I Fried an Egg for a Homeless Cat

I thought it was important to just get it out there.  I’m out of canned food and Ginger Rogers wanted something besides dry food so I figured a fried egg and piece of challah would fit the bill.  She enjoyed it very much.  Monty liked fried eggs (he preferred poached) and something told me Ginger would too.  Figaro gave me a look and ran upstairs to pout.

I offered him an egg too, but he gave me a “No, I wasn’t really hungry anyway” look and turned his back to me.

When I came home this afternoon there were raccoon prints all over the dining and living room floors.  I thought it was important to just get this out there, too.  I had to run to the store and the cats would not make up their minds who was staying in and who was going out so I said the hell with it and left the back door open. 

It had occurred to me that someone could come in and steal my laptop and artwork, but a raccoon helping himself to Iams at four in the afternoon didn’t enter my mind.  I think one of the cats scared it off because the bowl was still half full and raccoons aren’t any better at moderation than I am.

I couldn’t make this crap up—right now, there is a skunk on the patio eating a leftover chunk of challah.  Mazel Tov, Pepé.

I am having hot chocolate.  I use Mexican hot chocolate (those disks you have to break apart with an ice pick), and add a few drops of rose water and some ground ancho chili.  I got the idea from a place in Oakland called Bittersweet.  That reminds me, if you are ever in the Rockridge section of Oakland, go to Who’s Your Betty and Bella Vita Home. 

They are small businesses that could use more customers; Who’s Your Betty is a store that began as a tribute to a woman who died of cancer and would have not been too keen on a pink ribbon.  I got my mom a pair of earrings in the shape of owls there.  Where else are you going to find owl earrings? 

I started my Thanksgiving preparations.  I cut a twelve-pound pumpkin into chunks, roasted it, pureed it, then let it drain in a colander to get rid of the excess water.  I don’t really like pumpkin pie, but it amuses me to spend a lot of time cooking something I have no interest in eating (except shrimp, because even the smell . . . ).

My grandmother and great-grandmother used canned pumpkin;  I have no idea if anyone in my family used anything but.  For all I know the pilgrims used canned pumpkin (I watched Colonial House on PBS, but they never went into that).  I have enough of the puree to make more pies than I will, so I’ll freeze a portion of it for use in other things.

I’m making four pumpkin pies and four coconut pies for a community center dinner, along with instant mashed potatoes.  Making mashed potatoes from scratch for a thousand is not realistic, but adding large amounts of butter and half & half to the instant potatoes I am in charge of is.  I tried them last year.  You bring the spoon to your face and you know just by the smell, but the butter and cream really helped.

For my own Thanksgiving, I am making the dressing (the Victorians changed the name from stuffing because it sounded too vulgar), dinner rolls, cranberry sauce, and some desserts.

I was told to bring an extra dessert so I’m bringing three.  Two years ago something bad happened with regard to dessert and I will never again take any chances.   I’m making pecan pie and I am doing it the way I think it used to be done.  I figured the pie was older than the commercial corn syrup most often used in it so I started Googling; I found it goes back to at least the 1800s (French cooks in Louisiana introduced it) when they most likely used golden syrup or treacle.  I have treacle!

I’ll report back on that, as well as my homemade mincemeat, and the bread pudding baked within a pumpkin.  I decided to skip sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving, but I might make it for my birthday.

The rolls will be all-purpose American dinner rolls (Parker House-ish, I suppose) and another roll that has a brioche-like texture but uses pureed pumpkin in place of most of the eggs and milk.  I made it once years ago, but can’t remember what I thought of it. 

You know, I had several things unrelated to food or animals I was going to talk about, but I can’t recall what any of them were.

Except one.  I saw the news today and they were going on about Sarah Palin’s new book.  I’m sure someone has made this observation before, but if I were Peggy Hill, I would sue Palin’s ass for stealing my signature look.  All Palin did was make it more cartoon-ish.

 

No, It Would Not Be Easier

You must—at least once—make the soup I did tonight.

