Slow Cooking Without A Slow Cooker - Spanish Pork Chops (Link)

This dish may have taken Rachael Ray 30 minutes to prepare, but I'm 90 minutes into it and I'm not done.

I used bone-in chops, and let them cook longer in the oven

This is not to suggest that Rachael is a bald-faced liar - on the contrary, I've made this dish before and finished it in well under an hour - but this is the first time I've tried to make it since fibromyalgia moved into my very immediate neighborhood, and besides moving more slowly, I'm having to stop periodically to catch my breah, recharge my engines, or just feel sorry for myself. Besides demoralizing me, this is upsetting Anakin because I am seated on "his" stepstool.   However, if I scoot over and give him half, he's quite happy - so much so that when I got up to chop more vegetables, he stayed in his spot and left half of the seat for me.

The weather is kind of sucky today, and I slept much later than I had intended to.  If not for the fact that I really had to cook these pork chops while they are still fresh, I would still be in bed. I've got to gather my spoons before it is time to head over to my Tai Chi class. I seriously need to go to class, as it has been a whole week, and I am finding it hard to sink and relax.

Preparing the vegetable for the stuffing

It took the entire afternoon, but I finished it, at great cost to me in spoons and good cheer. I'd previously written up a neat list of telephone tasks to take care of today, but preparing a relatively simple dinner for four took everything out of me, and none of those other tasks got touched. I keep getting worse, and I am sincerely frightened.

Cooking the longaniza with the vegetables

I had to take a nap, albeit a short one, curled up in my favorite corner of the couch, so that I could drive to St. Cloud for Tai Chi. Driving was terrifying between the rain, the dark, and my fuzzy vision, but I made it, and I'm glad I did.      
                                                                                                      

Combining the longaniza and vegetables with the crumbled corn muffins

If I had one piece of advice to pass on to you today, it would be "don't try to play chess at 1:00 in the morning." Especially with a computer, which by it's very nature of being silicon-based, never gets tired. Yesterday I was thinking I was finally beginning to understand the game, but by today (it's 2:00 AM on Friday as I'm writing this) I was back to making stupid mistakes. Overtired and just a little bit of fibro fog when I couldn't recall that the Horse is called the Knight, and found myself moving pieces to protect the Bishop, which I had mistaken for the King. Ha! Let's try this tomorrow ...

Side view of finished dish

The recipe link is on Rachael Ray's website as Spanish Pork Chops with Linguica Corn Stuffing and Cherry-Rioja Gravy. You can also find it on the Food Network site.  There are a number of Rachael Ray recipes I like, but this is a favorite. Yes, I did make some changes (no, really?) I used an entire 12 oz. jar of Smucker's Orchard's Finest Tart Cherry Preserves, but I tasted and carefully balanced the sweetness with salt and more red wine. For the beef stock, I poured a 10 oz. can of Campbell's beef broth in a 2-cup glass measuring cup and added enough water to make 2 cups. I used Longaniza Puertorriquena, which I was hoping to be a linguica-type sausage, and it was, and it was delicious. And I used the open Cabernet Sauvignon for the red wine.  It has turned out to be an absolutely perfectly delicious wine for cooking, and I presume for drinking as well (I don't drink red wine).

Top-down view of finished dish

And now that it is officially Friday morning, I am drinking coffee and congratulating myself on completing at least one task from that neat little list. I paid my fine to the Commission on Ethics. One more thing done with, not just now but forever. It is no longer the Commission's business as to what assets I own and what debts I carry. Kiss mah grits.

Next goal is to prepare a fax to the firm handling my Social Security disability matter. If I can get that done, I'll declare the day a success. The Tai Chi sufficiently relaxed me so that waking up and getting out of bed was not as traumatic as usual, and my memory was working to the extent that I could practice the 21 moves of Preparation Form, Beginning Form, and Ward Off Left. Sort of. I still think I'm screwing up some of the moves in Preparation. Close enough for government work - ha, that's funny. Almost.

I Write The Songs That Make The Young Girls Cry ... - Count DeMoney Cauliflower

... and the old ones too. Last night I did something I've been promising to do for 40 years. Last night I went to a Barry Manilow concert, part of his "One Last Time" tour. He's not retiring, but this is his last big concert tour. It was Robert's idea for all of us to go - Cory and I are both big Manilow fans, although I'm a bigger fan, because I've had much more time to work at it.

I love music, all types from Gregorian chants to Lady Gaga, Donna Summers to Deadmaus, Classical to Coolio. Rock is my middle boomer generation's contribution, but early boomers gave us Elvis while later boomers brought us into the Age of Disco, and in my opinion, Disco Never Dies. My taste in music is totally eclectic.

Oy, I could go on and on about music till the proverbial cows come home, but the simple truth is if I was on my deathbed and could only have one bite of food, it would be chocolate, and if I could only listen to one performer's music while eating my chocolate, it would be Barry Manilow. Because his music has brought me great joy for 40 years and let's face it, he's from Brooklyn. As I told Robert, the concert was one of the best experiences of my life. I laughed, I cried, I clapped loud and long, and I sang along with everything except "Brooklyn Blues" which I had never heard before. Fancy that.

I was too wrapped up in the whole experience to take decent pictures, but both Cory and Rob got a whole bunch of great ones.

