Who gets the last piece? Why is it often such a fight? I know I shouldn’t do it, but often when it’s offered to me – that final piece of sushi, the last cookie on the plate…
I take it.
I mean, someone has to, why not me? I suppose that the “you snooze, you lose” mindset that drives these impulsive decisions is a bit childlike… But if it’s a tasty morsel, I do find it hard to resist.
For these macarons, I really, really had to work at not having them both.
It would have been nice, though, if my kids (who gleefully took one each) appreciated my sacrifice.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-08-06 12:25:222020-08-06 12:25:23Last One
I was going to post an entry about the classic Italian Nonna, and how traditionally they cook up a storm in the kitchen, and how it draws everyone together in a big, happy family.
But I don’t have a Nonna. I’m about as Italian as a pint of Guinness. Well, technically more Bass or Boddingtons, but my point stands. One of my grandmothers died when I was very young, and the other was as British as you could get. Her specialty was pastry. My God, she could make a pie.
But I don’t want to speculate (yet) on why she worked so hard to make such lovely pies and meals for us. Perhaps it was because she had some pressing need to feed her grandchildren, even though she was in rather poor health (Measles when she was 3 and she lost an eye; the Second World War, when they levelled Birmingham because it was an industrial centre; tuberculosis, which was why she really struggled to hug us, as she only had one lung and was rather frail – God, it’s a miracle she lasted as long as she did). Given her history, she didn’t need to lift a finger for us and we would have been ok with that. She had her great British reserve and never berated us with, ‘eat, eat, eat!’ as far as I can remember. The food was always just… There. Her cooking was fine, but the memory of her pastry can bring me directly to a backyard in Salmon Arm in the summertime with a slice of cherry or apple pie ready for my appetite.
Speaking personally, why do I spend so much effort cooking for my family? Here’s a secret – when I’m cooking alone I can barely get a baked potato on the table. For the family, I’ll pull out all the stops. Or most of them, anyway.
But why?
I have no clear idea, but as I have noted before, we all have to eat. More than that, though, I’m a middle child. They say middle children are pleasers. It’s in my nature to want to make sure that everything is OK and that everyone is fed. Certainly the dinner table is one of the last areas where a family can safely gather and talk. Even if no one wants to really get into issues, most people are able to put down their phones and make small talk for the duration of eating a meal. I really celebrate that and as much as possible, dinner is on the table at 6. The only other place that you have great conversations is in the car.
Further to my style of being a pleaser, my mom just wasn’t that interested in cooking. She had an immaculately planned kitchen (still does – Tupperware everywhere, everything labelled) and she always knew what we were eating. She just wasn’t that enthused with the prospect of putting dinner on the table every night. My sister was off doing her thing; as was my brother. I was the only one regularly around the house and my foods class in grade 8 along with a couple of years being a busboy at a restaurant meant that all of sudden the cooking fell to me. I didn’t mind. Heck, I was eating it anyway. What is more, my dad always appreciated a good meal, and he is incredibly capable, but he doesn’t cook much.
One more thing: One of my aunts, one who is endlessly kind and the sort of person who will be remembered by all as loveliness personified, told me that if I wanted to impress a quality woman I had to learn how to cook. That advice has helped me greatly in keeping my wife blissfully unaware at just how out of my league she really is.
This is one of those great photos (not a great photo, but bear with me, here) where the subject is straightforward but the setting is a little odd.
My mom took this photo. I’m on the left. Middle of three kids.
My mother didn’t do anything in half-measures, although the other Catholic families in the neighbourhood certainly had more children than she did. She was one of 5, and she had three kids. The Cruickshanks had 9 kids, I think, and the Mahonys had 9 as well. My mom used to comment that Laura Cruickshank was three times the mother she was, mathematically speaking.
But no half measures. Look at the shelf behind us lovely children.
What the heck? Enough pickles to feed a baseball stadium on a busy Sunday afternoon.
One year, my mom decided to make dill pickles, so she made about a dozen 2-gallon jars. We had a lot of pickles.
Thankfully, they were rather good, but I would be lying if I relished (ha! that’s a pun, that is) the prospect of eating even my own share of dozens of Kosher Dills.
In the ensuing years I have learned to love pickles again. But we only buy them one small jar at a time.
As for not doing things in half-measures, that mindset has, unfortunately, rubbed off on me. I have 150lbs of roma tomatoes ordered for sauce at the end of the month.
This was a standard comment from my mother when we asked what was happening for dinner. “offer it up” was another regular response when any questions were posed about meals, but I’ll leave that for another time. The conversation went like this:
Kid: What’s for dinner?
