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.

One Crazy Cat Lady, One Crazy Cat - About Barbecue

Hello, my name is Cindy and I am a Crazy Cat Lady.  At least I used to be.  At one time I lived with 7 or maybe it was 9 cats in addition to 2 or maybe 4 Yorkies.  I can't keep track anymore.  Right now, I am down to one cat and definitely 4 Yorkies.  But that doesn't change the fact that at heart, I am and always shall be a CCL.

I wonder if there is some omen involving the appearance of two cats at different times on the same day.  One was a gorgeous ginger that the Doctor would envy, and the other was a tabby with the strangest markings I have ever seen - the head, shoulders, and front legs were grey and black mackerel tabby markings, while the rest was bold classic tabby with wide stripes and the telltale "bullseye" on the side.  It looked like the head of my first cat Ira and the back of my third cat Dora, crazy-glued together.

Official Office Cat

What was odd, besides the grey tabby's markings, was that they were there at all.  We simply do not have stray cats hanging out around here anymore, and I can't remember how long it's been since a cat strolled across my property.  Not that I don't welcome them - in fact, we used to welcome them too much, leaving food for them, inviting them into the office for a visit, even for a while trapping-neutering-returning them (that was actually Maria's hard work), and finally adopting some of them.  They hung out around here, much to the distress of a certain mean-spirited neighbor, who called Animal Control because of the "feral" beasts.  We weren't the only office feeding the cats, but it was one of our mama cats who got trapped.  We convinced the Nice Lady from Animal Control to return Nala to us, and she became an inside cat. Nala, not the Nice Lady.  She became an Official Office Cat, and Maria stopped by here every weekend to leave her food.  Only one of my clients didn't like her (Nala, not Maria), and I had a lot of clients back then.

A Ginger and a Mackerel Tabby

The ginger was an orange tabby with golden brown eyes. James found her trying to check out our storage closet in the back of the house, so he picked her up and brought her in.  It was clear to all of us that she was not feral, and obviously attached to a person or property, so we released her.  I raised two oranges, and they are sweet cats, but we don't really need another pet, and she did not appear to need us.  I think she may have a relationship with my neighbors to the east, and if so, she is already being well-cared for.

El Exigente

That crazy-quilt grey tabby was hanging out in my parking lot when I came out for my walk last evening. It would not let me get close to it, but it also did not run away.  Me and my cane like to walk around the block, and when I got within sight of my back door, I could see that the cat was still hanging out.  I tried to entice it closer, but that kitteh wasn't having any of it.  When I got back inside the house, Anakin was sitting quite close to the door, giving me the eye.  I gave him my best Bill Clinton defense ("I did not pet that cat") and all is well.

Highlander Cat - "In the end, there can be only one."

And now, from the "Aw geez, not again" department here at Inspiration Nation, comes the report that Jeff Ashton, the Orange-Osceola State Attorney who came to fame as part of the Casey Anthony prosecution team, accessed the Ashley Madden site. From a personal computer, utilizing public wi-fi ... while sitting in his office.  What this whole Ashley Madden scandal shows - the site was hacked and names started coming to light, including Josh Duggar, another high-profile admitted sex offender - is that there are an extraordinary number of sick, twisted adults in this world (PC alert) and the majority of them are men.  Sorry, but that's the truth.  I am not unaware of the number of females who engage in similar behavior - too many young teachers and their underage male students come to mind - but for pure, down-in-the-mud dirty rotten behavior, men take the cake, especially men in positions of power.  What the hell is this all about?

Best - Cat - Ever

Two things come to mind - unfortunately for him, Jeff Ashton is going to have to resign.  Although he has given the standard line "this is a personal matter" he is a public official and there is an appearance of impropriety.  That, my friends, is the phrase that paves the way to unemployment.  He could probably ride it out, but his effectiveness as a prosecutor has been impaired in the public eye. Besides, the police union is gunning for him now, and there will be the never-ending investigations.