I took it relatively easy yesterday, preparing the barbecue potato salad but holding back on the cauliflower, so that I had plenty of spoons for my evening out. I also knit quite a bit more of the sock, and I can see another pair of half-started socks at the end of the tunnel.

I've also been practicing my chess game using a rather nice app. I set my ability at "novice", but I still stink. Last time I tried to learn chess was when Bobby Fischer was the rage - my brother Elliot and I picked up an inexpensive travel board and played for a while, but lost interest and any knowledge of chess we might have gained.  It's just one of the things I do to exercise my faltering brain. Like Words with Friends. By the way, if anyone would like play Word, you can reach me by searching for "brkexpat" or going through my Facebook page. I'm a fairly decent player, but I do lose graciously on occasion.

Now, the cauliflower.  It took me a while, but I pulled it together.

Count de Money Cauliflower

3-4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

kosher salt

pepper

granulated garlic

granulated onion

dried herbes de Provence

crushed red pepper flakes

turmeric

1 large head of cauliflower, divided into large pieces (use a sharp knife to cut the stem of each "flower" close to where it attaches to the central stem. This recipe only uses the "flowers", but the stem is perfect for spiralizing for use in some other recipe.)

For the DeMoney (Mornay) sauce:

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons flour

2 cups warm milk

pinch of nutmeg

1 - 5 oz. pouch of Sargento Artisan shredded Swiss cheese

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Drizzle the olive oil into the bottom of an aluminum baking pan, then sprinkle on the seasonings, to taste. The total amount of seasonings should be around a tablespoon.

Rinse each piece of cauliflower under water and place it, along with any water clinging to it, into the prepared pan. With your fingers, sprinkle a little bit more water over the top. Cover tightly with aluminum foil (I used 2 pieces). Set the pan on a baking sheet, and place in the oven for 30 minutes. 

Remove the pan from the oven and carefully turn each piece of cauliflower so that the other side or the top are facing down against the seasonings. Cover and place back in the oven for another 15 minutes.

Remove the pan from the oven and check the stems for doneness. Carefully move the cauliflower to a clean baking pan and set aside while you prepare the DeMoney sauce (yes, it is a Mel Brooks' joke. I got it from Hedley Lamarr.) Do not discard the pan with the spices.

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter and add the flour, whisking till smooth.  Add about a teaspoon of the spices from the bottom of the pan, whisk, and add about a third of the warm milk. Over medium heat, bring to a boil (whisk throughout) and add another teaspoon of the spices and another third of the milk. The sauce is only going to be slightly thickened - we have made what is called a thin white sauce - but it works perfectly. Add the remainder of the milk and a good pinch of ground nutmeg. Whisk until the sauce begins to bubble and thicken slightly, then taste it. Add a bit more of the remaining seasoning if needed (I added about a half teaspoon), whisk until smooth and remove from the heat.

Add most of the Swiss cheese to the sauce, leaving just enough to sprinkle over the top. Let the cheese melt and stir till smooth.  Spoon the sauce over each piece of cauliflower. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top. Return the pan to the oven just long enough to melt the cheese. Serve one or two of the cheese sauce covered "flowers" to each person. Serves 6-8.

This is one of my recipes, developed to avoid boiling or steaming the cauliflower on top of the stove (it gets waterlogged). Roasted cauliflower is good, but not with a Mornay sauce, so I oven-steamed it instead, and it works perfectly. I also oven-steam tamales, but that's another blog post.

If you want to get fancy, use the entire bag of Swiss cheese in the sauce, and sprinkle the top with another kind of cheese, like parmesan, sharp cheddar, or even pepper jack.

An Early Spring - Barbecue Potato Salad

Punxatawny Phil failed to see his shadow this morning.

"A groundhog and his shadow are a very famous pair

They forecast the weather together a trick that is rare

The one little thing that bothers me when out of doors I go

Now does my shadow mean springtime or 16 feet of snow

Never know which I just can't remember

Will it be warm or make like December

The whole thing just confuses me and that is why I sing

A groundhog's shadow just doesn't mean a thing"

Does anyone else have this song in their head? I always do on February 2, every year. It's from a Warners Brother cartoon I watched, over and over and over again, as a really young kid. I've tried to find it on Youtube - no luck - but did finally find it at another video site. Unfortunately, it doesn't work with Blogger (the platform we're on) so the best I can do is give you this link.

Grover Groundhog sings in "One Meat Brawl", 1947

Even when my memory was good, I could never remember, year to year, the meteorological meaning of the groundhog's shadow. But thanks to the Internet, I can check the news report without having to get out of bed, and the official word from Punxatawny, Pennsylvania is that there will be an early spring. For us folks in Florida, a groundhog's shadow really doesn't mean a thing - we always have an early spring. Yesterday's temperature was in the eighties.  For our northern family and friends, this is very good news indeed.  So happy Groundhog's Day - and if you hear Sonny and Cher singing "I Got You Babe", run for it.    

I intend on having an awesome day today, because I want to be well-rested and ready to enjoy Barry Manilow at Amway Center tonight. That involves staying off my feet and thinking happy thoughts. So I'm not going to watch the news or engage in political discussions (Ted Cruz, really?) and my fibro prevents me from doing the happy dance for Hillary (go ahead and shoot me - I really like her).

