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The weekend following Christmas was really great. I was off work for four days, and with Christmas behind me, was able to spend a prodigious amount of quality time screwing up various dishes. Diana gave me a pressure cooker for Christmas. I think this came after a recommendation from Lacy. I'd never even considered cooking with one before. My only experience with one was watching my grandmother cook with it when I was a kid. I just remember it was a funny looking pot that had a wobbly whistly bit on top. I really didn't know people even used them anymore. As it turns out there is a little known fact about pressure cookers: They are the coolest culinary device on Earth! According to the recipe book, this thing can cook pretty much anything from an anchovy to a water buffalo in just under two and half minutes. Don't have three hours to cook that pot roast? No problem, you can do it in 39 minutes. Only a chump waits four minutes for steamed broccoli, you can do it in two. This thing is the microwave oven of the 1930s. Just don't blow it up.
I used to lay pipe as a young man, so I knew a couple of things about pressure. I know, I know. That's not exactly going to get me into MIT to be a professor of...whatever that field would be called, but I knew enough to know that 15 pounds per square inch isn't a ton of pressure, but it's a lot more than I feel naturally comfortable with to have exerting itself against the walls of a quietly steaming silver pot in front of me on my electric range. The instructions say that you should heat it up until it starts spewing a little bit of steam from the steam valve. Then, you're supposed to reduce the heat and maintain a 'steady flow of steam' for the duration of the cooking. There are several warnings and cautions that follow, but not a lot that really defines how much steam we're talking about. After my first attempt at pressure cooking potatoes, I'll just say that I had too much steam—I think. I am not injured, but it scared the shit out of me when I turned the steam valve to 'release' and it was like one of those train engines from the old western movies when they pull into the station. That thing blasted a high-pressure stream of scalding steam at least 14 feet across my kitchen. That was after I turned the pot. At first it was shooting it directly at the back of the stove and all the stuff I had sitting on top. It sounded like the fucking space shuttle taking off. I could only stand there in awe trying to imagine the state of my four poor potatoes inside. They had to be squeezed down to a singularity! I was going to open the lid to find myself starring into an alternate universe created my my black hole spuds that have ripped through the fabric of space-time. But, when the steam finally eased off, and the little indicator went 'click' telling me it was safe to open my pot without having to dial 911—I found the potatoes not only visibly similar in size as before, but pretty well cooked.
Tonight I'm going to use it cook chili. If these are the last notes in this story, you'll know why.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Fish on a Plane
....or, as Samuel L. Jackson would say, "Mother f%$kin fish on a mother F&^kin plane!"
I have not been looking forward to this trip at all. I travel a lot for work and usually it's not too bad. If there's a point based account, I've got one: frequent flier on most airlines, hotels, rental cars, even buses. My trips are usually 3-4 day conferences in places like Dallas, Sacramento and San Antonio. I've worked up a knack for getting good seats on the airlines that I like with as few stops as possible and comfortable layovers. This is not one of those trips.
Today I am traveling to Meridian, Mississippi. It's a small town just east of Jackson. I've never been there before—in fact, I've never been to Mississippi before. The airport, Key Field, only has a couple of small planes that come in and out each day. So, of course, that limited service drives the rest of my air travel. Due to my last minute reservations (which is always the case because I never know about trips until about a week out), there were no flights from Baltimore to Atlanta that would get me there in time for my flight to Meridian. So, I had to go through Chicago at 6:00A.M.
The trip did not start well. Anyone who travels by plane a lot understands the power of omens—especially bad ones. Multi-leg travel is a string of carefully choreographed events that can only take place in one of two ways: Perfectly, or very very badly. It's like a house of cards. The first card was being threateningly jiggled at the Daily Parking garage at BWI. I was parked on the 5th floor, and the elevator emphatically refused to visit my floor. Not a big deal. But, not a good sign either. This other guy and I took th stairs. After that, while checking in, I'm told that since my itinerary uses multiple airlines, I can't be checked all the way to my destination, and that I'll have to check in with Delta when I get to Chicago. Oh yeah...and the weather in Chicago is 9ºF with winds up to 35mph.
I figured I'd jump ahead of this game, and try to check in my connecting flight at the Delta desk at BWI. It's a long shot, but I have a little time to kill. This is what I learned. There is a mathematical formula that goes something like this: The IQ level in the room is inversely proportional to the square of the number of people trying to operate the self-check-in kiosks. I watched in abject awe while people tried to operate these simple machines with all the adroitness of a manatee playing a saxophone. The screen has big letters reading 'Press Start'. The start button is slightly smaller than Wrigley Field. There is an animation of a cartoon finger pressing the start button and being rewarded with a boarding pass. Finally, I get my shot at it. I confidently jam my credit card into machine...nothing. Oh yeah, I have to press the 'Start' button first. For the love of God. I get through, it doesn't have my itinerary. So what do I do, I try again. This is the human-machine equivalent of trying to communicate in Mexico by talking slower and louder.
“Do you have my itinerary?”
“No.”
“Umm, do you have my itinerary?”
“No...idiot”
Oh yeah, and I forgot to press the 'Start' button the second time too.
At the gate, I fall back to my mission: the food. My plan is to attempt to find food along the way that I can eat. Not having a lot of faith in that idea, I've brought some reserves—leftover lasagna, three hardboiled eggs, and some sardines (I removed them from the tin so that the flight attendant didn't think I was going to use the sharp lid as a weapon. This causes a problem later on.). There was really nothing open at BWI at 4:45 in the morning, so I opted to go ahead and eat my eggs. I didn't think it was that big of a deal, but when you think about it, how often do you see someone in the airport eating hardboiled eggs out of their backpack? I got a few sideways glances, mostly from people undoubtedly considering the possibility that I'll be sitting next to them on the plane about the time those eggs start getting things going in my lower intestines. I just wished I had some pepper.
