Cranberry-time!
(Is that one word?)
One-Word Wednesday: 11/22/23
Tag: Cooking
One-Word Wednesday: 1/11/23
Mincemeat
Hello Anxiety: “Sometimes It’s Fine to Be Corny.”
This blog category is the journaling and journey-ing of my quest to say (with cautious sincerity) “Hello, Anxiety” and to take a look at the condition from my “me-andering” views.
So the other day HR and I bought a bunch of local fresh, Savannah corn. It was the yellow and white bicolor variety (which I refer to as bisexual corn). I shucked it ALL MYSELF. For some reason (childhood issues?), Robert WILL NOT help with that chore. But I find it soothing and therapeutic. Savagely ripping the husks and tassels off and carelessly tossing them into the trash. (Note: Talk to Therapist Rubi about all this.)
We first did corn-on-the-cob—my favorite corn rendering. But we had a bunch left over.
“Google it,” HR said. “Find another recipe.” For some reason, that suggestion got on my nerves a little bit, but I did it.
Break in the Narrative.
This morning, I woke up early, ready to face the challenging world. But two things happened, causing that challenging world to be REALLY challenging.
First, I burned (burnt?) the bacon. Okay, let me explain. For 99.99% of the adult population, burning bacon is no big deal. But for me, today it was devastating, especially when I had just gotten off the phone with my dermatologist’s office (which actually caused the bacon to be burned).
For months now, I have been having pretty severe lower leg rash issues. I was supposed to have had an appointment this morning to look into the problem. But I got a call—my dermatologist came down with COVID-19. And I would have to be rescheduled.
Well, the earliest I could see my doctor would be mid February 2023!! I have a conflict/avoidance issue, so I didn’t pitch a fit, which most normal people would have, and which I should have.
So after the burned (burnt?) bacon, and the dermatologist fiasco, I spiraled a bit. Into anxiety. Of the “Nothing is good in the world variety.”
As we were sitting down for breakfast, HR said, “Well, at least you didn’t cry when you burned the bacon. You usually cry when you mess up your dishes.” (TMI?)
We both laughed at the pathetic yet victorious truthfulness of his observation, and salvaged what we could from the bacon. I should’ve taken a picture of it. But if you can just imagine a piece of black construction paper, that’s basically what my bacon looked like.
Back to the narrative.
I found a recipe for Sweet Corn, Shrimp and Rice Skillet. Initially, I thought it was too fancy for me to try. HR’s the gourmet chef. But then I decided to attempt it anyway. In my grandmother’s 10-inch cast-iron skillet.
First, I cut the corn off the cob.
Then I made a purée of onions, garlic, shallots, red bell pepper, fresh ginger, fresh turmeric and homemade vegetable broth.
I added the corn.
Put it in the oven to cook it all down a bit.
Quickly sautéed the shrimp.
And put it all together.
Beautifully delicious.
But what was best about all this corn-ing around was that it got me out of my downward anxious spiral. Finding the recipe, doing the prep work, especially cutting the beautiful corn, was meditative. Allowing me to pay attention to my bodily sensations—smelling the freshly grated turmeric and ginger, feeling the shrimp as I patted them dry with paper towels, tasting the purée to make sure it was seasoned perfectly, choosing the pretty deer bowls from the cabinet, and calling my husband to lunch when all was ready.
I attended to my body, which got me away from the stories my mind was telling me about my “problems.“
Yes, sometimes it’s perfectly fine to be corny.
Neal’s Post from the Past: “Pot Pie Smiles”
Here’s a post from back in 2014 about my life-long relationship with chicken pot pies.
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One of my earliest joyful memories as a kid finds me meandering off, on warm summer mornings, to the community playground near my house in Cochran Field, near Macon, Georgia. My best friend Billy and I would play until our mothers brought us chicken pot pies and sweet tea. Sitting at the weathered, wooden picnic tables, we would gobble down our pot pies in their little aluminum containers (which we repurposed as treasure collectors).
I have always loved the creamy texture, the flaky crusts, the green peas and carrots, and the homey, Mama-ish warmth of chicken pot pies (or turkey pot pies but NOT cheesy or veggie pot pies). Of course, they were FROZEN SOLID forty-five minutes before I had all those lovey feelings as a child. And back then, I didn’t realize that our mothers were watching The Price Is Right or Queen for a Day instead of preparing fresh, homemade lunches for us boys.
So after buying organic vegetables from the local farm-to-table community market (doesn’t that make me sound health-oriented and grounded yet hip and on-target?), I decided to make a homemade chicken pot pie. HOMEMADE
First of all, do you have ANY clue how long it takes to chop carrots, celery, peppers and potatoes? Boil the corn and then scrape it off the cob? Finely cut the rosemary? Roll out the dough? (Okay, okay, all I did was roll it out of the carton, but still.)
But, oh my goodness, what fun! I may become a famous TV chef or something!
Delicious!
Swanson’s may do it faster, but not better!
Monday Moaning or Monday Marveling?
This post has a bit of both.
I’ve still marveling at Husband Robert’s culinary chops (and patience) making, this past weekend, a fabulous but time-consuming Au Gratin Potatoes dish.
Here he is, doing prep work, with cheeses whose names I can’t pronounce.
Whenever Husband Robert (let’s just call him HR, you’ll remember what that means, right?) is making something “fancy,” I will wander into the kitchen (most often because of the aroma, similar to what dogs do) and sweet-sincerely ask, “Babe, is there anything I can do to help?” Here’s where the story takes an abrupt turn before it has really even started.
HR doesn’t immediately answer. He presses “pause.”
The pause is substantial, pregnant with meaning. If the pause were a criminal taking a lie detector test, here’s the truth it would freely confess, to avoid jail time:
“Uh, excuse me, Neal, but you don’t really belong in a chef’s kitchen. You are more at home with a cast iron skillet in your Southern hands, frying something. Go read your escapist novel.”
What?! I love my old cast iron …
But here’s what actually birthed out of HR’s full term pause:
“I’m fine.”
(Which basically means the same thing as what that honest criminal said.)
After pouting while joyfully reading Apples Never Fall for a bit, I return. To take pictures. And being a photographer, Robert CANNOT resist pictures being taken of his food.
He bought this new contraption to slice potatoes thinly—which TERRIFIES ME. It’s a potato guillotine.
And I don’t mean to be a cynic or anything, but this is a Big Bunch of Energy Expenditure for a potato.
Here HR is watching a YouTube video WHILE OPERATING THE GUILLOTINE!
“You do it your way. I’ll do it mine,” I think he said to the online chef.
Finally, FINALLY, the Dish is Done. And it looks and smells heavenly.
I find it SO yummy.
But Robert is NOT happy, and when the head of HR is not happy, neither am I.
He moans (and it wasn’t even Monday morning yet).
His problem? Well, being lactose intolerant, he couldn’t use cream or half and half in the recipe, so he substituted almond/coconut milk instead. He thought it didn’t come out creamy enough. Didn’t have the proper scalloped texture or coloring. Sort of Rotten Au Gratin, he seemed to think.
But I thought it was good, actually VERY good, especially for food not fried in a cast iron pan.
NealEnJoy 