What I want to do is make potato salad, and I want something different. My favorite potato salad is a super-easy recipe that my cousin Sheryl gave me many years ago, and I'm thinking I will use that as my basis while bringing in some other flavors. We'll see. I can only handle cooking one recipe a day because the fibromyalgia just took another giant leap forward in screwing up my life. The pain is a constant, varying only in location, although it seems to me my back is always part of the equation.  But what has really worsened exponentially is the fatigue.  I never knew I could feel so unbearably tired from doing almost nothing.

I worked it out in my head, and this is what I came up with. I happened to have homemade pulled pork in the freezer, but there are ways other than smoking and pulling a whole pork shoulder to acquire the required 4 ounces - your favorite barbecue joint, or Publix deli counter come to mind. If you don't eat pork, use a smoked or barbecued chicken.

Barbecue Potato Salad

1-28 oz. bag of honey gold potatoes (or other 2-bite size new potatoes), quartered
2 shallots, halved and thinly sliced
1/2 cup mayonnaise (Hellmann's)
1/2 cup sour cream
1/3 cup barbecue sauce (Sweet Baby Ray's)
4 oz. pulled pork, cut or shredded if pieces are large
kosher salt
black pepper
cayenne pepper

Put the potatoes in a medium pot, and add enough water to just cover them; add a good tablespoon of kosher salt. Bring the water to boil over medium-high heat (that's 7.5 to you digital types) and then lower the heat to medium (5.0-6.0) so that the potatoes simmer for 8 minutes. Drain the cooked potatoes into a metal colander, then sit the colander over the empty pot (off the heat) for15 minutes to dry them out a bit.

Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper, and turn the cooled potatoes out onto the sheet in one layer; put them into the refrigerator until they are completely cooled and getting chilled.

While the potatoes are chilling, prepare the dressing: combine the mayonnaise, sour cream, barbecue sauce, salt, pepper and cayenne. In a large bowl, place the potatoes, shallot, and pork; pour the dressing over the potato mixture and combine, using a rubber spatula to fold the ingredients together.

Scoop the potato salad into a serving dish and dust with paprika and parsley, if you like. Cover the dish and chill for 2 hours before serving. Different, easy, and most importantly, really good.

I Am So Going To Blog About This - Red Wine Beef Stew for the Crock Pot

Sunday - To the Rolling Fat Man in BJ's Warehouse on Osceola Parkway today around 1:30 PM: I'm not sure who pissed in your Post Toasties this morning but that was quite a performance you put on there. The ease with which you shot up and out of the seat on the motorized shopping cart, and the gracefulness with which you propelled yourself towards my husband, threatening at the top of your lungs to beat him up; convinced me, beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were not really disabled, just FAT. Really fat, unattractive sloppy lazy fat, with those wobbling butt cheeks flopping over each side of the seat. 

What you didn't know is that I'd noticed you even before you went into that fugue state during which you channeled the souls of unrepentant psychopaths. I was trying to come up with something to write about for today's blog post, and after getting chased around by an inflated number of fat people wielding motorized carts, I'd decided to discuss my opinion of that whole phenomenon. I was trying to figure out a way to sneak a picture of you from the back so I could use it in the blog. I was fishing for my iPhone when I realized that a checkout line had an opening and I shifted direction to head that way. That is the only reason your ass isn't on public display.

And that's when you went loco in the coco, right in front of your kid. You bumped into me from the back with your fatmobile. Nothing terrible, a minor clipping on the calf. I turned around; you apologized; I acknowledged your apology and turned back to my cart. Which is when you started hollering and accusing me of cutting across your path. Which is when my husband walked over to respond to your verbal howling, and you threatened to beat him to a pulp or some such sophomoric blustering.

And then I, fearing for your physical welfare summoned up one of my reasonable voices (the one I learned from listening to hundreds of social workers over the years) and said, "oh no, you do not want to start with him." I said that, fatass, because my husband is a third degree black belt in taekwando who was awarded a world championship for sparring in 2007, and who has been studying the even more aggressive martial art of jiu jitsu for 2 years. You might have 200 - maybe closer to 225 pounds over him - but you'll never really get close enough to fall on him, before he caused you some real, painful damage. And be assured, he would not have pulled the first punch. 

You were still bellowing "do you know who I am?" when the accomplished staff at BJ's gently and professionally intervened, separating us, sending you off to wherever your wife was shopping (probably hiding behind the beef jerky) while getting us checked out and on our way. Rob and I still can't figure out what set you off on your path of shrieking revisionist history, but I don't really care at this point.  Fat-assed fathead. Yes, you.

So I'm not sure, but I can't help but think this little episode stole some of my spoons - it takes effort and energy to hold yourself back from whacking a repulsive miscreant with one's walking cane. As a result (and we also did a lot of shop-hopping today), my cooking spoons are gone. The much-anticipated Burgundy beef stew remains but a dream.

Monday - Did you know you need an ID to give your blood to a lab? But not to vote, eh? Never mind; I'm at Quest Diagnostics, ready to give blood and other bodily fluids for the testing ordered by the rheumotologist.  I have an appointment, but I'm still waiting. I don't mind a reasonable wait, and they are usually reasonable here.  Zip! I'm out of here.