Second, Orange County Mayor Teresa Jacobs wins the award for most quotable statements arising from this sorry mess: she told our local Fox News that "he has to answer to his family, to his faith, and to this community." But my favorite statement from my (former) mayor is that she admitted she was unaware of Ashley Madden and thought it was a lingerie site.  Me too, Teresa!

I am treating myself to a slow-paced cooking day. Tomorrow is soon enough to tackle the remaining packing up at the office, and I have another day or so to construct the appeal of the state's rejection of my application for disability.  There is, after all, just so much my head and my heart can take before my circuits overload.  So I am pleased to announce that the pork shoulder has been smoking since 10 am and the whole bologna went on about 11:30.  It doesn't appear that I can smoke the chicken wings at the same time due to space constraints, but once the bologna comes off, the wings go in. Time enough for smoke love. And to do a load of dishes.

I am perfuming the neighborhood, which includes the courthouse. I hope it makes some folks smile.

Now as far as recipes are concerned:  smoking, grilling, and barbecue in general are very personal matters, more personal than Jeff Ashton's ill-fated subscription to the Ashley Madison site.  Coming from the northeast, I did not know diddly about real barbecue until I moved south.  The very nature of barbecue is affected by region, type of smoker, size, shape and temperature of the meat to be smoked, the weather, the pitmaster's mood, and your horoscope.  Then there are the matters of rubs, injections, mops and sauces. Do you remove the membrane on the back of the ribs?  Should you slather mustard on a pork shoulder so that the spice rub adheres better?  Should you inject the meat? There are a trillion recipes online, several million cookbooks, and whole cable networks devoted to the fine art of barbecue.  Rob and I wait for the new season of BBQ Pitmasters with the same enthusiasm with which we wait for Doctor Who or basketball season. When we are on the road, we check out as many barbecue joints as possible, and hope we are catching them when the moon is in the seventh house.  We've gotten really bad 'cue in a really good place (Central BBQ in Memphis) and really great BBQ from a place in a strip mall (Thompson Brothers in Smyrna, right outside Atlanta).

And now the really big question - should I wrap the pork in foil, and if so, when?

What it comes down to is this - good barbecue is whatever you like it to be.  Being a northern girl and a BBQ novice, I would not presume to tell you how to make great 'cue.  I can tell you what I did, but I also fiddled with the heat and smoke during the day and made other adjustments as needed.  And while everything turned out really good, delicious even, I wouldn't call it great (but then I tend to be my own worst critic).

Go online or to the library and look at some of the barbecue cookbooks out there. Steve Raichlan is my go-to guy for instructions and recipes but there are a lot of published pitmasters out there. But if you want to know: I mocked  up a smoker in a gas grill; I smoked at 250 to 275 degrees.  With the pork shoulder, I injected apple cider and then sprayed the pork every hour with a mixture of apple cider and a touch of apple cider vinegar.  I used yellow mustard on the outside, and two different rubs.  I used an instant read thermometer and cooked to 180 degrees (I should have gone a little higher, but it was getting dark out there). I wrapped at 165 degrees. I used both hickory and apple wood.  I pulled part of it and sliced the other part. I tasted it with and without sauce and it was good both ways.

Now while the grill was running those 11 hours I also smoked whole chicken wings, and finished them with buffalo sauce, and I finally smoked that bologna.  I had quite a learning experience today, and ended up with enough food for a week.  Maybe more. And I had fun, which has been in short supply.  I also did my cardio walking to and from the grill 11 times to spray the pork.  Hey, maybe I'll sleep well tonight!

Finished wings

Pulling the  pork with two forks

Pulled and sliced

An Election, A Rejection, and Fried Okra

I wonder what it is like to see the entire political landscape in all black-and-white.  Is there really such a creature as a true liberal or conservative?  What brought up this question was a Facebook posting by an old friend, wearing a Hillary for President tee shirt and holding  a Stand With Planned Parenthood bumper sticker.  Maybe it's my adult attention deficit disorder, but I can't settle on one clear political path or the other. Whenever I registered for one political party, I always ended up voting for the major candidate from the other. I finally threw up my hands and went the Independent route, which is thankfully not a real party here in Florida.