Picture 16th-century Italy, an elaborate banquet set with a dozen courses—most of which contain multiple dishes;  joints of roasted meats served alongside sweetened pastas, domed pies filled with stuffed pastas, meat ragus and custards, and in between some of those courses, soups and sweets to provide contrast and relief to the heavier dishes.

You could also picture a cookie cutter townhouse in California where the sheet vinyl in the dining room was installed wrong and has turned pink as a result but that would not be as much fun.

In either locale, the soup was worthy of note.  It is simplicity itself, a handful of ingredients, but all of them pretty spiffy.  You begin with homemade stock (I think it has to be in this case) which you infuse with almonds, garlic, pepper and cinnamon.  It is then strained, heated, salt and lemon juice added to taste, followed by a sprinkling of tiny strips of prosciutto and grated Parmigiano as it is served.

That is it.  The flavor haunts you, or maybe it teases you.  Either way, you know it is much more than broth with a sprinkling of cheese, but you cannot pin down all of it at once.  Amazing way to start a meal.

PS.  For those inclined to say it would be easier to come here for dinner, I can assure you that it is easier to make broth than it is to get through an airport these days.

Cocktails Worthy of Thanks

I have introduced cocktails to Thanksgiving.  Maybe your family’s Thanksgiving was already familiar with them, but mine was not.  My family, I regret to say, fit the stereotype of a sitcom family Thanksgiving: two people cook for days, twenty people eat three plate-fulls during halftime and barely pause to notice the cook with a second-degree gravy burn.

I have tried to slow the pace by bringing something to nibble on while doing the last of the cooking, along with something to wash it down.  I was asked for suggestions for this very thing (Jenny Robin wants to get her family drunk this year (I think it’s cute that she has to make an effort to do so)), so here are a few of my favorites.

Maybe this sounds odd or maybe it makes perfect sense, but I think of whiskey, bourbon and rye when I think of fall cocktails.  I regard them as the stews and soups of the liquor world—warming, comforting, and not too assertive, so my suggestions for Thanksgiving drinks are mostly whiskey-based.

By the way, I like smallish drinks so that I am done with them before they become warmed from my holding them.

The Sazerac
I read that this very old drink, which is now popular again, is one of the trendiest drinks around.  Despite that, it is one of my favorites and I will continue drink it long after it has ceased to be fashionable. The Peychaud bitters give it a bittersweet flavor and a pink-ish, orange-ish hue that I enjoy gazing at.

 

2 ounces Wild Turkey 101 rye whiskey (the high alcohol content keeps the sweetness in check)
1/2 ounce simple syrup, recipe follows
5 to 7 dashes Peychaud bitters, or orange bitters, Angostura bitters, as per availability
Herbsaint liqueur, Absinthe, or other liqueur with anise as it’s dominant flavor
Piece of lemon zest
A champagne saucer or coup

Put first three ingredients in an ice-filled glass and stir for 30 seconds. In a chilled coup glass, add 3 dashes of the Herbsaint and spin around to coat the glass, dump excess. Strain rye mixture into glass and twist the lemon rind over the glass and drop in.

Simple syrup- combine 2 parts water to 1 part sugar in a saucepan (or a bowl in the microwave) and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 5 minutes. The syrup will keep in the refrigerator for months.

Plymouth Rocks
I invented this, but never took notes so the quantities are kind of loose. This will make 6 cocktails.

3/4 cup Wild Turkey rye whiskey or Maker’s Mark bourbon
1/4 cup Cointreau or Grand Mariner
The juice of half an orange
A few dashes of bitters
Sparkling apple cider

Combine the first four ingredients over ice and stir for 30 seconds. Strain into champagne saucers or martini glasses and top each with the sparkling cider, to taste. Some people liked just a splash while others used almost equal parts making it a drink they could enjoy several times over.

Whiskey Sour
This always-appropriate drink is more often than not made with bottled sweet and sour mix. Squeezing a lemon is not nearly as taxing as some would have you believe, so do that instead. It used to be made with an egg white but for a single drink I omit it since it’s hard to measure a teaspoon of egg white. If you are making four or more drinks at once much it’s easier and it creates a nice froth on top.