Before I left the house I started the Red Wine Beef Stew and put it in the crock pot to cook. I decided to rename the recipe because I've only used burgundy wine once in the 40-plus years I've been making it, and I didn't especially care for it. Any red wine works, and I use what is in the house - everything from Cabernet Sauvignon to Russian semi-sweet. We have an extraordinary supply of Russian semi-sweet reds, courtesy of one of Robert's long-time clients, who also always brings some Russian chocolates with him. Nice man. When I've had to buy wine for this, it's almost always a Merlot. Occasionally a Pinot Noir.

The timing on this really depends on the cut of meat you are using. Today I have a 2 pound piece of beef shoulder, which ranges in toughness from long-cooking stew quality to tender London broil. You will know when you press the beef in its package. This was fairly tender, so I knew I had to cut back on time.  My rule of thumb - 4 hours of crock pot to each hour of conventional stove top cooking - would have had me leaving the meat in there for 6 hours. I knew that would be too much, and cut it back to 4 hours. Perfect. The house - and Robert's accounting office - smell delightful.

This recipe was cooked in a 6-quart crock pot.            

6 slices bacon, cut crosswise in 1 inch pieces
2 pounds of beef shoulder, cut into 1 inch cubes
small amount extra virgin olive oil
1 large sweet onion, halved and sliced (not too thin)
2 large cloves garlic, chopped
2 tablespoons tomato paste (from tube)
kosher salt
black pepper
Emeril's Essence
2 teaspoons dried thyme leaves
granulated garlic
granulated onion
1 1/2 cups red wine
water to just cover the beef
2 small bay leaves

1 tablespoon reserved fat
2 tablespoons butter
3 small yellow onions, sliced into rings
8 oz. sliced white button mushrooms

In a large, deep skillet, fry the bacon until crisp; remove to paper towels and set aside.

Working in two batches, cook the beef in the hot bacon fat just until lightly browned.

Drizzle the olive oil in the bottom of the crock pot. Place the onions on top of the oil, and in order, add the garlic, tomato paste, salt, pepper, Essence, thyme, granulated garlic and granulated onion.

Then, using tongs to let excess fat drip off, add the browned beef.

Pour in the wine and just enough water to barely cover the beef. Add the bay leaves. Cover and cook on low for 4 hours or until the beef is tender (do not overcook). Discard all but 2 tablespoons of the fat in the skillet, and set the skillet aside.

Taste the cooking liquid and adjust accordingly, using 1-2 teaspoons of Wyler's instant beef bouillon, a few shots of Worcestershire sauce, and any of the original seasonings except the salt and Essence.

Melt the butter in the reserved skillet and cook the onions and mushrooms until the vegetables are tender, 10-15 minutes over medium heat.

With a slotted spoon, add the cooked onions and mushrooms to the crock pot along with the reserved bacon, stir to combine, cover and cook on low for another 30 minutes. Check your seasoning one more time and add salt if needed. You can serve the stew immediately, or refrigerate overnight and reheat for tomorrow's dinner.

The Magic won at home over the Celtics last night, breaking an 8 game losing streak. Very happy, and pleased for my boys and especially Coach Scott Skiles. They play the San Antonio Spurs tonight, which will give them a chance to start a whole new losing streak. (I'm just being realistic. The Spurs are 39-8 while the Magic are 21-25.) I know they're not playing tomorrow, at least not at home, because me and my boys are going to Amway Arena to see Barry Manilow. BARRY MANILOW!!!

I received some very sad news via Facebook this evening, just as I was getting ready to publish the post. One of the young women I worked with (she and her family relocated out of state just before she was due to deliver her second child) suffered the worst loss of all - her third child, a little girl, passed away just two days after birth. My heart is broken for this mother, her husband and their sons. Sing with the angels, Baby Karis.

Bummer - Chicken with Mussels and Clams

Ireland has edged out Russia as the foreign country most frequently visiting my blog. I still don't know exactly how this works. I don't know anybody in Ireland (I still think the Russian Osherowitzes and Osherofskys are searching for me) nor do I have any connection to Thailand or Indonesia.

It's 2 in the afternoon and I am sitting up in bed. I haven't been able to sit up and stay up until now, although I tried several times during the day. I totally missed my tai chi class. My muscles all seem as heavy as though wearing lead pajamas, or trying to take a walk across Jupiter. I'm out-of-sync with earth-normal gravity. My right hand is heaviest of all, making it difficult to manipulate the iPhone without inadvertently tapping all over the screen, raising posts in which I have no interest. The iPad is also a problem, but since I use a Zagg keyboard, I can rest my palm some distance from the active screen.  In other words, this day sucks.

Spain and Australia have joined the list of foreign countries peeking in on the blog, along with the usual suspects of France and Germany. I wonder if I should be adding Ukraine to Russia?

As you may have guessed, I haven't done a lick of food shopping or cooking today. Hell, I haven't done any eating today. Now both hands keep flopping down on the keyboard causing me to type extra letters. What the hell??

I made it downstairs, my hands full of papers and girl puppy, by sliding against the rail. I managed to pull together a shopping list. Arancini and cream of wild mushroom soup are going to have to wait. Today all I am going to cook is the Chicken with Mussels and Clams. The Burgundy Beef Stew is next, a tomorrow project. After that I'll see just how many spoons I've got.  It's going to take me 3 days minimum, more realistically 4, as I've added potato salad and cauliflower with cheese sauce to the list. This all may sound like too much food, but there is nothing cooked up in the fridge other than 2 lasagna rolls and a handful of broccoli.

