Mea Culpa, Mr. Pate - Fleet Feet Bran Muffins

"Your name is Jim ..."

No, actually it's not.  My husband just informed me that I gave kudos to the wrong person last week, and I feel genuinely compelled to set the record straight. The gentleman, and I mean that in every sense of the word, who sold us my wonderful Ford Escape (and also treated my aging Ford Expedition with kindness and respect) was not named "Jim", but is actually and accurately Mr. Jack Pate of Kisselback Ford in St. Cloud.  If you are in the market for a fine used car, please ask for Mr. Pate. You can preview the available cars at Kisselback's online site, and then call him for an appointment to see the cars in person. As I said then, that was the best car-buying experience of my life.

"Your name is Jim ..."

Yes, yes it is. Brighthouse Network joke, and I have been watching too many commercials. This is what happens when you retire early and involuntarily. My old friend Steve - not to be confused with my cousin Steve (who happened to retire just two days ago) and my nephew Steve (who is a long way from retirement) - has been trying to make me feel good about retirement, which is what old friends do.  Did I mention that he is retired also?  Are you beginning to see a pattern here?  I know Steve since my days at New Paltz; he was a friend of a friend who is also now retired.  If someone had gathered us around in 1971 and told us one day we'd be discussing the finer points of retirement, we would have thought that person was indulging in one of the many pharmaceuticals available for sale on campus. Steve reminds me how nice it is to be off of a schedule and not having to do that which I don't want to do. He's right, of course, but I have a tendency to overthink and guilt-shame myself, which is complicating this thing called retirement. Story of my life. But thank you Steve, for being a good and loyal friend.  I really am listening to you.

Right now I am pretty pissed off at Google.  I admit this blog platform is free, and free is good, but half the time I can't make necessary changes and the other half the damn thing makes its own unneeded, unwanted and unnecessary changes.  Google glitches driving me crazy and we all know that for me, that's not a very far drive.

So yesterday's meatloaf was deemed "very tasty" and "very good" by Robert. I would have liked a "fabulous!" or "the best damn meatloaf I've eaten since the last time you made meatloaf" but I guess I'll just have to settle, and two out of three ain't bad. Cory was much more effusive in his praise. I happened to have tasted a tablespoon of the meat mixture, which I cooked in a pan, before turning it into a loaf, and I have to say it was really good.  One might even say it was delicious. So please try it; besides, it's a sneaky way to get some vegetables into your kids. Leave out the Scotch bonnet and throw in some carrot. Michelle Obama, the First Lunch Lady, could learn something from me, but she's on her way out and will just have to remain clueless.  And no, I'm not a racist; truth be told, the last First Lady I really liked was Betty Ford.

In addition to the meatloaf, my brain is still set on the clam cakes and a real bran muffin, one with rich assertive taste that would make you stand at attention and declare "now THIS is a bran muffin!"  I love bran muffins for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is that they are one of the only high fiber foods I can eat with impunity.  My old Weight Watchers bran muffin recipe, which makes a mighty fine muffin, was in need of some heavy updating. Cory doesn't like pineapple and Robert doesn't eat or drink anything with artificial sweetener. That meant I had to start searching through my own cookbooks for an appealingly branny muffin.  Since I have whole books that are devoted to muffins and baking, that took a while. Along the way, I realized that I wanted to try maple syrup as an ingredient and I expanded my search to the internet.  And of course, I am always attracted to muffin and cupcake recipes that include sour cream.

This also took me off on some side research about the use of baking soda as the leavening agent for batters that include sour cream, but it got sort of technical and while I got it, you might be bored.  I am taking a big step and adding some baking powder along with the baking soda, because while I want a substantial muffin, I certainly don't want it so dense that it can be used as a weapon of mass destruction. Although if this chemistry experiment fails, I know exactly who I am throwing them at.

Fleet Feet Bran Muffins

3/4 c. Log Cabin syrup (real maple syrup forms crystals during baking)

2 extra large eggs
1 tablespoon canola oil

2 1/2 cup bran (1 1/2 cup All Bran Buds, 1/2 cup Post raisin bran (hand crushed), 1/2 cup unprocessed miller's wheat bran)
1 cup sour cream
1/2 cup prunes (dried plums), cut into smaller pieces (dust with 1 teaspoon of flour; will help prevent the prunes from sinking to the bottom of the muffin)
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt

Topping:
1/2 cup Cracklin' Oat Bran cereal, crushed with rolling pin, hammer, or cast iron skillet 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. In a medium bowl, sift together the AP flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt.  Set aside.

In a large bowl, lightly whisk the eggs, Log cabin syrup and canola oil.  With a wooden spoon, stir in the 3 brans, and let stand for 5 minutes. Next, stir in the sour cream and let stand for 1/2 hour. Add the flour mixture to the bran mixture. Stir only enough to moisten, then stir in the prunes.

Scoop into a muffin tin that has been lightly wiped with nonstick spray across the top, and lined with paper cups. Sprinkle the crushed oat bran cereal on top of each muffin. Bake in the 400 degree oven for 18 to 20 minutes. Let cool in the muffin tin for 10 minutes, then remove the muffins from the pan to finish cooling on a rack.                              

Really good, delicious, etc., but not the dark branniness I was expecting.  And then, it hit me like a fist pounding on a judicial bench: molasses.  If not molasses, then brown sugar. That will have to be another time, place, and blog post, but until then both Robert and I recommend this one. The Fleet Feet Bran Muffin, replete with fruit and fiber. Enjoy!