Voted for both of them (twenty years apart) while registered to their opposition party. Confused, I am.

I mean ... sometimes I really like Hillary but there are days I would gladly vote for Mike Huckabee or Donald Trump.  And I've previously subjected you all to my views on women's rights, abortion after the first trimester, the death penalty, and Planned Parenthood, and I am all over the place, I know. And just to be clear, I'm not targeting liberals or Democrats or even socialists like Bernie Sanders. My conservative friends can be just as focused a
nd single-minded in their beliefs.  I just wonder what it feels like to be totally devoted to one party.  I've never been there, even on my first go around in 1972, so it's not like I've evolved or something.  Confused, maybe but not evolved.

Today (Sunday) I managed to accomplish something, a big something for me.  I made it to the office and cleared out, not all, but about two-thirds of my stuff. Maybe three-quarters. Rob and Cory were with me and helped with packing, plus did all the heavy carrying.  I left the Magic Cookie Bars where they would be found (I told you they weren't for home) and also left the finished Pandora knock-off bracelets I'd offered to fix for Terry and Brenda quite a while ago.  I felt good about the whole thing.  I will go back tomorrow or Wednesday, when the lawyers are not tied up in court with Attila the Hun, and finish the packing, turn in my keys and phone, and finally say adios.  This is such a huge thing for me - it probably sounds silly, but I have been emotionally frozen and it took my going in on a Sunday, with both my boys, to break that ice even a little bit.

Monday I got my disability rejection letter from the Division of Retirement folks in Tallahassee, and their letter was nicer than the dismissal letter that was generated locally.  Someone in their office should give letter-writing lessons to someone in Orlando.  I was expecting the initial rejection, as both of my doctors were - how shall I say this delicately? - less than helpful.  I will appeal it, and the appeal allows me to, in effect, introduce all the evidence I was restrained from providing the first time.  I also sent in the initial documents to the Social Security advocate, including an agreement for representation.  Let's hope I can hold myself together long enough to follow through.  On bad days, I am useless, to myself and others.

Having said all that, the pain is getting worse, and more frequent. Having picked up the spare cane I left in the office, I am now leaving it in the car.  Although I try, I really can't be without it.  Even cooking is become more difficult for me, as I cannot stand for any length of time.  I also can't sit for any length of time (same problem - it triggers pain) so I am constantly jumping up, and that has negatively impacted my knitting.

I finally collected enough pods off of my okra bush to justify heating up enough cooking oil to fry the little darlings.  Tonight I sort of forced myself to do the frying, even though my back is breaking, by dumping the remaining buttermilk over the pods.  No choice but to coat them, fry them, and ask Robert to taste test them.  He said they were good, and crunchy.

There is nothing magical about frying okra. The method is quintessentially southern: soak the whole pods in buttermilk (I added Crystal hot sauce) for a while.  Combine equal amounts flour and cornstarch and season the flour mixture with salt, pepper, and anything else you like.  Dredge the okra in the flour, and fry in 350 degree oil.  Drain, salt, and eat.  Here's a link to the recipe I used. I happened to notice nice bags of fresh whole okra in Publix, just in case you don't have a 6 foot okra bush in your yard.  I like to dip them in a horseradish sauce, but the lady at the link recommends malt vinegar, like for fried fish.

I'm still working on those smoked meats. But when it's 100 degrees, I tend to think twice about lighting up the grill, especially when I can stay in my air conditioned house and work on my disability paperwork. What a great choice.