Mom: Food, some of which you have had before and I know you can tolerate it because I have seen you eat it with my own eyes.. Yes, I have. Don’t look at me like that.
Kid: Uh, really? I was hoping for a different meal, all of which I have decided ten minutes before dinnertime.
Mom: Well, that wasn’t on the menu. (gesturing to the menu we had with daily dinners listed. Anyone was welcome to go ahead and cross off what was listed and make whatever dinner they wanted for the family. Yeah, that didn’t happen very often)
Kid: Well, I’m not sure…
Mom: You won’t be poisoned.
Kid: *shrug* OK.
“You won’t be poisoned”. I sometimes wonder what she meant by this, aside from the obvious assurance that the grim reaper was not going to visit us at the dinner table no matter how dark our teenage minds were.
Part of me thinks she was saying, “Good grief, what do you kids expect? Eat it! You’ll be fine! It might not be exactly what you were looking for, but for goodness’ sake, I can’t hit it out of the park every evening. And besides, I’m not going to kill you with this.”
Exasperation? Resignation? Exhaustion? Little of each? Not really sure. She always said it in a kind way – rarely angry, usually just outraged or, more likely, impatient and by 6PM on a rainy Thursday, rather done with the kids.
Or it’s possible she was saying, “Trust me. I know what I’m doing here. I wouldn’t put you kids in danger. You’re the most precious thing in my life.”
Not my best effort, but the arugula hid the worst of it. Gotta like greens for that sort of thing.
Not dignifying this with a photo, either. Well, ok, here is a shot from above.
I burned the pizza last night. Both pies.
In my defence (not that it helped much at the time and the failure does still sting, a little) I was cooking them over a charcoal fire in a thin metal kettle barbecue. It’s all we have here at the lake. I do have a pizza stone, though. We aren’t savages.
My technique is pretty crude: light a bunch of coals in the kettle, get them going really well, drop in the pizza stone, wait half an hour or so and then cook the pizza.
This time I used lump charcoal, rather than briquettes. Man, that stuff burns hot. Like really hot. Like hotter than I expected. Ergo, the first pizza, as I was trying to get some heat on top (which, in retrospect, was just not going to happen in a contraption like that) burned rather badly. It was still really tasty, just, as my mother would say, “Crispy”.
The second pizza was better, but the same thing happened again – a moment of inattention and it was black. Talk about a testament to the triumph of hope over experience. That annoying “Fool me once, won’t get fooled again” quote would also suffice.
There is only one solution; try again. I’m getting better with barbecue pizza, but there is work yet to be done.
On a positive note the customers weren’t too fussed. They ate it and didn’t give me a hard time. It’s nice when family is like that. In fact, they told me to stop beating myself up – that they enjoyed it and I should move on.
My wife brought up this post I showed her a while back. Apt.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-07-16 11:29:582020-07-16 11:59:25Failure. Even if my family didn’t see it that way.
Best I could come up with. The Perk coffee pot photo seems to be unavailable.
There is one place I’ll consider drinking coffee out of a percolator. Well, maybe two places but the second place is generally the basement of a church, somewhere, and let’s not discuss that any more.
The one place is the lake, or as we know it, The Lake. The Lake is Christina Lake, just north of the Canada/US border above Spokane, Washington. My in-laws have a cabin at Christina. It is a lovely spot, and it is boat access and decidedly off-grid. On a good day I’ll have 2 bars of LTE cell service which is just enough to be incredibly maddening when trying to pick up email or do a blog post. We have propane for a fridge and a water heater and we have a lovely set of deep cycle batteries and solar panels that require near-constant attention.
The coffee has been a source of great discussion, as one might reasonably expect – and as evidenced by other posts on this blog. We have a stove-top espresso machine, a Moka pot, which makes a decent cup of coffee. Aeropress is in regular use – always good coffee there – and there is the perk pot from, oh, the 1960s? Maybe the 1970s. This is my mother-in-law’s coffee world and she makes the perk coffee. In fact, there is even an extra pot in reserve lest something untowards happen to the pot in regular rotation. Woe betide the fool who decides to move to a different coffee option. Well, I’m still alive, but I think it’s noteworthy to point out that the perk pot is still in constant use and there is, literally, a collection of other, unused coffee options in the cupboard. All have been tried, and all have failed. Only the Corningware option remains. Shelly would probably have something pithy to say about that, “Look on my coffee options, ye mighty and despair!!”
Percolator pots are annoying and time consuming. They have to be watched as if you were boiling an egg. Bring to the boil, wait 7 minutes, enjoy! But it is boiling the coffee and having it drip through the grounds. Not my first choice for coffee…
But enjoy we do. Well, my older daughter was complaining it was a bit watery, but her young taste buds just need some mellowing.