The Clerk is a Crackpot in Kentucky - Pizza Pizza Meatloaf with Everything No Anchovies

Just once I would like to wake up without a headache, without a backache, without a buzz saw across my midsection, without a heart palpitation and without a panic attack.  This morning I've got brain fog and depression added to the list of Usual Suspects, so to conclude I was a mess would be a vast understatement.  I have a formidable list of things I have to get done, and have neither the strength nor the fortitude to start any one of them.

Yesterday was an okay sort of day.  I was able to do some food shopping at Walmart, despite the buzz saw, which got bad enough that I purchased a bottle of generic Zantac and swallowed two of them before I even left the store.  I planned out a couple of new recipes in my head and picked up the necessary ingredients.  I cleaned up after my pets, cheerfully and repeatedly.  In the evening, I took my walk to new places and I even climbed steps and peered into windows at the old courthouse and the Carson-Bryan House, both of which are blissfully just down the street. Gotta keep moving.

But ... continuing along on the roller coaster that is my life, I crashed by 8:30pm while watching Roger Mooking set fires all over the place on Cooking Channel.  We went upstairs a full hour early, and I guess I fell asleep, because I would have had to be asleep to wake up not less than four times during the night.  And then this morning - well, you already heard me bitch and moan.  Which brings us to now.

Didja hear the one about the clerk in Kentucky who is refusing to issue marriage licenses to gay couples? Actually, now she is refusing to issue licenses to anybody.  I guess she figures that makes the whole deal fair and balanced, and this way she won't accidentally be tricked by a gay couple with gender neutral names.  This four times married little chippy, who is an elected official, has essentially gone over the Supreme Court's head, straight to God. I'm okay with God as you all know, but last time I checked He does not sit on the United States Supreme Court or any other governmental agency above the Supreme Court.  He sure as hell isn't living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but that's another blog post. Perhaps this Kim person, who apparently inherited the clerk's position from her mother </sarcasm> has not heard of the First Amendment or the Constitution.  Does anyone know why she hasn't been fired, suspended, or put on unpaid leave?  WTF is going on in Kentucky? (I understand that she and her band of Merry Meatheads are due in court tomorrow for what sounds like what we call a show cause hearing - essentially, a contempt hearing. Can't wait.)

Another police officer shot and killed on Tuesday in Illinois while the President is up in Alaska changing the name of Mt. McKinley.  Priorities, Mr. President. You ain't got 'em.

I love pizza. Real New York pizza, not the deep dish pies they call pizza in Chicago which are delicious but not pizza. Seriously, who decided to call what is more like a quiche than a pizza, a pizza?  Anyway, the problem which really is a problem because I live practically next door to Al's Pizza which makes the best almost-New York pizza in Florida, is that pizza doesn't like me.  Our relationship came apart on June 2, 2003, the day my entire digestive system got rearranged.  Although I've apologized repeatedly, pizza continues to plague me in the most distressing ways.  Two bites and I'm finished.  I can't swallow pizza with any degree of comfort and if I become so bold as to try it shows me who the boss really is by coming right back up. Just to show pizza there are no hard feelings for causing me to throw up for a dozen years, I created this meatloaf to honor the flavors I love and miss so much.  I hope Rob and Cory enjoy it, because I can't eat meatloaf either.

Pizza Pizza Meatloaf  With Everything No Anchovies

1 pound ground beef
1 pound Jimmy Dean Italian pork sausage roll
a few shots of Worcestershire sauce
1/4 cup pepperoni slices, chopped

In an extra large mixing bowl, combine well and set aside.

3 slices bacon, diced
1/2 large white onion
1/2 green pepper
1 small hot pepper, minced (optional)
4 or more large cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 cup sliced black olives, drained
1-DR WT 4 oz. can Giorgio Chunky Style Portabella Mushrooms, drained

In a heavy skillet over medium high heat, cook the bacon until just about half-done. Add the onion and green pepper and cook a few minutes until the vegetables start to soften.  Add the hot pepper and garlic and cook about 5 minutes longer until the vegetables are tender, not brown; the bacon is cooked but not crisp; the garlic is fragrant.  Take off the heat and add the olives and mushrooms, then set aside to cool.

2 extra large eggs
1/4 cup cream
1 tablespoon grated Romano cheese
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 1/2 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1 teaspoon granulated garlic
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1/4 teaspoon sugar

Combine in a small mixing bowl and whisk gently with a fork.  Set aside to allow the herbs and spices to 'bloom'.

Once the vegetables are cooled to room temperature add them to the meat in the mixing bowl and use a wooden spoon to combine.  Next, add the egg, cream and spice mixture, and stir to distribute.

2 cups Italian seasoned panko bread crumbs

Add the panko, and with a spoon and/or your hands, work everything so that it holds together.  Spray a baking pan with Pam.  Form a loaf about the length of the baking pan (9 inches). Preheat the oven to 475 degrees.  Spray the top and sides of the meatloaf with Pam. Place the meatloaf in the 475 degree oven for 15 minutes, until the exterior is sealed from the heat.  Remove the meatloaf from the oven and lower the temperature to 350 degrees. Carefully pour off any accumulated fat in the pan.

1-14 oz. jar Classico Traditional Pizza Sauce

1-11 oz. package sliced mozzarella

While the temperature adjusts, spoon about 2/3rds of the pizza sauce over the meatloaf; return to the 350 degree oven and bake another 45 to 55 minutes, until the interior temperature is 150 degrees.  Remove the meatloaf from the oven and increase the temperature to 400 degrees. Spoon the remaining pizza sauce on top of the meatloaf, slide into the oven for 5 to 10 minutes.  Place slices of mozzarella over the sauce and bake just until the cheese is nicely melted.