Well, Hello Dollies - Magic Cookie Bars

My new pretty girl, and she's wearing a red ribbon

I've bought a lot of cars in my long and evil life, but buying the Escape was the best experience yet.  I will tell you we bought the car from Kisselback Ford in St. Cloud, and our salesman's name is Jim. Excellent salesman, had a "just folks" approach that was so much better than the hard sell.  (Not like the time I had to drive off the lot at a certain Kia dealer in Orlando to get away from a gaggle of salespersons clinging to the bumper of my car.)  Very professional and pleasant staff in the business office. As I say, a good experience at Kisselback.

Tap the picture for your daily ear worm

The only thing that was weird - funny-weird, not bad weird - was the number of people who came forward to shake our hands, congratulate us on our purchase, and thank us for our business.  It was like a reception line at a wedding, except nobody kissed me, which was fine.  Unfortunately, we were standing outside, it was 101 degrees in the shade, and I was leaning on my cane for dear life.  I was ready to call it quits after meeting the owner Bobby Kisselback (if you are a local, you've seen him on the TV ads and you are now going to have to endure a wicked ear worm from the jingle), but he brought his whole staff with him.  Nice man, nice staff, nice car. Great air conditioning.

I moved the stuff I'd cleared out of the late, lamented Expedition into the Escape, and was reminded of what a sentimental fool I am.  What absolutely HAD to be placed in the new car: a red ribbon (actually two); the little brown bear Donna Dorer gave me about 12 years ago; the 18 cents my mother-in-law always puts in the glove compartment of our new cars; the hand knit sweater and little shirt Tuffy was wearing when we took him to the vet for the last time; and the Mardi Gras beads Dave Abercrombie brought me back from New Orleans a good long while ago. Now I can drive the Escape without fear of marauding deer.

The only part of me left in the Expedition were two artificial poppies, one on each visor:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

So my first "new car" project was set for today, to clear out my office at DCF.  But things aren't happening the way we planned, ha ha.  I got an email late yesterday from Brenda, letting me know that the empty cartons she had so carefully collected for my use had been co-opted, or recollected or maybe it was recycled by persons unknown - in any event, they are gone. Rob and I started scraping up boxes and cartons, only to discover the dogs had made a statement and peed on most of the plastic boxes.  Instant clean-up job needed.  They are drying on the front porch as we speak.  And then, Robert is on his way to pick up his Mom, and Cory is working a birthday party, and I still can't do this alone.  Let us wait ... I'm good with that anyway.  Not enough sleep and I forgot to take my medication until just now, which means I was late for a very important date.  Miss the meds, feel like hell.  Even when I take the meds I feel like hell; apparently, after 33 years on the same medication, my heart palpitations have decided to make an unwanted reappearance.  I guess that's so I don't dwell on the back pain too much, but ha, that doesn't work.

Robert has returned, but so have the monsoons.  We are clearly not going to get the move done today, but tomorrow is another day.  Thank you Margaret Mitchell.  Frankly I don't give a damn.  You all know I am not looking forward to this trip to the office anyway.

He's baaaaack!

I did manage to bake Something Good: I've always known them as Seven Layer Bars, and Magic Cookie Bars, which is how they appear on the back of the box of graham cracker crumbs, but they are also known by the much more lyrical title of "Hello Dollies." They are ridiculously easy, incredibly customizable, and outrageously good. There are a million variations; just check Google.

The "magic" comes from that most amazing ingredient, sweetened condensed milk, the very same stuff that makes a real Florida key lime pie so good.  Besides the key lime juice, of course.  The Dollies have two or more kinds of chips, sweetened coconut, and, barring any allergies, nuts.  Neither Rob nor I can eat walnuts, but this batch isn't for home, so walnuts are included as well.

1/3 cup melted butter
1 1/2 cups graham cracker crumbs
1-14 oz. can sweetened condensed milk
1 1/3 cups flaked coconut
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 cups peanut butter chips or butterscotch chips
1/2 cup chopped pecans, walnuts, or almonds

Spread the butter in a 9x13 baking dish.  Sprinkle the crumbs over the butter.  Evenly pat the crumbs into the pan.  Drizzle the condensed milk over the crumbs.

