Connie feels she handled herself well meeting the girlfriend for the first time.
Dignity and Comportment
friends and family
A House Guest
Biscotti for the creme brulee.
Tomorrow I am expecting a house guest I’ve never met. I’ve been in rather a panic getting the house into some sort of order to receive visitors. To some extent, I’ve said screw it. But still. . .there’s a need for basic cleanliness and order.
I’m very excited. I didn’t have a lot of advance notice which is probably good. I’d have driven myself and everyone else mad.
Chef Boy ‘R Mine has arrived as well. He’s been cooking up a feast and helping to clean. The barn is pert near always two steps forward, one step back – improvement is made in tiny increments with each project uncovering a larger project. This has been no different, but since I’ve grown to expect such things, it doesn’t produce any extra stress. OK, not much extra stress.
[The mess in the plumbing closet was stressful, but I’m Scarlett O’Hara-ing it for the moment. You know – the old I’ll think about it tomorrow.]
Good food, but what a mess.
My house guest has never seen snow. If she’s never seen snow, it’s a given she’s never experienced this kind of cold. Florida born and bred, Guest O’Mine is in for a rude awakening. We’ve borrowed a 4×4 for the airport pickup to avoid her having to trek the hill (in the snow) dragging her suitcases behind her. We’re thoughtful people, we are.
The food, if not the surroundings, will be stellar. The kitchen, however, has been one step forward, two steps back. When I went to bed last night, it was OK, this is adequate. Hah!
Taking a break.
The kitchen is a mess.
The boy has sliced and diced, stirred and whirled, baked, sautéed, chopped, poured, splashed, dashed and whipped.
The food will be fabulous.
At present, we’re both taking a break. Mind you, there’s not any time for breaks. There is still much to do. Much. Much just to get to the minimum. He’s chatting away on his laptop, puppies happily nearby, and I’m blogging on my laptop. I think we both have a problem with priorities. Or maybe we don’t. Making connections with people is more important than ones with Mr. Clean. Right? Right.
[insert musical interlude here]
[I swear on my honor, that I wrote all of the above before the following event occurred. Scout’s honor. Honest. Absolutely. With no exaggeration or storyteller’s license involved at all.]
I’m now officially amused. I sent Child O’Mine up to the bathroom to help me switch out the toilet seat. There was a bolt I couldn’t get to budge. The bolt is held on by a plastic wingnut. We did this and then we did that. And there were a lot of exclamations of WTF! So we did some more of this and we did some more of that – all of it involving wrenches, needle-nosed pliers, flathead screwdrivers, and much cursing. Nothing. And it wasn’t that the bolt wouldn’t move – it moved all over the place. The top of the bolt could be turned in the opposite direction of the bottom part of the bolt. WTF?
[Things like this routinely happen in the barn. I’ll eventually get around to the thermostat story.]
We pondered things for a bit. Chef Boy ‘R Mine said, “Wait. I’ve got an idea.”
Now he’s been cooking up a storm. When he comes here, he brings the tools of his trade with him. Since he’s planning crème brulee, he had a kitchen torch – a twinkie torch by anyone’s standards – used to brown meringue and that sort of thing..
Creme brulee carmelizer or plumbing tool? It's both.
We melted that wingnut off. OK, he did. After I was sure the toilet wasn’t going to explode, I guffawed and told him he was genius.
[He takes after me. I once solved a pesky countertop installation problem with a bread knife.]
A $20 Williams & Sonoma cooking torch as a plumbing tool – who’d have thunk it? Me and Chef Boy ‘R Mine, that’s who.
I can’t wait to tell the girlfriend, OOPS, I mean, houseguest this story. (Damn, let the cat out of the bag.)
Now, I’ve got the giggles, but I’ve got to go finish that bathroom now.
[Giggle. Giggle. Guffaw.]
Crème brulee, anyone?
I had to jumpstart the coffee pot.
As my dad once said, It’s so cold out there, I had to jumpstart the coffee pot.
I’ve been known to say that sometimes coffee is just a caffeine delivery system and sometimes it’s a spiritual experience. Some days, it is both.
Coffee, is, and has been, my favorite beverage for decades. I drink it hot year-round. I drink a whole pot by myself before I ever step foot out of the door in the morning.