Today has been a mostly crappy day; I feel positively fragile, unsteady on my feet despite Horatio Cane, fuzzy in the head, no strength in my hands. I did food shop and I did finish the Chicken with Mussels and Clams, and therefore I claim a minor victory. Missing tai chi class this morning positively bummed me out.

I'm sitting on his step stool and he is one pissed-off Jedi

This recipe was originally from Good Housekeeping's online site and it appears I printed it out on March 7, 1998, at 11:36 AM, meaning to try it sometime soon. I just checked, and the recipe is still there if you would like to follow it as originally written.  I made a few changes, and while I'm sure the GH version is delicious, I can only judge the dish I made and it is stupendous. I didn't go whole hog (the name of an awesome barbecue joint in Little Rock, Arkansas) and make the couscous, just because I have other sides in my menu.

I chose to use chicken thighs, because they are my favorite part of the chicken; because they are the most reasonably priced of any other part of the chicken; and because there is the added bonus of all that chicken fat and attached skin that gets trimmed off and saved for the next big batch of schmaltz and gribenes.

Chicken with Mussels and Clams

5 pounds chicken thighs (about 10 thighs)
kosher salt
ground black pepper
Emeril's Essence
3-4 tablespoons olive oil
2 - 14.5 oz. cans stewed tomatoes, undrained
1 - 7 oz. can chopped fire-roasted green chilies, undrained
2 tablespoons chili powder
1 tablespoon turbinado sugar
1 dozen cherrystone clams
1 pound small mussels
1-2 tablespoons chopped parsley (I used dried parsley flakes)

I used a rectangular electric frying pan , which let me cook everything in one batch. You will want to trim the excess fat and attached skin from the back and sides, but leave the skin on over the top of the chicken.  Using the salt, pepper, and Essence, season the skin-side of the chicken.

You can see the makings of schmaltz and gribenes lower left

Rinse the clams and mussels with cold water; remove any beards from the mussels (farmed mussels have almost no beards.)          
            

Heat the oil at 350 to 375 degrees in the electric frying pan. Place the chicken, skin-side down, and cook until nicely browned. Season the remaining side of chicken, then turn and brown. Remove all of the browned chicken to a baking dish, and carefully remove all of the excess fat.

Return the chicken to the frying pan, and add the stewed tomatoes, green chilies, chili powder, sugar, and 2 cups of water; stir gently to combine. Bring to boiling, then reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 30 minutes until the shells open and the clams are tender.

If they are still a bit tough, remove the mussels, cover the pan and cook a few minutes longer. Discard any unopened shells. You can serve from the pan, or move the completed dish to an aluminum baking dish. I think I would like this with bread. Crusty bread, good for dipping into the tasty sauce. GAAAHLIC bread, good for anything.

I am so freaking tired.

I Feel Pretty

I'd like to think that I don't have a mean bone in my body, but I know that's not true. I believe in karma, retribution, and vengeance. Vengeance is mine, saith The Lord.  I'm good with that, especially if I get to watch, although there have been a few times in my life when I've gently pushed things along. If you are recoiling at this point, please remember that I am a Jewish lady from New York, and turning the other cheek is not in my makeup.

I'm not going to recount the instances of my meanness, except to say I will never shed a tear for Germany, nor for a certain judge whose antics have gotten her banished to The Bench From Hell in another county, far away from here. That I got to watch the evidence of what I surmised was the frantic burning of the midnight oil to finish writing and reviewing all those orders, and to pack up and get out of Dodge, was sheer lagniappe.  I can't be positively certain, but there was one set of judicial chambers, clearly visible from the second floor of my house, from which the lights have been glowing well past the hour when other, more normal judges, have released their staff and gone home. I knew from personal experience that one courtroom was humming along at obscene hours into the deep, dark evening. At least for my courtroom peeps, the horror ended weeks ago when she was unceremoniously yanked off her bench and put on medical leave. She still, however, had the responsibility of finishing those orders, bogged down as they had been with her unreasonable expectations and requirements.  During the last two or so weeks, the lights in this particular judicial chamber have been burning like a hot, bright sun well into the night. Until last night, when for the first time in a very long time, all was dark. Black as coal, in fact, the color of emptiness. Which leads me to believe she finished the orders, and the packing. "Out, damned spot."  Get in your car, head north and don't look back.

I like quoting Shakespeare. Not necessarily about killing all the lawyers, but about ladies protesting too much, the stuff that dreams are made of (earworm alert), the winter of our discontent (northern peeps just need to look out of their windows), catching the conscience of the King (c'mon all you Star Trek junkies, you know what I'm talking about), and how all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Speaking of sweetening, I have no recipes to share with you today, very sorry.  I finally made an appointment at Decent Nails for a nail fill and a pedicure. I feel pretty, oh so pretty, that the city should give me a key, a committee should be organized to honor me. I made an appointment for Monday at Quest Labs for those tests the rheumotologist ordered. I feel like I accomplished a great deal today, but none of it was cooking. I researched reflexology. I started to pull together a list of recipes to cook in the next few days, which will let me prepare a shopping list. Like I said, I made real progress. I ran into our friend Jay on his way into Rob's office, and he asked if I was done working, and then asked what I was doing with my free time. "I have fibromyalgia," I told him, "I sleep a lot." Jay is on the Osceola County School Board, in addition to another full time job, coaching, Boys and Girls Club, very involved dad of two, and one of the hardest working guys I know. Sleeping a lot and having free time are not in his wheelhouse, but bless his heart he never said a word about my getting out more or exercise or any of that other stuff I can't do anymore.