Sprinkle the coconut, chips and nuts over the top.  Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes until light brown around the edges.  Cool completely before cutting into bars.  Store in the refrigerator.

Try not to eat them all in one sitting.  Try hard.

Smile Although Your Back Is Breaking, Laugh Clown Laugh - Old Fashioned Mashed Potatoes

Yesterday I engaged in two acquisitions which brought me cheer.  Cheer is hard to come by lately, so I count it as a very good day.

The first one was something I'd been promising myself to do; I got an Osceola County library card. Don't laugh; this was a big deal for me, living in a shell as I usually do. The second one was one of those things I buy rarely and try to keep forever; we bought a car, a 2013 Ford Escape to replace my 2001 Ford Expedition.  When I woke up yesterday, the last thing I expected was to buy a car.  Or get a library card, for that matter.  All I had on my agenda was getting out of bed and a trip to Publix. See how that works sometimes?

Driving the Escort from the dealer. In Plainview. In the snow.

I have come to really appreciate Fords although I was raised to drive only General Motors cars by my Pop, who was an old-fashioned car-loving man.  This will be my fourth Ford.  The first was a 1979 (I think) Escort we bought after my 1972 cardinal red Pontiac Ventura was unceremoniously stolen from the parking lot at our condo in Central Islip.  Who steals an 8-year old car? Since that was my very first car, bought in a joint venture between myself and my parents while I was a sophomore at SUNY New Paltz, I was beyond upset.  After all, that was the car that survived the Route 44-55 Hairpin Turn On The Mountain In The Fog.

My contribution to half the purchase price of that car represented all of my savings from baby-sitting, birthday presents, and my first job at Mays - Woodmere Department Store (although it was really in Rosedale, Queens.  Come to think of it, while the store sat on the wrong side of the Nassau-Queens county line, it bordered Cedarhurst, not Woodmere.  I guess in some marketing man's mind, one Five Town was as good as the other).  Having your car stolen is a terrible intrusion of personal space, besides an unneeded financial burden. And the tassel from my 1970 high school graduation was in the car when it got stolen, which still bothers me.

I'm not a car person; I have no car vanity.  I love old cars - show me a 1962 Chevy Impala and my eyes will light up - and I can appreciate the good looks and vroom vroom of the ultimate American sports car, the Corvette - but I won't drive a Corvette, and I don't really like riding in one either (both my boys are serious Corvette fans).

The goodbye photo of the Expedition.  Well-done, good and faithful servant.

My car needs are relatively simple.  I prefer American-made cars that are higher off the ground, get decent gas mileage, have wide, comfortable seats and get me where I need to go, like the nearest Publix or Little Rock, Arkansas. New cars are nice, but the last new car I bought was a 1989 Ford Taurus.  I like a car that plans on hanging around for a while and doesn't mind growing old with me.  That Taurus was just shy of 300,000 miles when I gave her up for a mad whirl with a bright green Chevy Geo, and my Expedition, battered and bruised as she is, passed the 200,000 mile mark a few months ago.

Amtrak passenger train, crossing and blocking Dakin Avenue.

The library card cheered me up so much I didn't even mind being stopped by the Amtrak train resting majestically at the Kissimmee station.  I even took a picture because that's the kind of hairpin I am. That's my officially former office building in the background. I also tried to get a picture of Mama Duck and her five imprinted ducklings, but the shadows were too dark. I might have been able to work on better lighting, but did not want to startle her and cause her to waddle into oncoming traffic, duck babies strung out obediently behind her.