I cannot, and do not wish to ever, live without coffee. I even bought a gas grill for the primary purpose of being able to make coffee during power outages. I bought lots of BTU power, but it still takes forever to heat water.
I even have a spare coffee-maker to throw in the trunk on road trips. Those puny things in motels are all but useless not to mention the two little packets of coffee provided (1 regular, 1 decaffeinated). The travel pot also serves as the backup pot. This is how much I want and need coffee. There are always two.
I drink it black in a mug that is small by other coffeeholics’ standards. Like good whiskey, I sip my coffee. With a big mug, it’s cold before I get to the bottom.
Each night, I set up coffee for the morning, hit the timer button and toddle off to bed. This insures that the coffee is raring and ready-to-go when I stumble down the stairs trying to orient body and mind to an existence that seems more dream-like at 6 a.m. than my dreams.
Yesterday, on Facebook, a friend happened to mention that she’d gotten a brand new Cuisinart coffee pot and did I want her old one which was a snazzy red. I told her no, because I have a snazzy white Cuisinart albeit an older model.
Her original status update had to do with why she poured in 12 cups of water, but the reservoir only showed 10. We also discussed why, even after topping off the reservoir, 12 cups of coffee only produced 10 cups. (Presumably, if we didn’t top off the reservoir, the brewed amount would be 8 cups.)
It’s one of the mysteries of the universe. It’s not just this particular brand of coffee-maker, but all of them.. I’ve never had one that produces the same amount of brewed coffee as water I pour in.
The immediate supposition is that two cups are lost as steam during brewing. Two cups is a lot of water. Really, I think I would notice two cups of steam collecting under my kitchen cabinets. I mean, really, wouldn’t it drip from the cabinets?
I have no suppositions about the reservoir.
Another mystery is why every single coffee-maker carafe dribbles. ‘Tis near impossible to pour a cup without having to immediately grab paper towel and wipe up the mess on the counter. I do pour carefully. I pour slow; I pour fast; I pour medium. I pour from great heights and I pour with the lip of the carafe touching the cup – there’s always that dribble.
For a long, long time, I was uncommonly fond of, and unapologetic of, Maxwell House French Roast coffee. All that fancy, schmancy stuff in coffee shops was wasted on me. And don’t even get me started on Starbucks. The first time I had it, I gave the cup back to them and told them they needed to make another pot because that one had gone bad. They did. The second cup was worse.
I did develop a fondness for Columbian coffee (though not Starbucks’). However, with the quantities I drink, it was hard on my stomach. I returned to Maxwell House French Roast.
And then they new-and-improved it to the point where it was undrinkable (unless that was the only coffee I had). I fumbled around in the coffee aisle at the grocery and eventually switched to Folgers.
With a twist of fate, I discovered Tanzanian Peaberry. Now there’s a coffee bean a girl could love. I bought 5 lbs of beans from a mailorder place and reached coffee nirvana.
At times I would run out of the Tanzanian and at other times I just couldn’t afford it. Folgers was the old standby.
During the course of yesterday’s Facebook conversation, we discussed the penchant for Cuisinart’s built-in grinders to gum up. Mine will be fine for weeks and weeks. Then, one morning, I will wake to half-a-pot of semi-brewed coffee and half-ground beans all over the countertop. This is not an event that provokes a good morning.
Wouldn’t you know it – shortly after closing Facebook, I made a new pot and the damned thing gummed up, overflowed, and thoroughly messed up the counter I had just cleaned.
So cursing and stomping (and calling my friend names because she jinxed it), I cleaned up the mess. I unplugged the pot and began cleaning out half-ground beans. There was one spot near the top of the brewer that I couldn’t get to. I turned that baby upside down and used the sink sprayer attachment.
Since I had the damn thing all torn apart, I decided to clean it. I poured in vinegar and I poured in water and I turned the pot on to brew. Nothing. No lights, no camera, no action.
I checked the breaker box – fine. I plugged the coffee-maker into another outlet just to be sure. Nothing.
Sigh.
I dragged out the backup coffee-maker – a Melitta that never did grind right – and got out the Folgers. All was more or less well, though I was still mad.