By the way. Somewhere in the Great Afterlife, my grandmother is screaming at me: "oy vay, who eats something like that?" Sort of how she used to scream at Pop when he liberally peppered the chicken soup she had slaved over all day.  And yes, I did get my love of excess black pepper from my Pop. Just like I got my love of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cream cheese and jelly sandwiches from my grandmother, who prepared my school lunches every day until I started junior high.  What she could have never imagined is my preparing and eating a peanut butter, cream cheese and jelly sandwich for lunch.  That's strawberry preserves, by the way. Mom always used grape jelly, which I still love, but is too messy for my sixty-something sensibilities. Mom, I made it and I ate it and I'm glad. You were right about whipped cream and applesauce, but this is really really good.

(That last paragraph is what they call lagniappe down in the Big Easy - a little something extra. Have a good day everyone.)

                      

See You In September

It's been a while since I planted a happy snappy singing worm in your ear, so let's start this month off the right way:

See you in September

See you when the summer's through

Here we are (bye, baby, goodbye)

Saying goodbye at the station (bye, baby, goodbye)

Summer vacation (bye, baby bye, baby)

Is taking you away (bye, baby, goodbye)

Have a good time but remember

There is danger in the summer moon above

Will I see you in September

Or lose you to a summer love

(counting the days 'til I'll be with you)

(counting the hours and the minutes, too)

If you must know, September is one of my favorite months.  For one thing, I always started school in September, and I loved going back to school.  September, and more specifically the week after Labor Day, is when I started three (and possibly more) of the jobs I worked as an adult, including my time at Robert Hall, American Hull Insurance Syndicate, Alexander & Alexander, Part Deux, and the Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services. Big days for me, as I loved starting new jobs.  

The Jewish High Holy Days almost always fall out in September, and this year is no different: Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish Year 5776, begins at sundown September 13, and Yom Kippur at sundown on September 22.  I really like our High Holy Days; this is, after all, the beginning of our New Year, with all that implies - God's judgment of each of us; teshuvah (repentance), tefillah (prayer), and tzedakah (charity) to avert the severe decree; traditional foods like apples and challah dipped in honey to symbolize our hope for a sweet year, and salty foods like herring to get us to drink a lot of fluids after the Yom Kippur fast. 

This year Sukkot (Feast of Booths) also falls out in September, and this brings to mind my favorite story from The Year I Taught Hebrew School.  You have to understand that I had never gone to Hebrew school, and could not read Hebrew, having to rely on transliterations to pray, which I did not do all that much. Ethnically and culturally I was Brooklyn Jewish to my bone marrow, but almost completely non-observant.  Having undertaken the rather daunting task of raising a Jewish child, I had to become more than someone who could only recite the blessings over the Sabbath candles and challah because I had learned them at Jewish summer camps. So a number of years ago, I made the decision to make a decision about me and my religion, and I self-studied extensively. I also learned basic Hebrew from our Rabbi.  I determined that for the most part, I was philosophically aligned with Reform Judaism, and it was at our first Reform congregation that I did my teaching stint, working with the younger children regarding Jewish history, holidays, and the same basic Hebrew I'd learned not all that long ago.

Best sukkah EVER!!

Anyway, this is a Sukkot Story, and as it happened I was teaching the kids about this holiday, including the tradition of inviting honored ancestors into the sukkah, the temporary booth or hut constructed as yet another symbol of the holiday.  I had already taught them about the Jewish Patriarchs.  I asked them who might be invited into the sukkah, and then depending on their answers, my plan was to go over all the possibilities.  Well, the kids were pretty engaged, raising their hands and calling out names like Abraham, Moses, David and Jesus.

I guess I should have mentioned that fully half the children in my class came from "mixed" families - one parent Jewish, the other not.  Most of those children had Jewish mothers, which, according to Jewish Law meant they were Jewish even if their father happened to be the Archbishop of Canterbury. Oy, I'm telling this story and I realize I am about to get into Sensitive Topics.  Don't kill me because I'm honest, okay? A very few of those children had gentile mothers, and Jewish fathers, and herein lies the problem.

In the world in which I was raised, maternity was a matter of certainty while paternity was a matter of speculation. A child was Jewish if the mother was Jewish, because that is the only thing you could be sure of.  I realize science has brought us to a whole new way of thinking, but I'm going to ignore that philosophical discussion, at least for now.  In my world and in my family, Jew married Jew (except my late Uncle Marty; his mother, who was my grandmother-who-raised-me, never got over this) and that made things ever-so-easy.  As I got older, it was obvious that intermarriage numbers were rising dramatically, but still Jewish Law prevailed and told us who was who and who was a Jew. 

Let me interject that I continue to be a Reform Jew, and what I have always especially liked about the Reform movement is its open door policy of inclusion.  The first woman cantor, the first woman rabbi, the first acceptance and welcome of intermarried families and gay families, all championed by the Reform.

However, remembering that I am a child of the fifties, in my world the stay-at-home mother was primarily responsible for imbuing their children with religion.  For reasons that I shall leave as an exercise for the student, I still believe that is the best way to go. The Reform organizations had a different idea:

In 1983 the Central Conference of American Rabbis adopted the Resolution on Patrilineal Descent. According to this resolution, a child of one Jewish parent, who is raised exclusively as a Jew and whose Jewish status is "established through appropriate and timely public and formal acts of identification with the Jewish faith and people" is Jewish. These acts include entry into the covenant, acquisition of a Hebrew name, Torah study, bar/bat Mitzvah and confirmation. (taken from reformjudaism.org)

The problem, at least in this particular case, was that the non-Jewish mother had agreed to raise their child Jewish, but personally had no idea how to do so.  She had no plans to convert and from what I could see she was the primary child-rearing parent.  So my little student, his face bright with joy, wanted to invite Jesus into the sukkah, no doubt because his mother, who set the tone for how the household was run, along with all of his maternal relatives, praised Jesus as was to be expected. All together now:  Oy!

