Cheesey Post

It was pretty much guaranteed there'd be Kraft Singles in the deli drawer. Processed cheese product, Pepperidge Farm soft whole wheat bread and butter was my the three ingredient go-to dinner when I didn't feel like cooking.

Grilled cheese sandwiches. Crunchy on the outside, melted goo on the inside. I would put butter on both sides of the bread so the cheese would be buttery as well.

Balancing the buttered bread as I assembled the sandwiches was the hardest part. (This worked out poorly if I left the butter in the fridge. I usually kept it on the countertop. Except for that time period when the dog was on his butter diet. The other dog, when the kids were young.)

I'd butter two pieces of bread and lay the cheese in, put the bread together, then butter the top. I'd flip the top to the bottom when I put it on the grill and butter the piece that was now on top.

Actually, buttering the sandwich really wasn't the hardest part. Fact is, I would regularly burn the grilled cheese. The toast would be black and gross on one side. Sometimes both sides, but usually after I burned one side I'd be much more mindful and avoid burning the other. I'd scrape the bad side and serve it burnt side down. Artful presentation can go a long way. They'd still notice, though.

Fact is, burnt isn't always the same. Sometimes it just burns right at the surface--just the coating of butter. It looks bad but tastes fine. The bread under the crust is soft and the cheese nicely melted and buttered. Sometimes it's burnt through so the bread is hard and shiny like plastic and you know this because someone at the table knocked on it like a door with a little knuckle to prove it's lousy. When you bite in, it definitely does not taste fine.

Because of the latter disasters, the kids would not trust that the former could occur. Always twice shy, they began to turn the sandwich over on the plate to see if it was actually burnt. Woe unto me that it was not good. To make it through dinner, I'd take the one that looked most burnt. It was fine. Almost always.

And that's what I'd do when I did not want to cook dinner.

I think I may have burnt this one as well. It will be better next time. Probably.

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Pressured and Cooked

Pulled my hand out of my coat pocket to put the key in the door and get out of the cold.

Dog needed to go out, but I had a plan. Didn't care that it was late and a long day. Did. Not. Care.

Fact is, the mantra that kept going through my mind--and occasionally out of my mouth--had to do with the few number of fcuks that I was giving today. Very few. As in NO fcuks.

But I had an idea. And it was a good one. First, though, to the dog and his duties. No reason to take off my coat, and scarf, and mittens, and hat, and boots. Hang the key next to the door, release the kraken, I mean dog, and let the business be done. Done! Next.

So let's feed the beast. He needs to eat, too. And he's likely hungrier than me.

I'm eyeing that pressure cooker in the pantry as I'm scooping the kibble. It's next in my sights. It won't get away. Just have to feed the dog.

The best part about cooking is the physicality; the chopping, the stirring, the crumbling, the spicing, the shaking, the dicing, the washing. The can of tomatoes and two cans of black beans that I open. I love catching the opener on the lip of the can and turning the crank. It's an amazingly smooth mechanic. I would never use an electric can opener when I can turn a handle and watch the can spin around as the blade penetrates the lid and slices through the metal.

I get the pressure cooker out of the pantry and place it on the stove top. I proudly look at it's shine since I Bon Ami'd it last time. I love it when it shines. And when it steams.

It's 8:50 pm and I start. I grabbed the olive oil, but remembered that I have some cheap OO in the pantry. No reason to use the EVOO when I have a just OO. Switch on the gas and put a few swirls of the cheap OO in the pan. I reach in the fridge for the red pepper and gleefully find and grab a celery stalk. This is gonna be great. Chopping the celery and pepper I hold the large onion for last. It seemed a little squishy so I wasn't looking forward to peeling.

Turned out it was perfectly healthy. In moments it was peeled and chopped. Dumped the cut goods in the pot and turned to the garlic cloves. I smashed them and cut them. I don't know why the recipe said to mince. They end up flavoring the oil and then dissolve under pressure. I do it the easy way.

I add the bay leaf and measure out the basmati rice--only to realize that I'm about a third short of a full cup. Seriously? I thought there were three bags!?! I guess we ate it. I have some volcano rice, but that takes longer to cook. I'll just use the remains of that box of short grain abrioro rice. Still a little short? Okay, a few tablespoons of that volcano rice will make a cup.