The Magic lost, AGAIN, this time to the Boston Celtics, making their total losses 8 IN A ROW!! Just kill me now and get it over with.

The recipes I'm thinking about include arancini (Italian rice balls), Ina Garten's cream of wild mushroom soup, Spanish Pork Chops from Rachael Ray, my Burgundy Beef Stew, and Chicken with Mussels and Clams. The pork chops and beef stew are repeats; the rest are new. Stay tuned.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart - Mrs. Bird's Apple Pie

I have always liked Elton John, and I have always liked the song that inspired this earworm. Anytime I hear it, I am transported back to happy memories of a trip I took to California in the summer of 1975. I was traveling with my friend and former college roommate Mary Kane, and the trip was such a success, we headed out to Hawaii the following year.

(Okay, let's stop right here, because I know what you're thinking - I seemed to have had an awful lot of roommates while I was in college, and those are just counting the ones I still talk to. Stipulated. There's a lot of drama in college relations, some of which I brought on myself when I stepped outside the safe circle of friends from my freshman year to try living in a suite with someone I mistakenly thought was good roommate material. Never mind the details; after all these years I still get aggravated.)

Anyway, it's not anyone from my college days who is breaking my heart ... nope, it's my Magic. Now I'm sure there are a whole lot of New England Patriot fans whose hearts really were broken this past week, but let them get their own earworms. Football is a highly-overrated sport. Basketball, on the other hand, is the best. Better than baseball, even.

The heartbreak is coming from the fact that this young, practically brand-new team, with a new, good coach, himself a former Magic player, was doing really well (a welcome change after the Dwightmare, the banishment of Stan Van Gundy, the crazy trades of Otis Smith, and the coaching debacle of Jacque Vaughn) and then suddenly, they are not. My boys are on a losing streak, they've fallen back below .500, and my dreams of them making the playoffs, which seemed all so possible a month ago, has evaporated. Other than an awesome advantage in the draft picks, there is nothing fun about having having the worst record in the NBA. So sing it, Elton.

PSA - On a completely unrelated matter, in what has to be the ultimate non sequitur, I want to talk to you about cardamom, the Queen of Spices. You may recall that a few months ago I was railing unmercifully about the price of cardamom; even Walmart was letting me down in the reasonable price department. I am now able to advise you that reasonably-priced ground cardamom can be purchased from your local Fresh Market. Thank you.

I woke up this morning to a raging heart palpitation and the news headline that today was the 30th anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. As dicky as my memory has become, I remember so very clearly where I was and how I found out about Challenger. I can also tell you how I would not watch subsequent shuttle launches for years, despite having them sonic boom my first house in Orlando upon their safe returns to Kennedy Space Center, until the day I made myself stand in the parking lot of the HRS office in Cocoa, and watch a takeoff so close I could reach up and touch it. Even a non believer - which I am not - could not have missed the powerful feeling of praying for the shuttle - it would have been Columbia or Discovery - and its crew, looking skyward while the shuttle headed into the heavens (you know, where God lives.)

We were still a great country then, still highly respected worldwide. Ronald Reagan was the President, and his post-Challenger speech was so poignant, and so perfect it still makes me cry. Reagan borrowed in small part from a poem written by aviator John Gillespie Magee, Jr., just months before his own death during flight.

High Flight

 "Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

The thing about anniversaries like this is those of a certain generation inevitably ask the question (of themselves or others) "where were you when you heard about (insert name of tragedy)? That I can still remember where I was when President Kennedy was shot (seated in the 6th grade classroom of Mr. Angelo Antonio Angona, facing the clock and public announcement system box at Number 6 School in Woodmere), when the shootings occurred at Kent State (hanging out in Mr. Friedman's classroom during lunch break at Lawrence High School), when Richard Nixon resigned the Presidency (sitting on my bed in my parent's home in Howard Beach, addressing wedding invitations), when Carter was declared the winner of the Presidency (Walter Cronkite broke in on my sleep after I'd passed out on my bed in my Howard Beach apartment), when Elvis died (standing on the sidewalk in front of Long Island University in downtown Brooklyn), when Bill Clinton announced that he'd really had sex with that woman (in my family room in our first Hunter's Creek house), when Challenger exploded (at my desk at All-American Marine Slip on Maiden Lane in NYC; one of the underwriters came over to tell us that the shuttle had blown up, to which I responded "that's not funny, Phil") when the events of September 11th took place (in my law office on North Central Avenue; my paralegal started screaming), when Columbia exploded on reentry (getting a pedicure at Beauti-Works in Hunter's Creek), is both a sadness and a relief for me.

In honor of the American heroes on board the Shuttle Challenger on this day 30 years ago, I am going to bake an apple pie. Not just any apple pie, but Mrs. Bird's apple pie.