I did not want to hurt, or confuse, or insult this child, or his mother.  I was brought up to respect anyone who practiced their religion (caveat: I was to respect them, not marry them. My parents' open-mindedness went just so far.)  As far as the teaching gig, I was staying one step ahead of the kids and nothing in my teacher's manuals had prepared me for this.

After 20 years, I don't remember exactly what I said, but the main idea would have been that we all worship the same God, different religions in different ways.  I would have pointed out the similarities between Judaism and Christianity.  I would have spoken respectfully of Jesus and explained why we would not invite him to this particular party.  It must have worked, because there were no complaints from parents or the Board of Directors of the congregation.

So that is my sweet and funny Sukkot story.  I hope you enjoyed it.  As for me, I never taught Hebrew school again after that year.  I don't know what happened to that little boy, but I suspect he grew up in his mother's religion, and in my singular opinion, that's the way things should be.  Apparently I am a Reform Jew with Conservative bone marrow.  

This day, September 1st, marks the 24th anniversary of our move to Florida, the day we landed (literally) in Kissimmee to take up residence in an apartment while our first Hunter's Creek house was being built.  That's a long time ... an entire generation that we have spent in this nominally southern state.  I am no more a Floridian than Chris Christie. I sound like New York, I think like New York, and I react like New York. And yes, I love my bad attitude.

No cooking today. Cooking tomorrow.

Thou Shalt Not Be An Amoral Wretch - Sufferin' Succotash

By way of Greta Van Susteren: Three law enforcement officers executed in one week.  I hadn't been keeping count, but I knew, as does anyone who pays attention to something besides the antics of the repulsive Kardashian Klan, that there has been an epidemic of cop killings. If anyone knows why this is happening, now would be a good time to announce it to the world because really, this has to stop.  

I could blame it on President Obama or any number of public figures, but the truth is that there is something truly rotten in the fabric of society. President Obama's lack of support for law enforcement is a symptom, not the disease itself.  In this regard he is no different than a great number of people who were raised to fear or disrespect representatives of the law. And if I were to be totally honest, at this point it would not matter if he stood at the podium extolling the virtues of law enforcement and honoring those who have died in its service, because both the office of the presidency and the current occupant no longer garner respect from a majority.

Passing more and more restrictive laws is not the answer when neither Congress nor the criminal class respect the law.  Depending on people to do the right thing is hopeless when a vast majority of the world continues to engage in amoral thought and behavior.  Moral behavior does not depend on religious belief - atheists, agnostics, and those who believe outside of Judeo-Christian religions are perfectly capable of living moral and ethical lives - but organized religion does provide a reliable framework of right and wrong.  A hardcore atheist could (and does) ignore the first four of the Ten  Commandments, follow the remaining six and still be in pretty good shape, but I'm here to tell you that the believers are in as bad a position on those last six as the non-believers.

Let me give you the Jewish version of  "Ten Commandments, the Short Form":

1) I am the Lord thy God, who brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.

2) Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.

3) Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

4) Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.

5) Honor thy father and thy mother.

6) Thou shalt not murder.

7) Thou shalt not commit adultery.

8) Thou shalt not steal.

9) Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

10) Thou shalt not covet anything that belongs to thy neighbor.

Mel Brooks and the 15 Commandments

The world is in a sorry state, my friends, and that is about as philosophical as I can get on a Monday. I do, however, take the massacre of law enforcement officers quite personally (family members), just as I take anti-semitism personally.  There is a bigger picture, of course, beyond what is personal to each of us, and that requires us to be cognizant and considerate of each other and that is what I think is lacking the most.  

I am in pain - what else is new? - and the pain is distracting me from things I need to do.  It's the kind of pain that comes from a buzz saw cutting me, front to back, at the top of my ribs, through what used to be my stomach. It's a vicious mother, I cannot lie nor can I even wear a bra.  Since I won't leave the house without a bra, I have crawled back upstairs to my bed, with my books and a bowl of mashed potatoes.  I'm a damn sorry mess. I even thought I heard someone shoveling snow outside, using the kind of heavy coal shovel we used when I was a kid growing up in New York.  I actually peeked outside, ignoring the truth of the matter, which is that it is 84 degrees outside.  Chilly for Florida, but still not the type of weather to induce snowflakes to fall.  Someone was repairing a small patch of the road, making those scraping sounds by applying a heavy shovel to asphalt.  Pah! Snow would have been so much more interesting.

So I spent the day inside which gave me chance to thumb through the Nero Wolfe Cookbook. More about that later. I also checked on cooked food supplies and decided to pull out a tray of manicotti with sage cream sauce from the freezer, not knowing if I was going to feel well enough to tackle oxtails, cod fillets, or even a chicken.  I also decided to try to do something to revitalize the mock choux succotash, which had gone over like a lead balloon.  It was a vegetable side dish, which I keep trying to sneak in on the boys, but this time it didn't work.  Since I hate to waste perfectly good food, I set about chopping onions, bacon, and garlic, and sauteed them while cooking some boil-in-bag rice.  I also threw in a Scotch bonnet pepper, minced, and raided my garden for more okra, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and two Japanese eggplants, which I sliced and cooked separately.

Everything got combined and generously seasoned with salt, pepper, and Emeril's Cajun seasoning, then covered with foil and placed in the oven just long enough to warm up and make friends.  Between the rice and the spice, I think this time I got it.