This entire rice drama took about 35 seconds.

Rice in the pan, stirred and coated then add the thyme and pepper and pour in the water. Okay water and some old cooking sherry. I'm on a roll now emptying the random containers in the pantry and filling up the recycling bin. More flavor and more space. Winning.

Top it off with the can of fire roasted tomatoes, set the top on and up the heat to high. Wait for the steam. It teases me--not sealing tight but still spewing from the regulator. I shake the pot a few times. It seals up, and I lower the heat.

Next it's chopping up those pimento stuffed olives. I take the last three olives out of a jar that gets tossed in the recycling bin and find a second opened jar in the fridge. Winning again on that shelf space.

It's been five minutes so the rice is done. I turn off the heat and let the pressure release on its own. Five more minutes and I remove the top and stir in the beans and the olives. Fill a pretty red bowl, add a little hot sauce and sit down to eat at 9:20 pm.

Just in time to catch up with the errant spouse.

A good night.

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To Market To Market

My recent trip to San Francisco included a morning stroll along The Embarcadero and the recently redeveloped Ferry Building at the Port of San Francisco. I walked through the market/commercial space--formerly the baggage handling area--on my way to watch the incoming catamaran ferrying commuters from across the water (I don't really know where they came from, but they were mostly people going to work).

There were a bunch of stalls at the Port with the most incredible array of goods. Artisan cheeses, clams, high-end beef (and high-class hot dogs!), olives, wine, caviar, clams, fish, farmers' market vegetables, fresh baked sourdough breads and rolls. All foods were super quality--and nary a chain in sight. All I could think of was, "I wish I passed through here every night on the way home."

I am not an urban planner. But, I am a user of urban areas. I bought my cheese and olive roll and left thinking, "Why does SF have a surfeit of great shopping? What are elements of such success? City support? Income levels? Downtown access? Start-up and risk taking behavior?"

And, most importantly, "Why don't we have a place like this in Washington, D.C." (burned down Eastern Market notwithstanding).

Everyone in an urban neighborhood wants to have a great shopping district in walking distance. The District government pays alot of money for it. How do you jump start a great retail/restaurant row? How do you encourage people to frequent great local shops, like Dwellings, instead of the Tar-jay? What makes the local coffee shoppe--like Cafe Sureia a reincarnation of Cup o' Dreams--viable?

I strive for the authentic--try Uncle Brutha's hot sauce on Capitol Hill for the BEST, most flavorful hot sauce EVER.

I think, though, that authenticity can't be manufactured. Darn!

Forgotten Fruits

It's like prison. They insist on eating 3-squares every day. If they miss a meal, it's a civil rights abuse. So to keep child protective services away, I need to go to the grocery store.

B-K (not burger king, but before kids), we could go to the grocery store every three-four weeks. Once the kids came along, I got a frequent flier card to the Giant and Safeway--2-3 times a week is now the norm. (Living in the city makes the Cotsco and Shoppers' way too inconvenient.)

So I am at the Giant, and they have Breyers' ice cream on sale. Including my mostest ever favoritest flavor, Peach Ice cream. But I can't eat 1/2 gallon of it. Damn! That's too much of a great thing--my lust for which I blame le Dog.

Yup, when I used to work at the overpriced arcade in Ann Arbor, barely down the block, on Liberty Street was le Dog. A shack that sold hot dogs, and incredibly sophisticated soups and a shake of the day.

Some weeks, he would serve the most amazing peach shake ever. I didn't want to have one. I like chocolate shakes. And I don't like peaches. But he convinced me to try one and it was the best. I was broke, and couldn't afford gourmet shakes, but Mr. le Dog liked to play video games so I could trade game tokens for the most incredible peach milk shakes. Ever.

This was the beginnings of the trail that led to the frusen gladje strawberry ice cream. And my love of Gifford's banana ice cream.

I usually buy variants of vanilla or chocolate with junk in it. But the fruit ice cream is really where it's at. Like that peaches and cream pint that I just put away that took me back across the street from the Michigan Theatre on Liberty Street.