This morning, I stumbled down the stairs and realized I’d forgotten to set up coffee last night in the excitement of Chef Boy ‘R Mine’s 10 p.m. arrival. It took a minute to register and without thinking, I hit the power button even though the Melitta was sitting next to the Cuisinart. (Neither maker is particularly small and only an early-morning fog explains this.) The Cuisinart saluted, slipped into gear, and brewed me a nice pot of vinegared water. The supposition here is that the electronic parts had gotten wet and just needed drying time.
Sigh.
I poured water and Folgers into the Melitta and hit brew.
The Folgers is right tasty this morning. I only got 10 cups and there’s coffee dribbles on the counter, but still I have cup of coffee and all is right with the world. Sometimes coffee is just a caffeine delivery system and sometimes it is a spiritual experience. Today it is both.
Good thing. It is so cold out there, I had to jumpstart the coffee pot.
The pinnacle of food perfection.
Gustatory perfection.
I’m not sure I would even call it comfort food. It’s my favorite meal of all time. If I’m ever to be executed, I will request tacos (cooked and assembled my way) as my last meal.
Oh, sure, I love roasted turkey and all the trimmings; I love Chef Boy ‘R Mine’s pear salad; I love a perfectly grilled steak; and I adore lobster. But tacos (cooked and assembled my way) are the crème de la crème – the very pinnacle of my own personal haute cuisine pyramid.
Cooked my way is a long story.
Half-a-century ago when I was born, my parents were stationed at 29 Palms, California – a Marine Corps base tucked into the Mojave with the nearest place of any size being Palm Springs. As my dad tells it, the only thing in Palm Springs they could afford was gas, because gas was dirt cheap everywhere. [Yes, I remember free “china” at gas stations – anything to persuade you to buy their gas – attendants who pumped it, washed your windshield, checked your oil, and topped your tires. I remember the outrage of $1/gallon gas. I’m digressing.]
The Tay-Cos King & Burgeoning Family
For fun, the parents would drive into Los Angeles – quite a distance – and splurge on hamburgers. I came along and ate up what disposable income they had for hamburgers in L.A. That’s when the folks discovered tay-cos (rhymes with pay-toes). Now when I was 7, you could get tacos, um, tay-cos, 12 for a $1. I imagine they were even cheaper 7 years earlier.
My parents were from the Ann Arbor area of Michigan. My mother was a picky eater. My father was not, but he’d grown up poor so there wasn’t much variety. Southern California cuisine was about as exotic as they’d ever encountered. It could only have been the abject poverty of a private’s pay and the desire to have some sort of nightlife that provoked them to try them there tay-cos.
Well, my brother came along and 10 cent a gallon gas (plus china!) and 12 tay-cos for less than a buck was Too Much Money.
Here the adventure begins.
They decided to make them at home with my dad dreaming of becoming the King of Franchised Tacos. (This was way before Taco Bell.)
Being in Southern California, the ingredients were easily enough purchased – the ingredients as they derived them to be, anyway.
Tor-till-ahs
Armed with tortillas (tor-till-ahs), ground beef, onion, tomato, cheese, and iceberg lettuce, they commenced.
There was an immediate snag.
After a few failed attempts, they couldn’t for the life of them figure out how to fry the tor-till-ahs so that they could be filled without a) the tor-till-ahs breaking, or b) the tor-till-ah sticking to itself once folded.
They set to thinking. [My parents are not stupid people. You won’t believe this after the following paragraph, but, really, they’re not.]
Now I told you that my mother likes to sew. I’m not sure which of the two of them came up with the idea, but she got out the sewing machine and sewed those suckers.
[I’ve had nearly 50 years to wrap my brain around this and I still can’t fathom how they thought that was going to solve the problem. The both of them get to laughing so hard, their explanations can’t be understood. I did ask them about the thread. They manage to gasp that it pulled out easily enough once they were cooked. And then they collapse into fits of maniacal laughter again.]
How to fry a corn tortilla.
About that time or a few years later, my dad developed a friendship with another Marine who was married, they say, to the world’s stupidest woman. Isabella was a good-hearted woman, friendly, loved her husband and children fiercely, but, to hear tell of it, her husband and my parents lived in real fear that she was going to accidentally kill someone with her stupidity. [This from the people sewing tor-till-ahs to make tay-cos.]