What would barely pass muster in any other environment is rather tasty at the lake. My mother would insist it’s the water we use and she may well have a point. But I think that there is some coffee magic in this place. Makes every cup taste better, even the coffee made the old fashioned way.
Unless we try the coffee left from the year before. No amount of wizardry will allow that to pass muster.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-07-15 16:07:032020-07-15 16:07:04Perk. 33 and 1/3 percent more perk.
My dad makes the best mashed potatoes. When he comes for dinner and mashed potatoes are on the menu, he is deputized to do the work. My children insist.
He does it with aplomb, and uses only the most basic ingredients. I’m always trying to get him to put in some white pepper or sour cream… He just uses a bit of butter, some milk and maybe a pinch of salt.
No gooeyness, no lumps, it’s amazing how he can get them just right. Much as I try to compete, I’m always outgunned. But in the hierarchy of mashing potatoes, at least I’m ahead of my siblings. I remember a story about my younger brother, mashing potatoes with a hammer, as he didn’t have a proper masher. Apparently the pot was saved only because he had overcooked the potatoes and a protective layer of starch had been cooked to the bottom of the pot. Lucky guy. I understand they weren’t much good, but the tools do make a difference.
Here’s the irony. Well, maybe not an irony, per se, but an interesting situation. I hate to tell too many tales, but when I was a kid my mom would rice potatoes for us. She would boil them up and then put them in a ricer (basically a huge garlic press) and we would then have this dry, nearly unpalatable mound on the plate, along with whatever was being served that evening.
We would beg for mashed potatoes. My mother would refuse, insisting that mashed potatoes were, ‘denatured’. And then she would remind us that in Ireland they had a potato ricer mounted to the countertop in some homes. As if, somehow, that made any difference to me wanting mashed potatoes. It wasn’t my fault the Irish have strange kitchen conventions.
I remember, even as a young kid, thinking that some academic level mind-bending was going on here. For goodness’ sake! It’s almost the same thing. And then once we slathered them in butter it really made no difference.
But alas, it was not to be. The best potato masher in the family had his skills ignored for years. They were brought out only at holiday meals when the extended family – those for whom mashed potatoes were a regular table occurrence – had us over for turkey dinner. It was only later that I guess my mom had her Damascene moment and allowed mashed spuds at the family table again. I wasn’t around to see it, but I do remember being served mashed potatoes at their house one day and thinking to myself that an earth-shattering moment had happened. I just wish I had been around to witness it.
Regardless, the net effect was just fine with me and my kids, as my dad hadn’t lost any of his skills in those fallow years.
Despite a nutritional value in the negative digits (or perhaps because of it), pancakes hold a position of great regard in our home.
I have probably made them a couple hundred times over the last few years. My technique is constantly evolving, as it is for everything I make, but I have this recipe down pretty much flat. Pancakes are one meal that everyone happily eats. We do have fundamental differences over syrup – my self and my younger daughter enjoy pure maple syrup; my wife and older daughter, in what can only be viewed as a purely passive-aggressive stance, enjoy cane syrup. We are using up the last of a bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup which only adds to their transgressions.
Yes, white flour. Yes, sugar. Yes, devoid of any real nutrition, and then you slather on some butter and douse them in syrup.
…but you can put raspberries on top. Or strawberries. Or some huckleberries. It probably doesn’t really do much for the overall nutritional value but it doesn’t hurt.
Having teenagers as I do is a full-throttle journey into the world of carbohydrates. These pancakes tick every box on Planet Starch and as a consequence are met with adulation. I would love to get more protein and fat in the meal – yes, I know that is what bacon is for, but hopefully something a little less processed. At least there is some fat in the butter.
The plate of flapjacks sits out on the stove after breakfast is over. Yesterday there were 6 extra pancakes. This morning there was an empty plate.
As much as I know they’re really not that good for anyone on any level, making a meal for my family that is met with cheers is as much about me feeling good as a provider as it is about me feeding the family.
I just sometimes wish they would show as much enthusiasm for a salad.
Right, the recipe.
2 cups flour
1 tsp salt
3 tsp baking powder
2 Tbsp sugar
2 eggs separated
2 cups milk.
Mix dry ingredients. Whip egg whites in small bowl. Mix egg yolks and milk in another small bowl. Combine milk mixture into the dry ingredients until just combined. Fold in egg whites. Cook in oiled pan until cooked through.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-06-29 13:17:492020-06-29 13:20:50Keep this up and you’ll kill the family.
Bananas, Cuba. Where everything is a proxy for something else.
