, a thorough scouring of the book provides not a hint of how she made them

There are recipes, written in pencil, faded and torn, on the inside front cover.  One of them calls for 10 pounds of salt.  Hmm.  Interesting. But, not cinnamon rolls.

Grandma Bunny's cookbook is a 1965 Fanny Farmer, which is not nearly as interesting or as annotated, though it does have a great recipe for scalloped potatoes.  Yum. 

Another great part about both books, and a quality which I have tried very hard to preserve, is all of the odds and ends tucked into the well worn pages.  That is how I came across this.

And, this.

This recipe for Rhubarb Des(s)ert came fluttering out of Grandma Bunny's book just the other day, prompting this post.  It has Grandma Wieser's name on the back of it, and I think it is in her handwriting, though their hands are similar, so I can't be certain.  I have used this recipe, passed it on to others, and eaten the dish it produces dozens of times over the years.  But, the recipe I am familiar with is called Peach Cobbler, and while it calls for the same amount of sugar, it always comes with the disclaimer that this is too much sugar and to use about half.  Well, no wonder.  The recipe is for rhubarb.

 Great-Grandma Wieser is in the center.  

Grandma Bunny is in the back row, second from the left.  

My mom is in the center of the front row.

These books are treasures to me.  I feel a vein of family history running through them.  And yet, there are so many things not tucked into the pages.  Menu plans for a well-lived life.  A recipe for happiness.  A tasty, low-fat, all-natural substitute for lard.  I can not open these books and access the wisdom gained from raising fifteen children, or being married over a hundred years.  I can not get the answer to one last question.  I don't hear their laughter in there.  Or feel the touch of their strong lean hands.  Sewing lessons, crocheting lessons, how-to-make-a-bed-the-right-way lessons.  Not in there.  Those things will never come fluttering out of the pages of these books, but out of my memories and those of my family.

So, yes I cherish these books.  But I would throw them on the burn pile with the rest of my stuff for just one more conversation at the kitchen table.  Maybe Grandma Wieser would make cinnamon rolls.  I'd pay closer attention this time.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.  

The Week in Kids, #1

This week Samuel tried out some new phrases.  "Don't talk about me.  I'm special."  We don't know where he learned them and get the impression that he has no idea what they mean, but he says them with great enthusiasm and almost perfect annunciation.  Yeah Sam!!  He also modeled his new power-tool goggles.

We played with our food ~ open faced barbecue sandwiches with green beans and grapes.

Sam was only served half a sandwich and two green beans, but when he saw the grown-up plates, he was inspired.

This week Jonah prayed, "Thank you God, for the smell of toast in the morning," and  "Heal me Jesus.  I have big snot." Mommy kissed his little snot maker while wearing lipstick.  The child does not look this distorted in real life.

Catherine and Daddy shared some love over the morning paper.  We still can't keep that girl off the table, but she has learned to climb down on her own, if she can be bothered.

Auntie C and Uncle J came for a very short visit, that included coffee and breakfast, as they blew through town.  Many pictures were taken, but not by me, and none of them, so you will have to imagine it.

See you next week.

Bubble and Squeak

One day last week, Hubband called from work during his lunch hour.  We chatted a bit, about this and that.  It was pleasant.  Then he did it.  He hit me with the three words every housewife dreads.

"What's for dinner?"

My voice, if I had one, was letting out nothing more than a sustained, "Uhhhhhh."  But my brain was working overtime.  In my head, it sounded something like this.

What?  Dinner?  Aw, c'mon.  Whydya have to go and do that?  We were having such a nice conversation.  It's like noon, right?  Six hours to go.  I don't even know what is in the fridge.  When was the last time we picked up a pizza?  "What do you want for dinner?" is a better question.  Why must I always be the one to think of these things...and on it went.  Until my mouth got ahead of my brain.  (I'd like to pretend this never happens, but I would be...well...pretending)

Having no answer, I blurted out, "Bubble and squeak."

Hubband chuckled, but called my bluff.  "What's in that?" 