The above photo came from this website where a recipe for whiskey sour better sounding than mine can be found.

2 ounces whiskey, bourbon, etc.
1 ounce each (or to taste) lemon juice and simple syrup
1 teaspoon egg white

Shake the ingredients over ice and strain into a highball glass.

If you use the egg, shake it for 30 seconds without the ice, add the ice and shake again—this results in the best froth on top since the ice makes it harder to dissolve the egg.

And finally, for those who like vodka . . .

Cape Cod

Combine 4 ounces cranberry juice with 2 ounces vodka over ice in a glass and garnish with a lime wedge.

You can vary this drink by using an infused vodka or a splash of ginger syrup (recipe found on my food blog) with some lime juice to balance the sweetness. 

That mention of ginger made me think of another drink: the Daedalus.  Stir Irish whiskey, some ginger syrup and several dashes bitters over ice, strain into cocktail glass and garnish with a lemon twist.  It was invented by a man who got hit by a Guinness truck making its morning delivery. 

Fascinating Stuff

This is not fascinating in the least, but I haven’t written anything since Sunday so I thought I ought to.

I made meat stock this week (chicken leg quarters, beef short ribs, and duck wings) and enough pastry for one double-crust pie and two single-crust pies.  I think there will be about twenty of us on Thanksgiving.  Someone will make pumpkin pie and I think there will be an apple pie as well, so if I bring three pies (mince, sweet potato and pecan) and a pumpkin stuffed with bread pudding I should have enough dessert leftover to eat for breakfast for three days (assuming I eat a two-course dessert breakfast (and I will)).

I made stock and pastry, but I only cooked dinner three times this week (I think . . . Matzo Brei one night, meatloaf and mashed potatoes another, and something so memorable I can’t think of it).   I like making the ingredients required to cook more than the actual cooking.

Oh, that reminds me.  I have always pushed using waxy potatoes for mashed potatoes since russets don’t have a lot of taste, but I got russets at the farmers market this weekend and it was a revelation.  The problem heretofore was in my using potatoes from a grocery store rather than hitch hiking to the nearest farm. 

Russets, when dug from the dirt only a few days prior to use, make kick-ass mashed potatoes.   By the way, use a hand-held potato masher and just beat the hell out of them; it works much better than an electric mixer which incorporates too much air.

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I never spend more than three minutes doing anything to my hair.  It does what it wants and I see no point in arguing with it.

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I’ve gone an entire month without turning on the television.  As a result,  I have no idea what anyone is talking about.  I discovered that television was my only source of news, popular culture and world affairs, and I no longer know anything about any of them.  

For all I know, Jon and Kate are on now the subject of a Broadway musical titled “Just Go Away”, Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly consummated their relationship and are going to China to adopt a baby girl, and Oprah bought Canada.

I figure there are all sorts things I know about that other people are completely ignorant of, it’s just that more people agree that the things I don’t know are actually those I should.  I’m sure I’ll change my mind about this at some point, but for the moment I am enjoying  the fact that I don’t wake up in the middle of the night thinking about health care reform, war, and whomever Donald Trump is currently trashing publicly.

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Someone I vaguely knew jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.  The neighbor of a relative, someone I met half a dozen times.  I knew he was not the most balanced guy in town, but I didn’t realize the extent of it.  When I heard he’d killed himself I remembered he served in the Persian Gulf and wondered what part that might have played in it.

Yesterday—Veterans Day, I kept thinking of him and continued to wonder.

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In lighter news, as of today, my mother is 68.  I had her over for a cup of tea and gave her one of her gifts; the rest I will give her on Sunday when I cook dinner for her.   I have a general idea of the menu but it’s after eleven so I better not go into too much detail:  first course- something to do with that broth I made, second course- something to do with the 2-pound pumpkin on the counter, third course- something to do with a piece of meat, forth course- swanky-ass cheese and some fruit, and finally, something you can serve with a cup of tea.  

That’s all; I have to floss.