The last time I had an Osceola County library card was 1991, so to say that things have changed is a vast understatement.  And even though I have - or had - an Orange County library card, I did not hang out there often enough to more than read every book in the Mystery section.  I'm a specialist.  So it was a surprise and a pleasure to NOT have to fill out any forms, as the young lady at the desk took care of this from her keyboard, with my driver's license.  She also gave me a bunch of handouts, outlining all the various free services available through the library system, including online learning opportunities that made my mouth water.  My tax dollars at work, and damn glad of it.

In case you were wondering, and even if you weren't, my very favorite top-of-the-list comfort food is mashed potatoes.  My mother made the World's Best Mashed Potatoes (didn't everybody's mother?) which were of course, from scratch, full of margarine and milk.  Good stuff.  Between my trouble swallowing and my trouble chewing, mashed potatoes are also the World's Best Food For Me.  If I happen to have mashed potatoes and green peas (my favorite vegetable) on the same plate, I will eat them the way my mother showed me when I first learned to hold a fork: first, I scoop up some of the potatoes and then I take the fork and press down lightly on the peas, so that they stick to the potatoes gently leaking out from between the tines of the fork.  One perfect bite of two perfect foods. Nirvana, kids, and don't knock it till you try it.

Mom always used regular old white potatoes that could also be used for baking under other more formal circumstances.  She always peeled them.  She never bought new potatoes; I think she thought they were for goyim (Gentiles, non-Jews) only.  A proper balaboosteh (superb Jewish housewife) always peeled her potatoes.  Me, I'm a rebel with a cause - I not only buy new potatoes, I use them in a myriad of ways.  I have been known to mash a pound or two of unpeeled new potatoes, in the interest of time constraints.  Peeling takes a little more time but is worth it.  I have also been known to grate a bunch of unpeeled Yukon gold potatoes when making potato latkes for Hanukkah or just because we love latkes.  I'm not sure Mom would approve, although she finally admitted, in the later years of her life, that one could make a decent chopped liver from chicken livers, rather than beef, and adding a couple of hardboiled eggs was good taste, not heresy.

4 medium to large white potatoes (Idaho, Russet - but no thin-skins for this.)

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) salted butter (Butter is better. Forget margarine, or "healthy" spreads.)

1 cup hot whole milk, half and half, or cream (Cream is a dream.)

Kosher salt

Ground black pepper

Mo' butter

Mo' hot milk, half and half, or cream

Peel the potatoes and cut them into eighths.  Put them in a medium pot and cover with cool water.  Throw in some kosher salt.  Put the pot on the stove top, and bring the potatoes to a boil over High heat.  Boil them for 15 to 25 minutes until done.  I like 'em softer, so I go the full 25.  If the water is boiling too furiously, drop the heat to Medium-High so it boils without splattering.

Drain the potatoes, then return them to the pot, place back on the stove (residual heat is fine) and let the potatoes dry out for about a minute.  Start mashing them (by hand!) and then add the butter, which  is best if you cut it into small cubes.  Mash the melting butter with the potatoes, and then add the hot milk, etc.  I used cream today, but any of the three will work. Add salt and pepper and mash until you get the texture you prefer.  Lumps are to be expected, nay, PREFERRED.  Taste and season - these soak up a lot of salt.  Finally, if like me you want a really creamy mash, add a little more butter and up to a half a cup more of hot milk.  These do reheat well in the microwave.

Aw geez, not again ... Good Mushrooms

...  are there any normal people left in this effed-up world?  This time my rant is brought on by the news that the suspended, and now permanently erased, long-time spokesman for the Subway sandwich chain has pled guilty, not only to possession of child pornography but to multiple acts of sexual acts with minors.

I had all kinds of ideas for cooking, but found my head galloping in too many directions.  The blueberry lemon rugelach and PB&J sandwich wafers are going to have to be another blog post, maybe two. And then there is, or will be, the smoked pork shoulder.  Apparently, despite all the hours I have spent watching BBQ Pitmasters, I have forgotten just how long it takes to actually smoke the meat, and how involved and time-consuming the preparation can and should be.  So although my original plan was to fire up the grill this morning, I'm going to slow down and gather my thoughts, my barbecue rubs, injections, and mops.  I've never actually smoked a pork shoulder on the grill - I've done ribs, brisket, and beer can chicken - so this should be fun, despite the steep learning curve ahead of me.  Good thing this kind of cooking calls for "low and slow" because slow is the only way this spoonie rolls.