I was chatting with an old friend over a beer last night. He works with the Government of Canada in the Foreign Service office. Well, everyone was repatriated so he’s now home. Living with his folks, because his house is rented out to a very nice family who expected he wouldn’t be needing it for another couple of years. His wife and daughter are also with his folks. Good thing it’s a big house. It’s my understanding that as wonderful as that situation might be in an abstract form, it sets up many opportunities for interpersonal friction.
Our conversation was wide-ranging, as they always seem to be, but he did comment on something that has me thinking: He brought up the notion of food being a proxy, as he had been spending a fair amount of time in the kitchen, cooking for his own family and his parents.
A proxy is, according to dictionary.com:
proxy [prok-see]
noun,pluralprox·ies.
the agency, function, or power of a person authorized to act as the deputy or substitute for another.
the person so authorized; substitute; agent.
a written authorization empowering another person to vote or act for the signer, as at a meeting of stockholders.
an ally or confederate who can be relied upon to speak or act in one’s behalf.
I saw these definitions and I thought, “Oh boy, where to start?”
Thankfully, it was a lighthearted conversation we were having, but his thesis was that in cooking for his family (and especially his parents) and in making food that they were obliged to eat, it set up a power dynamic that caught him off guard.
On the one hand, it’s dinner. We all have to eat.
On the other hand if you’re cooking for another, what is the message that the food is replacing?
Man, now I’m in way over my head. There are two issues here. One is what is the food acting as a proxy for in terms of inter-personal relationships? The other issue is what the food is saying? Or what the creation of the food is saying.
I’m staying with the first one for this post.
Thinking about myself, because that’s what I do so well… There are a few people in my life where food has played a major part. And in every one it has been (as far as I can tell) positive. No one used food as a weapon. No one used it as an improper tool to control a young, foolish boy. (Well, except when it was something like profiteroles or a nice piece of perfectly cooked salmon and then it was decidedly Pavlovian, but let’s agree that was done in the name of science and just move on.)
For me, food really isn’t used as a proxy, as far as I can think. It is used to communicate. I’ll deal with that in a later post.
But as a proxy? I don’t think so. But I can see how you could use it as such – there was an anecdote I read about years ago: A young woman was returning from her studies in Canada to her European home at Christmastime – I can’t remember specifically where it was. As she stepped out of the taxi in front of her childhood home, both of her parents greeted her with their own, individual, versions of the same dish. Jetlagged and exhausted, not to mention freezing, they insisted she try both versions then and there on the front porch… …and then decide which of the two was better. Can you imagine being welcomed home by that?
The food was acting as a proxy in that story, for sure. But I shudder to imagine what role it was actually playing. I prefer my food to be a proxy for just how much I enjoy my family and how much I appreciate them. There is no better way to show how you feel about someone than by cooking them a meal they will love.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-06-26 17:36:552020-06-26 17:36:56Food as a proxy.
What do you do if you’re out of ideas? When your kids eat an endless supply of junk food that appears, seemingly, out of nowhere? When you just don’t have the ability or the energy to do something about it?
Or when you’re out of ideas for helping kids with anxiety, or with migraine headaches. Or both. Or Math homework. Because the parent in you wants to tell them to just get a good night’s sleep and eat some healthy food. Hey, it might not solve everything but it’s a start. Generally comments like that are not welcome in conversations with teenagers. Who knew?
Breakfast used to be pretty good. We had a system down. Mondays were this, Tuesdays, that. Wednesdays were these great egg sandwiches I would do with English muffins. But then my wife started fasting in the mornings, and the kids can barely get themselves out of bed on time, and it has descended into something really not worth doing. And a certain someone (not me, my goodness, no) was grazing on the English muffins so when I reached for them they were unavailable. It’s hard to cook when you don’t have all the ingredients.
One kid leaves the house, always late, always hungry. The other leaves the house on time but with not nearly enough food to keep her going through the day. And now that no one is going anywhere in a hurry due to COVID, it’s even more chaotic.
Then they come home and have a huge snack, or eat when they arise – some time in the mid-afternoon – and they aren’t hungry for dinner.
They’re getting to the age where they can’t be punished. Heck, they’re well past that age. I’m totally out of ideas. I want to say, “here, eat! It’ll cure what ails you.”
But to no avail. Oh well. What is it they say about ‘fighting the good fight?’ Is that a timely thing to say or think? I hope so. Gotta be something in that box that Pandora opened.
https://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.png00Alastairhttps://dontcrowdthepan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Dont_Crowd_Logo_new-1.pngAlastair2020-06-24 11:51:002020-06-24 11:51:01Of all the best laid plans…