 

Spooky No More

This evening I de-Halloween’d my house.  It was so sweetly creepy but seasonal decorations are called that for a reason.  Nevermind the percentage of people who no longer see a need to take down their Christmas lights (“I don’t turn them on until November” is not a valid explanation). 

It’s like flip-flops—the rules have changed.   Be that as it may, I still say flip-flops in winter is white trashier than anything the white trash I grew up with would have done. 

I have some pumpkins, pomegranates, and persimmons sitting here and there so my house is not entirely back to its normal appearance, and by the time I get around to taking those down it will be time for the next seasons decor.   The mall has been decorated for Christmas since two days before Halloween.

I know they have to start early to sell us all that crap we don’t need, but I have noticed over the past few years (I made a concerted effort to study this) that people seem to be taking their cues from the retail industry: the earlier my mall puts out its decorations, the earlier my neighbors do.

I figure I just have to learn to ignore it.   But it’s not easy when it’s 75 degrees out and someone in flip-flops is mowing their lawn around an inflatable snowman.

I cooked French toast this morning and should have soaked it longer.  It was good, but it could have been a bit more custard-y.  I forgot just how much liquid brioche can absorb and still maintain its texture.   My plum jam went over well so I will give some as gifts this year along with the chili sauce and apricot jam I already planned to.

Aside from six or seven people, I don’t buy gifts anymore.  I give food gifts to most of my family, and friends mostly just get a card and my very best wishes.  I’m glad.  Some of the longest hold-outs were people who would ask me what I wanted and then not buy it.  I don’t think adults should ask for specific gifts as a rule, but if someone directly asks you I think you can respond.  Still not sure why they ask in the first place if they plan to get you a gift card (at a store that does not sell what you asked for).

Speaking of the winter holidays, I started reading a Photoshop Elements tutorial so I can figure out how to use different layers and apply “brushes” and make my own original designs.  I haven’t the vaguest idea what any of it meant.  I am not exaggerating even a little.  I still have a picture of a cat standing on his head. 

If anyone wants to buy barely used Elements software let me know.  I need the money to buy some crayons and construction paper.   You think I’m kidding, just wait until you get your card.

Speaking of cats, Figaro has a girlfriend—  Brick.  That’s what I said.  Whatever, they seem very happy together.  I feel kind of sorry for Slim since she just adores Figaro.  Maybe she’ll take Tigger up on her offer (I told you Tigger has the hots for Slim, right?).  I think I let them watch too many foreign movies.

Teddy has a girlfriend, too, but she is a girl which makes the story anticlimactic.  The little kitten I started calling Ginger seems smitten with Teddy, and vice versa. Come to think of it, I assume Ginger is a girl, I have never actually got a good look under its tail.  Well, she looks like a girl and I’m usually pretty good about getting that right (except for Fannie who is now called George).

I guess that’s it for the moment.  It’s late and I need to take a few minutes to plan my week and unwind before bedtime.

Pictures

Shan asked for some pictures. Here are some pictures. I’m all about pleasing people. (Shut up.)

For Nicole

Totally Fucked

Hot and Sour

I just posted a recipe for Hot and Sour Soup over here.  If you can find all the ingredients and don’t mind cooking something that is mostly prep work and very little cooking,  it’s a great soup

I saw November today.  Very funny play.  I’m not saying one word about how I predicted success for one its cast members and that I’m feeling just a bit smug about it right now.

I had a really good cappuccino at Grand Café (a rather economical lunch).  That’s all there is to the story—the coffee was very enjoyable.

November

The title is two-fold.  We are in the month of November, and tomorrow I am going to see David Mamet’s play November.

I’m feeling very theatrical just now, having seen Spring Awakening last week and now another play this week.  One might think I am very cultured with all this theater going, or one might think I am lazy and skip work whenever I can.  I don’t see there’s any benefit to the reader in my clarifying it.

Part of last week and the week prior I woke up most every night with a very good idea for a blog which I then forgot about by morning.  I always remembered that I’d had an idea but never remembered what it actually was.  It’s vexing.  On the other hand, maybe my ideas only seemed good because it was three a.m., and I am better for not having remembered.