Sheer Misery - Don't Try This At Home (Clam Croquettes)

A long, long time ago, when I was young and worked two jobs and went to night school in Brooklyn, I wore Sheer Energy pantyhose to help my overworked legs. I still don't know how I did it back then - eighty hours a week, half of those on my feet - but as I say, I was young and except for heart palpitations, morbid obesity and high cholesterol, a reasonably healthy individual. These days I am old and decrepit and I haven't worn pantyhose since March 2, 2015, but if I did, they would likely be called Sheer Misery, and would not help me one whit. I have reached the point where I believe I am beyond help.

Not a great harvest today

The Clam Croquettes are also beyond help, I regret to report to my cooking audience, whoever you might be.  I suspect that the texture of the flaked tuna fish in the original recipe helped to keep the mixture from disintegrating in the frying pan.  As it is, all but one of the nine croquettes dissolved, and in giving up their corporeal existence released a great deal of liquid to the pan. The resultant splattering was intense and probably created some kind of record for spitting distance by a hot liquid. But the greatest disappointment is not that I expect to have to still be cleaning up at midnight, or that I am going to have blisters and welts all over my arms from being pelted by hot oil drops. Rather, I am aggravated about the croquette fail because the mixture was so delicious, so blissfully seasoned and balanced, that I was really looking forward to eating the damn things.  With tartar sauce and real lemon quarters to squeeze over the perfect crispness.

I have a few ideas as to what would alleviate the croquettes' tendency to give up the ghost upon being immersed in 350 degree oil.  Me and my ideas, right?  I'm not sure if or when I'll get around to trying them, as The Nero Wolfe Cookbook with its two different clam cake recipes is arriving tomorrow, but here they are anyway; first, I would advise very strongly NOT to try the original recipe at home.  I can assure you there is going to be a horrid mess and the real possibility of injury from flying canola oil.  With the changes I'm considering - well, I would still hold off until I get a chance to try them, here in the Inspiration Nation Kissimmee Test Kitchen.  Really, I'm quite serious, as I do not want anyone to get hurt.

2-6.5 oz. cans chopped clams, drained, clam juice retained
4 tablespoons (half stick) butter
4 tablespoons (1/4 cup) all purpose flour
1 cup of the saved clam juice
1 teaspoon parsley flakes
1/2 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning
1/2 teaspoon dried chives
1/4 teaspoon white pepper
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
dash of cayenne pepper

dry, unseasoned bread crumbs
kosher salt
black pepper

Prepare a roux from the butter and flour.  Add the clam juice and whisk over heat until the mixture bubbles and thickens.  Remove from the heat.  Stir in the parsley, Old Bay, chives, white pepper, black pepper, and cayenne.  Stir in the drained clams.  Place the mixture in the refrigerator for about an hour.

Prepare the breading by mixing the bread crumbs, salt and pepper in a flat dish. Heat about an inch of canola oil in a heavy skillet to 350 degrees. With a medium scoop, scoop up some of the clam mixture and drop gently into the bread crumbs.  With a fork flatten a bit and then turn the croquette over.  Repeat to ensure the croquette is well-coated in crumbs.

If I ever try these again, I'm going to add a lightly beaten egg or two to the clam mixture after it cools down a bit and also coat the croquettes by dipping them in flour, egg, and then the bread crumbs. Someday.

They Call Him Mister Pibb

Hum.  Well, I was reading a Nero Wolfe mystery, and Archie Goodwin mentioned that he and Wolfe were about to be served fried shrimps and clam cakes, prepared by the incomparable Fritz Brenner. Next thing I know, I'm switching gears from Kindle to Safari so I can search for clam cake recipes.  Did I mention that I've been feeling sick to my stomach this morning?  Yes, so I can't imagine how I found the idea of food attractive, but fried seafood sets my heart aflutter, and I was pretty sure one can make a decent clam cake from canned clams.

I always roar at the contestants on Guy's Grocery Games who, being restricted to canned foods or some other fillip thrown in to make their food preparation more challenging, sniff and turn up their noses, complaining, "I never use canned goods!"  Oh please, you snippy little yuppie larvae ... don't tell me you don't use canned tomatoes or canned pumpkin!  Real people use canned goods.  Bobby Flay uses canned pumpkin, for heaven's sake.  I keep a variety of canned fish in the house - tuna, salmon, sardines, clams, and even crabmeat.  I grew up eating tuna fish sandwiches and chances are so did you. There is nothing wrong with tuna fish in a can that can't be cured with a couple of tablespoons Hellmann's Real Mayonnaise.  Canned corn is better than frozen. Yes, fresh corn is best but I never got any complaints about my corn fritters and they are made with the canned stuff.

Canned clams happen to be a pretty good product, and a lot easier to find than 4 dozen cherrystone clams, especially in Central Florida.  A good white clam sauce - mine, for instance - calls for both canned and fresh little neck clams.  Guess what? In my opinion, you can't make a decent white clam sauce without canned clams. My research shows that clam cakes can go either way.  I have a feeling Fritz Brenner used fresh clams, but then I would expect him too.  So would Wolfe.

I have an idea for a recipe to make clam cakes, quite a bit different than what I am finding online which all sound like pancake batter with clams dumped into it. but my curiosity remains unabated, so I just ordered the Nero Wolfe Cookbook, which is way out of print, but isn't everything available through Amazon?

I do think that's one of my best run-on sentences of all time.

My idea is based on one of my oldest and least-utilized recipes, this one for tuna croquettes.  I think the last time I prepared them was before Cory was born, or maybe a year or so after.  He's twenty-eight.  I had every intention of trying out my idea using clams, but on our way to CVS my back and the back of my head and shoulders crashed.  No clam cakes or croquettes, and no cat today. I could have had me a kitten, but fibromyalgia won.  Today, at least, I have no energy to cook and no energy to introduce a new kitten to our pack.  Never thought that would ever happen.