The Next-to-Last Centurion, he specializes in guarding hot food from the oven

So whaaat? Beeg deal ... (if you've never watched Buckaroo Banzai, this would be a really good time to do so. Peter Weller, Jeff Goldblum, Ellen Barkin and a whole bunch of Lectroids. No matter where you go, there you are.)

For one thing, I have no idea who Mrs. Bird is, although I've been baking her apple pie for over 30 years. I do remember finding the recipe in the newspaper - probably Newsday - where it was called "The Mom's Apple Pie To End All Mom's Apple Pies." It must of sounded positively apple-apocalyptic to me, because somewhere in the intervening years I changed the name to Mrs. Bird's (her first name was Alice) Apple Pie. What grabbed me about this recipe (back in the days when I could still physically read an actual newspaper - I developed a sensitivity to newsprint, I waited until the internet was invented and now I read it every day) was the crumb topping. (Incidentally, I just realized I cut the recipe out of a long-gone issue of Bon Appetit magazine, for which I had a 40 year subscription. I finally ended it when the internet was invented and yada yada yada.)

Okay, the crumb topping ... first of all, I love crumb topping - who doesn't? I could happily buy an Entenmann's Deluxe Crumb Cake, discard the cake (it's too dry) and just eat the crumb topping. Or I could bake up my recipe for Aunt Ceil's Apple Cake with Cinnamon Crumb Topping. I would never discard the cake, though; my Aunt Ceil, may she rest in peace, was a wonderful baker.  Make this cake, have your crumb topping and eat the whole thing. You will swoon from sheer joy.

You get the point. The second thing is that I really don't care for pies that sport a top crust. Too redundant. Too boring. Too much wasted space. Why have two crusts when you could have the obligatory bottom crust and something wonderful on top, like spicy, buttery crumbs? Or nothing - what about a topless fruit pie, eager for direct contact with real whipped cream or a shiny coat of melted apple jelly? Shiny!

And that's why I've been making Mrs. Bird's Apple Pie for all these years. You can see the original recipe in the photo, but I'm going to give you the Inspiration-Nation-I-have-extra-time-on-my-hands-because-I-am-officially-retired-so-I-tampered-with-the-old-lady's-recipe (geez, that was mean) version. I spiralized the apples, but you can use any method that will give you very thin half-slices. Knife, mandolin, whatever.

I got a letter today from the State of Florida advising that "your name has been added to the retired payroll under the service retirement provisions of the Florida Retirement System." Besides the odd phraseology (and as a lawyer I know quite a bit about odd phraseology) the letter said not a damn thing about when I should expect to receive my first month's benefit, how they were going to deal with a rather substantial back payment, and even what the precise biweekly amount was going to be. Show me the money, Florida!

Okay, finally the recipe:

1 - 9 inch deep dish frozen pie shell
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup turbinado sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon Cindy's Sweet Spice Mix*
3 Granny Smith and 2 large Gala apples, peeled and spiralized on "A" blade (the blade without a noodler) or sliced very thin with a knife or mandolin
2 tablespoons butter (keep cold until ready to use)

Crumb topping:
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup turbinado sugar

1 teaspoon Cindy's Sweet Spice Mix*
1/2 stick butter (keep cold until ready to use)

*Apparently I don't have a recipe for my sweet spice mix, which I keep in a little container next to the stove. I can't remember when I mixed it, nor which recipe in which I used it. Knowing me, it would have started with 1 or 2 tablespoons cinnamon, a teaspoon each of nutmeg, allspice, ginger, cardamom, and dried orange peel, and maybe 1/2 teaspoon of ground cloves. That is a rough approximation - I might have used more ginger and less cloves. If you don't want to take a chance on mixing your own, you can probably use commercial pumpkin or apple pie spice blends.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Combine the white sugar, turbinado sugar, flour, and spices. Add to the sliced apples and toss well to mix. Set aside while you mix the crumb topping. Take the pie shell out of the freezer, place it on a baking sheet lined with foil or parchment, and set aside to defrost while you finish the topping.

For the crumb topping, in a medium bowl, combine the flour, turbinado sugar, and spices. Grate the cold butter into the bowl and mix with a fork and/or your fingers until the mixture is crumbly. Set aside.

Now, the final act: place the sliced apples into the pie shell. Grate the 2 tablespoons of cold butter over the top of the apples. Carefully scatter the crumb topping over the apple filling.

Bake for 40-45 minutes until the crust and topping are nicely browned.  Cool the pie completely before cutting and serving (I put it into the refrigerator to chill out). Haul out the Haagen Daz, sink and relax.

Oy, I hope I saved enough spoons for tonight's tai chi class ...

Why yes, that is a 1970's era Tupperware pie taker ...

Where else would you store your apple pie?

Vox Pops

It's not just politics, you know.

The overwhelming cacaphony of bad news and sad news comes from a number of sources, and they all give me a headache. Politics, of course. The endless noise, the talking heads, the gleefully unprofessional media commentators and news anchors, the sociopathological candidates and their chanting sycophants, the dreadfully self-righteous print media, the misguided, vacuous, self-important celebrities threatening to leave this country if so-and-so wins, the everyday Facebookers inexplicably crazed by the political hype while rushing to repost unvetted dreck, and underneath it all, the terrible realization that while we lived through Nixon and Carter and Bush 43 and most of the Obama years, we may not have the strength to survive another 4 or 8 years under whichever sociopath weasals into the Oval Office. Yeah, politics not only give me an eye-popping headache, but a chest-cracking series of palpitations. I'm angry and scared and profoundly disappointed and disgusted. There is so much meanness out there, and not just in politics. And stupidity and bombastity and foolish pride and fiscal irresponsibility.