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Of course I can’t be sure—”It’s a Very! Cat Boy Christmas” came to me during a bout of insomnia, and that sucker sold like hot cakes (hot cakes that were sent to people for free).  Speaking of which, I have worked out my basic plan for this years CD, which may conclude the Cat Boy holiday trilogy.  It will be a 2-CD set subtitled “Naughty and Nice.” 

One CD will be fit for the whole family and the other will not, as the title suggests.

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And those who get cards from me will get a handmade card once again, but I want to try something different this year, like maybe something using altered art.  Step one is to pick up a copy of “Photoshop Elements for The Clueless.”  What the hell is a photoshop brush?  And how do you, well, do anything at all.  So far, I managed to take a picture of John Morgan and turn it upside down. 

Who wants a card with an upside down deceased cat on it?

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I made bread.  The house smells good and the bread is going in the freezer. That’s pretty much the whole story. 

I also made hot and sour soup that tastes just like what you’d get in a restaurant but I am not posting the recipe because most people cannot get lily buds or tree ear mushrooms at the nearest store like I can.  Don’t be envious, I have to go to the next town to get Parmesan cheese unless I want one made in Mexico, so we all have our cross to bear.

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Everyone assumed Gallant was gay, but I always thought maybe Goofus was just being rude and clumsy to throw everyone off the scent. 

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I am calling the latest cat who dines on my patio Ginger.  She is mostly white, very small, and very vocal.  These are qualities shared by a cat I once knew named Agnes.   I free associated with the name Agnes . . . Agnes De Mille, Cecil B. De Mille,  Gloria Swanson, William Holden, hit his head on a night table and died . . . it sort of went off track with that so I started over.

Agnes, Agnes De Mille, choreographer, dance, Ginger Rogers.  That was a much easier train to follow, although I’m not even sure Agnes De Mille was a choreographer. 

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I got the Spring Awakening CD.  I have no idea how I ever lived without it.

Hey You, Mr. Row 20, Seat 5 (I Believe)

Are you the pompous ass who sat through the first half of Spring Awakening at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts this afternoon?

Well, being as I was raised right (something I have strived to overcome but have yet to perfect), I was too polite to contradict your non-indoor-voice critique of the first act.  And as you exited the theater prior to the second, I and my fellow theater-goers did not have the opportunity to do so once the play ended.

You said the acting was horrid.  Perhaps you once trained with John Houseman and are qualified to make such a judgment, but in my limited experience in this area, I thought the acting professional,  effective and engaging.

You said you didn’t care what happened to any of the characters as there was no plot.  Really?  The boy about to end his brief life rather than face disappointing his family was not worthy of your interest?  What about a girl beaten into submission by her father? Or the one molested by hers. 

Perhaps a young man questioning the existence of hope, truth, God, and a purpose to it all?  A woman/child dying from an abortion performed against her will.  Oh, that’s right, you didn’t stick around for that.

You said the music was “Pablum . . . something played on Disney Radio.”  Was it The Bitch of Living or Totally Fucked that most struck you when you observed this?

You might want to familiarize yourself with a wider range of music before you pop off.  I am no music historian or even someone with a vast collection of music, yet I was able to recognize a variety of influences—from Three Penny Opera to Depeche Mode.

Having said all that, none of your actual criticism is what bothers me most (although, it does bother me).  You were there as the guest of a friend who bought season tickets, and you very graciously, patronizingly, told her it certainly wasn’t her fault the play was crap, leaving her apologizing to you as you left the theater. 

As someone who was raised right, I would have stayed in my seat no matter how much I disliked the show since I was there was there with a friend.  But you decided that music, plotting and acting which held no interest for you rated higher than an afternoon with a friend.  That, in the words of lyricist Steven Sater, is totally fucked.

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In case it isn’t clear, I liked the play.  The themes of alienated youth, asking big questions, sexual awakening and the like are not new—they have been explored for as long as the written word existed, I imagine.  But that’s sort of the point: they never go away.

Good artists manage to revisit these themes in ways different from those who came before; and that makes the subject not only still relevant, but interesting.