First Ira

The cats were being BOGO'ed at Petco, where we had stopped to pick up Chelsea's eye wash.  Oy! Not one but three boy tabbies looking oh so adoptable! And of course I had to look. And pet. And otherwise interact. And ultimately walk away because a new kitten (or two) is a lot of work and I wasn't even up to making a couple of clam cakes.

Second Ira

First I met Leonardo and DaVinci, two gray and black mackerel tabby brothers.  Leonardo was a doppelgänger of the Second Ira, while DaVinci clearly resembled the First Ira with his milk paws and other white markings. Leonardo was the front man while DaVinci napped at the back of the cage.  Imagine having both of them!  But I had raised twins before, Dora and Deety, and it is more than double the work. So I moved on to another cage which contained Sprite and Mr. Pibb, also alleged to be related although Sprite was a smooth orange tabby, while Mr. Pibb was a First Ira - gray and black mackerel tabby with quite a lot of white on his chin and chest. I caught his eye, and I could see he was following my movements back and forth.  He really liked my hat. And Robert was amenable, if that was what I really wanted.

There comes a time in every pet lover's life when you realize you can't take it anymore.  Not necessarily the care and vet and all the responsibilities that go with being owned by a cat or dog, but the terrible toll the loss of the pet takes on you.  I have outlived 10 cats and 2 dogs, holding most of them in my arms as they died.  I still have 4 dogs and 1 cat in my care, and at this point it is becoming a crapshoot as to who is going to outlive who.  Even the Queen of England has announced that she will not be bringing any more corgis into Buckingham Palace.  My friend Terry, one of the world's greatest pet lovers has made the same decision regarding cats and dogs.  For the first time in the many years that I know her, there are no cats in her house, and a greatly reduced number of dogs.

But I have been known to act foolishly in the face of all these inner arguments; this time, however, fibromyalgia won. Standing there in Petco, all I wanted to do was go home and lie down in my own bed.  Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Pibb.
        

I Found My Thrill, Part Deux - Anawana Orange and Blueberry Muffins

Yesterday was an okay day, productive even.  But here is the curse of fibromyalgia: today already sucks. August 28th will always be a sucky day, but this particular August 28th even more so because it hurts to stand up and my brain, she is foggy.

Today is my Pop's birthday, and if had lived - oh, if only he had lived! - he would be 107 years old, not an impossible number these days.  Today is also my first Ira's birthday, and he would have been 39, which is sort of an impossible age for a cat.   But still, birthdays are happy occasions, and so the memories are bittersweet.  Next to me, Pop was the first Ira's favorite human in the whole world, so it is sweet that they shared the day.

We Jews have something called a yahrzeit, the remembrance of the anniversary of a loved one's death. As it happens, tomorrow will be my mother Joyce's yahrzeit (August 24th would have been her 84th birthday) but today is the first anniversary of my second Ira's passing. There is no reason why a Jewish cat should not have a yahrzeit, and this is his.  Yahrzeits are never happy nor even bittersweet.  They bring sad memories and they hurt, damn it.

August 20th was the yahrzeit for my father Mike, but that's not one that affects me in any way, save a feeling of mild regret.  Oh, my scattered and shattered family ties, what grief you have brought me!

Yes it's true, I have a great deal more feeling for Ira than the father I barely remember.  Ira's death, and the night and day that preceded it, are stuck in my head.  So many of my pets had crossed the Rainbow Bridge in a short period of time; I had lost my little girl Athene less than a year before, and before that my poor Zebbie, my orange twins Dora and Deety, my precious Emeril, and the list goes on.  Too many in too short a period of time.  That stress, and the monumental blow from losing my oldest and dearest friend Bethe in February 2013, had fractured my personal infrastructure.  Those last days with Ira, the seismic seizures, the cancer diagnosis, the massive doses of  phenobarbital I had to administer to him, the look on my vet's face and the look on Ira's face, at the end ... well.  I was telling you why August 28th sucks, and now you know.

Oh ha! here's a good one - now my right arm, which daily bears the brunt of being a cane-holder, is protesting the assignment.  Crap. Look, I gotta use a cane. I gotta hold the cane. I am an unrepentant rightie, no ambidexterous talents in this decrepit little body. And now, because fibromyalgia is a harsh mistress, my upper right appendage, from fingertip to shoulder, hurts like hell.

Let's talk about my childhood.  Not the bad parts, you get enough of that when I'm in drama queen mode.  No, there were good parts, irregular like certain verbs, but good nonethless.  My favorite memories - besides eating, shopping for food with my grandmother in Waldbaums, going to restaurants to do more eating, and spending time with my cousin Cary and brother Elliot - were the summers I went to the ubiquitous sleepaway camps of upstate New York (everything north of the Bronx is upstate, by the way), and the best of those were the three years I went to Camp Anawana in Monticello.  The reason I bring this up is to segue into today's recipe for Anawana Orange and Blueberry Muffins, a first cousin of my Monticello Blueberry Muffins from a few months ago.

Apparently everything is on the internet these days, including a picture of me from 1961.  I was scrolling through some sites dedicated to Anawana alumni and nearly jumped out of my skin because  even from a small thumbnail on the screen knew who a certain chubby kid was.  I remember the picture, and probably have it tucked away with others my parents collected from those summers, but this one, with the bright orange and blue banner, is positively iconic.  I have good memories - this was pre-adolescence, before the Dark Times, before I became a moody teenager.