If I rely on social media to gauge the people of the United States, Americans are some of the meanest, cruelest, and greediest bastards around. Our government is chillingly corrupt and has been for many years.  Politicians, teachers, coaches, clergymen, celebrities, parents - crossing lines that should never be crossed, behaving like rutting animals towards the young, the helpless, the defenseless.

I am finding it hard to watch television ads; the constant haranguing for monthly contributions, every one of them a worthy cause, but they never stop. Each story, each picture, each wounded veteran and disabled child, each cancer victim, each mistreated animal, portrayed so heartbreakingly it's all you can do not to weep. But that effort costs dearly, the effort not to be worn down and overwhelmed by the profound sadness of life, and I for one internalize it, until it causes me physical pain. And I haven't even talked about ISIL, Iran, Russia, Syria, North Korea, the refugee crisis or worldwide anti-semitism.

This may be a direct result of a new medication, but all those sad stories on Facebook - even those with a happy ending - are sending me straight into depression hell. Never mind that even happy commercials (the ones that make you go "awwwww") make me tear up, especially the ones from Bright House, Suburu, and Publix.

The world's a mess and it's given me one hell of a perpetual headache.

Speaking of messes, I went to schedule an appointment with LabCorp, only to discover they don't accept AvMed. Huh? When did that happen? I'll gladly go to Quest, but seriously, a major lab doesn't accept the insurance carrier for the vast majority of State of Florida employees (and us COBRA retirees)? Things were different before the Dark Times ... before Obamacare ...

So this meme popped up on my Facebook news feed this morning, just a day after I'd been ruminating about the time my Pop had his heart attack.

We were living in Howard Beach. Here's where my memory get foggy; I always thought Pop was 62 when he had the heart attack, but that would have made it late 1970 - early 1971, and we were still living in North Woodmere.  So I did a little calculation - not easy, as it turns out that my math skills, never too great at any time, have gone down the fibromyalgia tube - and Pop would have been between 65 and 68, and I'm guessing he was closer to 65.  Certainly not a lot older than my 63 years.

Fortunately, it was not a massive attack nor heart failure, which actually made for some pretty funny maneuvering, as he had time for me to take him first to our doctor's office on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, and then to wait until he could be admitted to Brookdale Hospital on Linden Blvd., rather than being immediately admitted to Flatbush General, also on Linden, about 2 miles further down the road (why were all the hospitals in Brooklyn when we lived in Queens? Well, google a map for Howard Beach and focus in on 79th Street, a block or so off of Linden Blvd. County line, I've always lived right by the county line. Besides, Pop never really left Brooklyn, despite 11 years in North Woodmere and the 5 years in Howard Beach.)

My Poppy, Hy Morris, was my hero. I had loved him as a grandparent, and later as a parent, something I was never able to do with my grandmother, who became my personal Torquemada.

So his heart attack hit me hard, and for the first time, I realized that he was old. I worried about his mortality, then comforted myself with the knowledge that his father, Jacob Morris, had been 92 when he died, and that I would have Pop in my life at least another 25 years. (He died 7 or 8 years later from a vicious stomach cancer that made the last 16 months of his life unbearable. I had conveniently forgotten that his mother had died from stomach cancer a number of years before his father. Well hell, who wants to think about stuff like that? Just like who wants to think about the fact that my other great-grandmother, Gussie Sarif Albert Frey, had died of a heart attack at the age of 63?  I always thought of my sainted Grandma Albert as being ancient. Like I am now, I guess.)

The point of this rather disjointed story is that I realized, albeit belatedly, that despite 65 years, 2 bad marriages, 4 children and a heart attack, in his own head my Pop was still a very young man who had learned to drive a Mack truck when he was 14, loved the Yankees with an early 20th century passion, hung out with some of the Jewish Mafia, was born and lived in Williamsburg before it was cool and it was still mostly spelled "Williamsburgh", and who loved to gamble on horse races, spending far too much time and money at Aqueduct and Belmont. I realized it because it is my current life experience as well as that of my husband and all my friends from college. We never grew up, not really. We pretend to be mature and strong and indestructible for our children and families, but the truth is, in a our heads, we got stuck at 18 or thereabouts and so did Pop. When I thought he was old and mature and as serious as the heart attack he'd had, Pop was still a devil-may-care kid from Williamsburg, the youngest of 5 and terribly spoiled, running around the kitchen table to escape from the Rabbi who came by the house to teach him his bar mitzvah haftorah.

I think that is marvelous. I think that is what keeps us humans from mass suicide as the inevitable aches and pains and old age diseases make daily life so fucking uncomfortable. I think it's cool, like fezes and bow ties and disco and Williamsburg. I think it's my life, like Bon Jovi sings, and that is a Good Thing, as Martha often tells us.

Let's end this on a Cloris Leachman high note.  Much better than where I started today's post.

Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just wanna live while I'm alive ...