That reminds me - when I was a kid, my Pop always complained I had two speeds - slow and stop.  I guess he was trying to say I had no sense of urgency, and as a teenager I felt mildly insulted over that canard.  As an old lady, I have to admit he made a good point.  I am, as the saying goes, going nowhere fast.

So, no cookies today and no smoked pork butt.  I am making slow cooker chili, but that is really about testing a product and following the product's instructions.  I have to say, the house smells awesome a six-hour cooking period, but there's more to go, especially as this starts with dried beans.  I don't care; this chili is better than air freshener.

I did go to Publix to pick up the rest of the stuff needed for the smoking project, but it was sheer hell. Unbelievable pain all over, but I kept walking because, as I told myself, if you stop walking you will die.  It's the same thing I used to repeat to myself when I was a B.G. (Big Girl) and pushing those 274 pounds on my dinky ankles, along the half block between my office and the courthouse was a precarious undertaking.  Never graceful, I fell with annoying regularity.  I battered both knees and ruined more pantyhose than some people wear in a lifetime.  I got winded.  I was terrified that I would fall into the street and get hit by a car, or a paying client would see me with my skirt over my face and my slip showing.

I have nothing to show for the day, at least in a food sense, except for the chili and these mushrooms:

My bad, I didn't even get the potatoes mashed.  Here's the recipe for the mushrooms:

1/2 stick of butter
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound large button mushrooms, halved or quartered
1/4 tube Gourmet Garden chunky garlic
black pepper
Emeril's Essence
Italian seasoning blend
Worcestershire sauce
kosher salt
dried oregano.

Melt the butter over medium-high heat; add the olive oil.  Add the mushroom and cook until they show a little color.  Add the chunky garlic, the pepper, and the Essence.  Lower the heat to medium and continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the mushroom are at your tenderness preference.  Add a shot or two of Worcestershire, and some salt and oregano.  Cook a few minutes more.  Serve alongside steak or over mashed potatoes, rice, or pasta, or by themselves.

Don't You Hate When That Happens? - Roasted Garlic Cream Sauce

Good morning to you. I have another bone to pick: here are the "corporate" words and phrases I have come to detest: "team", "partners", "stakeholder", "law firm" (as applied to Children's Legal Services), and "staffing". I'm in a mood this morning; not totally bad, more like crabby-snarky. My back feels like it is broken in half, but other than that, the sky is blue and the clouds are gray.  I have things to do, decisions to make, contracts to sign.

I have not yet heard anything from the state Division of Retirement regarding my application for retirement disability, although I faxed the remaining documents over a week ago.  Looks like I am going to have to work the fax machine again.  Also, and perhaps more importantly, I can now start the process of applying to the Federal government for benefits.  Not entitlements, damn it, benefits.  I paid into the Social Security system for 45 years.

I have chosen an agency to assist me in this process, so now is the time for me to start filling out - gasp! - more paperwork.  Story of my life.  I've gathered everything in my "office" - yes, I'm sitting on my bed, surrounded by stacks of papers and several sleeping Yorkies - and will try to wade through the collection of names, dates, and medical conditions.  It's going to take a while just to figure out the medications, since I haven't really stabilized on anything either of my doctors have prescribed, although they keep trying to fine-tune them, and I have been (mostly) diligent about following their instructions.