Anyway, I always associate blueberries with my summers in Monticello, and when I had a brainstorm regarding the use of the orange cake mix and dried blueberries in my pantry, Anawana came to mind. Our camp colors were orange and blue (no kidding) which made it practically impossible to conform to the dress code, so to speak, because orange is an odd color and solid orange clothing difficult to find.  Fortunately blue and white was an acceptable substitute.

Orange is my second least favorite color, but it is my favorite fruit. I am crazy for citrus in general, and orange in particular and I kept trying to come up with a recipe to incorporate the orange cake mix for at least a week.  Even if you never went to summer sleepaway camp, you will love these muffins.

1 box Duncan Hines Orange Supreme cake mix

1 teaspoon baking powder

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2/3 cup sour cream 

1/3 cup canola oil

3 large eggs

1-3.5 oz. bag Mariani wild blueberries (these are in the dried fruit section)

1 cup Kellogg's Cracklin' Oat Bran cereal, crushed

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Wipe the top of the muffin pan with a paper towel sprayed with Pam. Place a paper liner into each muffin cup.  

In a large bowl, combine the dry cake mix, baking powder, flour, sour cream, oil, and eggs, and stir together with a wooden spoon; don't worry if there are some lumps left.  Fold in the blueberries very gently with a spatula.  Let the batter sit for five or six minutes, then use the spatula to fold a few more times.

Scoop into the lined muffin cups, dividing the batter evenly between the cups.  Sprinkle some of the crushed cereal on top of each muffin, gently pressing in to the batter.  Bake for 21 minutes in the preheated oven.  Let cool a few minutes, then remove the muffins to a metal rack to cool completely.

Makes 12 muffins.

Madness and Anarchy - That Cabbage Soup

Is it something in the water?  Eating too much GMO or fast food?  Too much ADHD medication as a child? I am referring to what feels like an almost daily assault on the senses as young and not-so-young men go on murderous rampages. Strangers, ex-coworkers, police officers, neighbors, schoolchildren. The latest was the videotaped shooting of a reporter and a camera man in Virginia.  Apparently the killer, who later saved the state a whole lot of money and shot himself to death, had carefully planned and publicized the event. Why? He was, by all reports, a very angry man. Resentful. Litigious. Confrontational. And now, as we know, murderous.  He wrote that the massacre in the South Carolina church was the last straw, the thing that set him off for the last time.

Some people are saying he was crazy.  Sorry, I've seen crazy and he wasn't crazy. Mean, nasty, hateful, but not crazy.  No excuses there. Did he have a sense of entitlement that wasn't being satisfied?  I don't know, I have no answers, but I don't like it at all. So many people to whom the rule of law and basic morals no longer matter.  No one is in charge, no one is in control.  We are living in a dystopia of our own crafting.

So many murders this past year.  Is it a global societal phenomenon we have to learn to live with? Or does it seem more prevalent and widespread because social media is a virus that spreads the news faster than Fox, speedier than CNN, and with more information than MSNBC?

This is madness. This is anarchy. The world is falling apart while our leaders, our elected officials, the celebrities we listen to, are acting on their pedophilic wet dreams. Some beat on their wives while others cheat on their wives, and the cheating is planned on the government's time clock.  Crap. I could go on, but let me end this rant in the best way I know how: What the fuck is happening here?

I want soup.  I love my egg drop soup from China King because it doesn't have a lot of stuff in it to get stuck in my throat.  Can't eat egg drop soup all the time, and most of my soup recipes have stuff in them.  Chunks of vegetables, slices of spicy sausage, bodacious beans and plenty of pasta.  Delicious but likely to cause me to give it right back.

So in my head I got stuck on that old-fashioned cabbage soup that used to form the basis of this crazy diet that must be one of the only diets I was never on.  But we had a similar soup recipe out of Weight Watchers, and God and Jean Nidetch know that I've been on that diet since Broadway was a prairie.  Both versions were cabbage vegetable soups, no beef, nothing like my mother's sweet and sour Jewish cabbage soup but delicious in its own way, and totally customizable.  And since I am trying to achieve a thinner, non-chunky soup, I chose fresh vegetables that given time and heat will cook down nice and soft. It helped that they were all precut and prepackaged from the Publix produce section.

To start, I sprayed my 6 quart crock pot with Pam, and added about 3 tablespoons of butter, one large white onion, thinly sliced, and half of a pound bag of cole slaw mix.  I set it on low, and left it overnight, starting at around 10:15.  The idea is to get some depth of flavor from caramelization.  I have caramelized onions in a crockpot several time before, but the cabbage was a new idea.  

I checked on it around 5:30, and it was just barely south of some of the cabbage getting burnt, damn it.  So I fished out some of the darker pieces and kept the rest, which was still sweet.  I'd have to say 4 to 6 hours would have been plenty`but I'm going to work with what I've got.

To the cooked onions and cabbage in the crockpot I added:

1-28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
the remaining cole slaw mix, about 1/2 pound
1 package (a little over 3/4 pound) precut peppers and onions
1 large stalk celery, chopped
4 cups unsalted chicken stock
1 package (a little under a pound precut new potatoes, onion, and carrots
2 teaspoons (about 4 cloves) minced garlic
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon granulated garlic
1 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon ground sage
4 cups vegetable juice, plus more as needed (V-8 comes in a 46 oz. bottle)

When it came to the precut vegetables, I wanted them even smaller, so I took out my trusty santoku knife and whittled them down to size, especially the carrots. If you want to leave them chunky, that's fine. It only took me a few minutes to place the vegetables on a cutting board and chop them somewhat smaller (oh yeah, I got a very sharp chef's knife and I know how to use it). By the time I got everything in the crockpot, it was 6:30, so I covered it and plan to let it continue to cook on low for 8 hours while I move on with the rest of my day.  I love my crockpots, all four of them.