"I don't know," I had to admit.  "Cabbage, I think.  Or maybe sausage."

"Well, it's English," said Hubband "It probably has one of those things." 

After that conversation, and still with no plans for dinner, I did some investigating.  Bubble and squeak is basically a potato and cabbage pancake.  I had left over mashed potatoes.  I had cabbage, though it was the red kind.  And, I had red kale, I didn't know what to do with.  So, Bubble and Squeak it was.  I served it with breaded cod.  It neither bubbled, nor squeaked, but it was good and my kids ate every bite.

Bubble and Squeak ~ 

Desperate (for dinner ideas) American Housewife Style

3 cups mashed potatoes

5-6 leaves red cabbage, chopped small

6 leaves red kale, de-ribbed

fresh chives, chopped

butter and olive oil for frying

1. Boil cabbage and kale for about 10 minutes until soft. Drain.
2. Mix with mashed potatoes and chives.  The stiffer the potatoes the better I think.  Mine were a bit soft.
3. Take a handful of mixture and form it into a round patty.  
4. Combine butter and olive oil in pan over medium high heat. 
5. Add patties to pan, cooking 3-5 minutes on each side.  I would add a little extra olive oil between sides.

Next up, TOAD IN THE HOLE!

What We Did for Daddy

Valentine cookies

 

frosted pink

by little hands,

 sprinkled with sugar,

by little hands,

and presented with love!

Canadian Food Fit for Olympians?

Don't hate me.  I didn't say it.  It was the headline in my morning paper.  With the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, British Columbia fast approaching, the food section ran an article on something about which Americans are completely ignorant ~ Canadian Food.  An argument could be made, and often is, that Americans are ignorant about all things Canadian, but we'll save that for another time.  Today, the food.

Have you ever heard of poutine?  Well, I had not, until this morning.  I warn you, it is not for the gastrointestinally faint.  Are you ready?

French fries and cheese curds, smothered in gravy.   This is poutine.  There is even a website with reviews, recipes and a history of this Canadian original.

I gotta tell you, fries, cheese, and gravy sounds just disgusting.  Fries, cheese, and chili on the other hand...

In answer to the rhetorical headline, I think the answer must be yes.  Canadian food is fit for Olympians.  And, only Olympians.  Food like this could kill a mere mortal.

How to Tame Your Wild Oatmeal

Have you ever made oatmeal for a hungry three year old?

He’s eager, because he’s hungry. You’re eager, because you want him to eat healthy foods and (be honest) quit whining about being hungry.

So you whip up a batch on the stove or in the microwave. Either way is pretty quick. But you cannot serve it right away because it is hot enough to melt steel. Seriously! It is a bowl of molten beige goo. Even in the freezer it does not cool very quickly.

I have taken to using a little less water and then tossing ice cubes or frozen blueberries in the finished product. This actually works pretty well, if you are in a similar situation. But, the blueberries stain if flung around the room, so pick your audience.

How is such a mundane grain, when boiled in water, able to hold heat like that? It would take a degree in thermal engineering to invent a material with similar properties. And the opposite is true too. Have you ever tried to re-heat cold oatmeal? It takes so long you might as well make a fresh batch.

Does NASA know about this stuff?

The caveat to this is the cookie. I have found that making cookies out of oatmeal, i.e. oatmeal cookies, renders the thermal dynamic power of the substance inert.  So, less porridge, more pudge.

Cookies for Santa

We made cookies for Santa.  Chocolate chip.  We heard they were his favorite. 

We mixed.

We may have tasted a little.

We baked.

I hope Santa likes them.

My little reindeer certainly did.

Merry Christmas to You and Yours!!!!!!!

Afternoon Snack

We've been playing with our food. 

These are Cinnamon Schoolbook Cookies from Trader Joe's.

This is a baby covered in spaghetti. 

Fall Food

Here are some of the prettier things I have cooked this season.

Stew using the organic vegetables we have delivered from the local farm.

And my addition to the Thanksgiving feast.

The True Meaning of Scalloped Potatoes