I have also made a difficult decision regarding my supervisor's offer to have a luncheon to show appreciation for my work at the Department.  It was a lovely email, and just reading it made me feel better about myself.  But after long and hard thought (I realize this may seem minor in the grand scheme of things, but in my little world it has import) I have decided against it.  Rob and I will go up on Saturday to pack up and clear out my office, which will be hard enough.  My first instinct was to say "yes, thank you" but the words got stuck in my throat - or fingers, to be more accurate - and I realize I cannot do it.  I am not good about saying good-bye under the best of circumstances, and this is anything but. My therapist said it would be good for "closure" - how did I know he was going to say that? - and I told him I hate the word "closure" as much as "team" and "stakeholders".

I don't believe in the whole concept of closure.  I don't believe it really exists.  There are certain kinds of hurts that never heal.  All you can do is hope that the day arrives when you are no longer overcome with grief or regret or anger, when the emotions stop interfering with your ability to function.  A long time ago I read an article which explained that the 3Ds - Death, Divorce, and Dismissal - were the most Difficult events for a human to bear, and most likely to cause situational Depression.  If I can still visualize the details of my dismissal from A&A in freaking 1981, well, you get the idea.  Now I can tell you it was classy, but that day I was a mess.  It still hurts.

So having rejected the efficacy of closure, and not wanting to rip that fragile scab from my emotional well-being, I am going to respectfully and regretfully decline, and say good-bye in my own way, that won't involve streaming eyes, a runny nose, a migraine, or the overwhelming need to throw up.

And now, from the "Don't You Hate When That Happens?" Department:  while I was working on the quinoa and asparagus dish the other day, I had a brainstorm for a roasted garlic bread that would be a perfect accompaniment for the chicken with shallots.  It turned out to be a brainfart, at least as far as the whole garlic bread idea was concerned, but I did come up with a lovely roasted garlic cheese sauce which would be extraordinary poured over steamed broccoli, cauliflower, or even a grilled chicken breast.

2 heads garlic, roasted

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 cup whole milk

Italian seasoning

parsley flakes

ground white pepper

dash granulated garlic (optional)

dash Raging River Five Pepper Blend (optional)

1/2 cup cotija cheese

Melt the butter, over medium-high heat, in a small saucepan; add the roasted garlic (it will be the consistency of soft butter) to the pan and whisk together.  Add the flour and whisk about 2 minutes.  Pour in the cold milk while continuing to whisk.

Okay, this is where all those years of watching Emeril Live comes in handy. The roux is hot, the milk should be cold.  Although it is counterintuitive, this and your mad whisking skills prevent lumps.  Also, the béchamel will only reach full thickening when it is brought up to heat,  Keep whisking while the white sauce comes to a gentle boil. Stir in your seasonings.

Take the saucepan off the heat and with a wooden spoon, stir in the cheese until melted.  Serve immediately.

There are a couple of different ways to roast garlic, but this is what I usually do - preheat the oven to 400 or 425 degrees; cut the top off the head of garlic so that the cloves are exposed; pour on some olive oil (don't drown the garlic, you want just enough oil to seep down into each clove); wrap in aluminum foil and place in the oven for at least 45 minutes.  Check on the garlic after that, and don't be afraid to put it back into the oven for another 10 minutes or more until it is the color you want.  I like a deeply caramelized garlic that can be spread on bread like butter.  If you like a lighter, firmer, sharper-tasting garlic, 45 or 50 minutes will probably be enough.  I think I let these roast an hour, maybe a little more.

You can use any cheese you happen to have handy.  I don't usually have cotija, a Mexican cheese which goes great on grilled corn, on hand, but since I had some hanging out in my fridge, I tried it.  Nice, but not worth buying it special for this sauce.  Cotija does not melt as well as parmesan, which it resembles in taste, and if you want a good Mexican melted cheese, try queso blanco.

I did manage to rescue the bread, but it wasn't worth the effort, so we won't speak of it again.    Sometimes my inspirations fall flatter than Hillary Clinton's jokes about her new snapchat account.

Let's just say, in the interest of avoiding waste of food, that this bread and black coffee make a fine breakfast.