After two hours, I add several freshly-harvested okra pods that I sliced kind of thin (for okra), as well as a green plum tomato that had been knocked off the tomato plant by this morning's early rain storm.  It looked like a flat pear, rather than a plum, but I chopped it anyway and threw it in.  After four hours, I re-seasoned the soup with half the amount of each spice in the list of ingredients, including the sugar and the minced garlic (I'm using a squeeze tube of garlic for this).  I also added a little more of the vegetable juice.  I ate half of a very freshly-baked orange and blueberry muffin (quality control, you know) but that's another blog post.

Sneak peek. Wait for it ...

I'm holding the baby spinach till the home stretch. After the library, after lunch.

Now at hour seven, I threw in the last ingredient - several big handfuls of hand-torn baby spinach.  The spinach will wilt and does add a certain bitterness which I offset with a few pinches of sugar.  You can always leave the spinach out; the soup is good either way.

And now the great reveal: In the end, I had to pull some rabbits out of my chef's hat to make it delicious (and it is. Was.)  In retrospect, the spinach was a bad idea.  The soup tasted better, and brighter, before I added it.  I had to fiddle with the soup. which had gone flat.  I know, I'm fussy and I'm also my own worst critic, but I had Robert's help on this and he agreed something was missing. Sugar, lemon juice, more salt, Worcestershire sauce, the remaining vegetable juice and Knorr beef bouillon cubes were added in succession, and we tasted and re-tasted until it was good.  So next time, I will start with 4 cups of beef stock rather than chicken, plus 2 Knorr beef bouillon cubes, and I will leave out the spinach at the end. Oh, and if the precut vegetable packages include baby carrots, skip them and chop up a couple of regular carrots instead.  They cook up softer and sweeter.

Serve hot with garlic cheese biscuits. Pass grated cheese at the table to sprinkle on top of each portion.

Just a day - an Apple a day

Not a bad day, not a good day.  Just a day like many others, when it's tough to get out of bed (it doesn't help that the bedroom floor slants precariously) and the pain in my back and right arm reminds me of things I'd rather not be reminded of.

Yesterday I did a lot, perhaps more than I should have.  There are so many other things I have to do - some of them are long-term projects that will give me something to do during my unintentional retirement. My garden is crying out for some serious attention, but the state of my back, and the dog days of August, are slowing me down. Others are the short-term, gotta-do-them-today sorts of projects that stress me out, like driving to the office by myself to finish the packing, and putting together my appeal of the the disability rejection.

What I really want to do today is mix up a batch of Mild Jamaican Jolt to replace what I used up during yesterday's mad smoking session, try a new cookie recipe, and maybe sit still long enough to do some knitting.  What I have to do is get my ass, and my rolls of bubble wrap, over to the office.


Speaking of stress, I just got a weather pop-up advising that Hurricane Erika is expected to reach Florida on Friday, two days from now.  Well, crap. Just yesterday I was standing on the back porch, mourning the loss of so many of the beautiful trees that graced our streets before the hell that was Hurricane Charley and his two evil female companions, Frances and Jeanne.

Jamaican Jolt Dry Rub for those with a delicate palate and a short memory: 

2/3 cup dark brown sugar, packed

1/4 cup kosher salt

1/4 cup freeze dried chives

2 tablespoons coarse black pepper

2 tablespoons onion powder

2 tablespoons granulated garlic

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste

1 tablespoon dried thyme

2 1/2 teaspoons ground allspice

2 teaspoons ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 teaspoons dried ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

When all is said and done, I crossed my Rubicon and lived.  It took six months, four different medications and a dry run on Sunday, and I finally made it to the office, during office hours.  Did some more packing and communed happily with my peeps, who I have missed very much.  One more trip and it will all be done. If somebody says "closure", I will have to cyber-slap you upside the head.  Call it evolution, call it progress, but don't call it closure. Thank you. 

Most of us know what a smart phone (smartphone?) is and probably own one of the many available models. I would now like you to view this picture of a stupid phone (or stupidphone).

No, that's not a Star Trek flippy-phone communicator; it is an AT&T "Go Phone", my bridge to the future, which should arrive around 3 weeks from now.  I am an iPhone sort of gal, and even after Robert and Cory switched to their Galaxies, I stayed true to Apple. Which is kind of weird, since I've never owned or even used an Apple computer. Well, after almost 3 years my iPhone battery sputtered and died.  Requiescat in pace.  Apparently you can't switch out an iPhone battery, so there's a new phone on the horizon.  Unfortunately, timing sucks, because the new iPhone model is due out momentarily and if I have to put down $200 for a new old phone, I'd rather wait a few weeks and put the same $200 down for a new new phone.  

Now, I am not one of those frakking idiots who can't go to the bathroom unless they are talking on the phone glued to the side of their head.  Walking across a 4-lane highway? Phone glued to the head.  Driving at 75 mph down the Florida Turnpike? Phone glued to the head. No, that's not me; besides that bathroom thing grosses me out more than I can express.  I have always disliked telephones, long before they got smart. But damn it, Jim, even I need a phone to receive any calls or texts from my husband, son, doctors, pharmacy or even the occasional stranger bearing good news.

Turns out AT&T has the answer - this cheap little "go phone" which will serve my basic phone needs, utilizing my own phone number, until that day Apple announces the release of their newest model.  Genius.  I like genius.  I like the young lady at the AT&T store in Kissimmee, across from the Loop, who has helped us repeatedly.  So instead of minor despair, I just saved $150.  That's better than a slap in the face with a wet flounder.

So like I said at the beginning, not a bad day.  Maybe even a good day.