I’m not sure how it came about, but I imagine it was because Isabella was Mexican, but one of them grilled Isabella about tay-cos making or, perhaps, Isabella happened to be around when they were being made. After snickering a bit (I’m sure), she corrected their pronunciation and showed them.
[To this day, I’m not sure if Isabella was made privy to the sewing debacle or if they kept that to themselves. Probably not – I get my ability to laugh at myself from my folks. A good story is a good story.]
The fixin’s.
After my having talked to a couple of Mexicans and learning what a proper taco is, Isabella probably sneered at what they were filling those tacos with, but if she was she kept that to herself. [I don’t think Isabella was as stupid as she was made out to be though I’ve heard some doozies of some stories from the tay-cos/tor-till-ah people. Isabella is a legend.]
I’ve had authentic tacos. They’re okay. [Trust me on this – there is no place in West Virginia you can get an authentic taco. If Mexicans weren’t the fastest growing ethnic group in Appalachia, I’d go so far as to say there is no place in Appalachia to get an authentic taco. I will say that anywhere other than the just north of the Mexican border is going to prove difficult to find an authentic taco.]
Southern California and the first day of school with Ringo.
So. I grew up on tacos that were an amalgam of Isabella’s teaching and my parents’ food preferences. They were my favorite food long before my first day of school.
Thursdays at school were always tacos in the hot lunch line. I almost always took my lunch, but on Thursdays I had my 15 cents firmly clutched in hand. We moved from California to Hawaii and tacos at school ceased. That was kind of okay, because they didn’t do them right at school, but a bad taco is better than no taco. I begged tacos all the time; and, if dinner was at home, I always had tacos for my birthday.
Tacos started moving into the mainstream and our at-home tacos morphed and changed (with some aspects inviolate). We went from unseasoned ground beef to packets of taco seasoning. We went from shredded American cheese to sharp cheddar. At some point, “taco sauce” (the precursor to mass produced salsa) was added. More importantly, I’m not sure what Isabella taught them about frying tortillas, but what I grew up with was corn tortillas fried very briefly (just enough to make them really limp) and then stacked on paper towel to absorb the grease. (No folding.)
It has to be CORN tortillas. Those flour things are dreadful – ack, spit, ugh.
Once, we bought one of those taco kits at the store and were appalled.
Anyway.
Half the fun of tacos is the assembly. We all do it differently.
I’m insistent that the proper order is as follows:
The order in which God decreed.
Fold the shell in half and while keeping it folded but open with your left hand, spoon in seasoned ground beef followed by iceberg lettuce, THEN tomatoes, THEN onion, THEN cheese, and finally taco sauce (or salsa, these days). Any other ordering of the ingredients changes the taste, changes the texture, and makes me cranky.
My mother insists that the cheese be put directly on top of the meat, followed by the salsa and the rest of it whichever way the bowls are going around the table. Dad, too, likes the cheese on the meat and is just as persnickety about the order of the rest of it. My brother doesn’t seem to really care.
I can flat out put away some tacos. I love ‘em – grease and salsa dripping down my chin, the cold of the cheese, the hot of the meat, the crunch of the lettuce. I’ve been known to groan with delight.
My parents have switched to those crunchy, nasty things in a box that are called tortillas, because real corn tortillas get harder and harder to find.
I eat a lot of tacos in the summer. Homegrown ‘maters turn an already perfect food into something that rises beyond what words can describe. In the winter, I’ve taken to using those canned diced tomatoes. Like I said, a bad taco is better than no taco.
If I’m really jonesing for a taco and can’t, for whatever reason, make them myself – I’ll do a run through the Taco Bell. Though I order “crunchy tacos,” I don’t delude myself into really thinking of them as tacos. It’s akin, I think, to alcoholics and those alcohol-free beers. It’s better than nothing and wards off the shakes.
Too full to move.
Today I just had to have a taco. I absolutely had to go out and get some groceries (I was down to green bean omelets) and decided to get the ingredients and make them tomorrow. But while putting away the food, I kept looking longingly at those tortillas (tor-tee-yas) and decided to make tacos (tah-cos). Even if it was late. Even if I had things to do.
I do love tacos. The kitchen is a mess and I’m too full to move. I will not embarrass myself by enumerating the number of tacos I had.
I’ve got enough stuff left over that I can gorge on tacos for the next two or three days. I’m a happy woman.
W. Va. Fur and Root 