Once in Chicago, I discovered that not only am I on a different airline, my next flight leaves out of a different terminal. Yeah...not a different concourse, a different terminal. This means walking the epic 26.5 miles to get out of the airport, and taking a train thingy to the other terminal, check in, back through security and to this gate.
In an effort to reduce the invasiveness of the security procedure and avoid a full body cavity search, I like to stop before I enter the line and take everything I have except my boarding pass and ID card and shove it all into my backpack. As I was doing this entering the L concourse at O'Hare, I get passed up by a young couple that appear to be foreign-ish. I see when we get to the security goalie that they're traveling on U.S. passports even though this isn't the international terminal, but whatever. The amusing part came a few minutes later. Everyone who's been within missile range of a airport in the last several years knows that you can't have liquids other than the size they give you in hotels. Everybody knows this. Plus, it's posted on HUGE signs all over the airport. There's a guy wearing rubber gloves yelling this information to the passengers in line. Wouldn't you know it, every single bag these two put through the X-ray had more bottles of liquid than clothes. “What do you mean I can't have my 32oz bottle of 'This Just Looks Like Explosives' brand shampoo?
New learned fact: Sardines, even shielded inside Tupperware enclosed in a plastic bag will still stink. I found this out on the plane ride from Chicago to Atlanta. I opened my backpack to retrieve my lasagna leftovers when I was hit in the face by 'ode de fish cannery'. It was really bad—kinda funny too. See, the plane was only about half full. I had a nice window seat and it looked like there was going to be no one next to me. Then this GIGANTIC dude comes down the aisle and, of course squishes in next to me. (I was on the side that only had two seats) After the cabin door closed, I figured he'd move to one of the numerous empty aisle seats just like his on the 3-seat side that were not only unoccupied, but had empty seats next to them. He didn't. He just sat there, half-way in my seat. Why would he do that? Who does that? Who wouldn't want a little more space to themselves? So, when 13.5 minutes into the flight I opened my backpack and the unholiest of unholy reeking stenches wafted out of my bag (much worse than if I'd just farted in his face) I just sort of chuckled to myself and figured he had it coming. It was truly bad. When I got off the plane in Atlanta, it was as though I was dragging a string of week-old trout behind me.
My goal of hunting and gathering wild edibles along the way through the string of airports was an unmitigated failure. Every single eatery I passed, while appearing succulent, was riddled with pitfalls. The one thing I did note, was that several of them had fresh fruit. If I get in a pinch on the way home, I'll look into that.
I have not been looking forward to this trip at all. I travel a lot for work and usually it's not too bad. If there's a point based account, I've got one: frequent flier on most airlines, hotels, rental cars, even buses. My trips are usually 3-4 day conferences in places like Dallas, Sacramento and San Antonio. I've worked up a knack for getting good seats on the airlines that I like with as few stops as possible and comfortable layovers. This is not one of those trips.
Today I am traveling to Meridian, Mississippi. It's a small town just east of Jackson. I've never been there before—in fact, I've never been to Mississippi before. The airport, Key Field, only has a couple of small planes that come in and out each day. So, of course, that limited service drives the rest of my air travel. Due to my last minute reservations (which is always the case because I never know about trips until about a week out), there were no flights from Baltimore to Atlanta that would get me there in time for my flight to Meridian. So, I had to go through Chicago at 6:00A.M.
The trip did not start well. Anyone who travels by plane a lot understands the power of omens—especially bad ones. Multi-leg travel is a string of carefully choreographed events that can only take place in one of two ways: Perfectly, or very very badly. It's like a house of cards. The first card was being threateningly jiggled at the Daily Parking garage at BWI. I was parked on the 5th floor, and the elevator emphatically refused to visit my floor. Not a big deal. But, not a good sign either. This other guy and I took th stairs. After that, while checking in, I'm told that since my itinerary uses multiple airlines, I can't be checked all the way to my destination, and that I'll have to check in with Delta when I get to Chicago. Oh yeah...and the weather in Chicago is 9ºF with winds up to 35mph.
I figured I'd jump ahead of this game, and try to check in my connecting flight at the Delta desk at BWI. It's a long shot, but I have a little time to kill. This is what I learned. There is a mathematical formula that goes something like this: The IQ level in the room is inversely proportional to the square of the number of people trying to operate the self-check-in kiosks. I watched in abject awe while people tried to operate these simple machines with all the adroitness of a manatee playing a saxophone. The screen has big letters reading 'Press Start'. The start button is slightly smaller than Wrigley Field. There is an animation of a cartoon finger pressing the start button and being rewarded with a boarding pass. Finally, I get my shot at it. I confidently jam my credit card into machine...nothing. Oh yeah, I have to press the 'Start' button first. For the love of God. I get through, it doesn't have my itinerary. So what do I do, I try again. This is the human-machine equivalent of trying to communicate in Mexico by talking slower and louder.
“Do you have my itinerary?”
“No.”
“Umm, do you have my itinerary?”
“No...idiot”
Oh yeah, and I forgot to press the 'Start' button the second time too.
At the gate, I fall back to my mission: the food. My plan is to attempt to find food along the way that I can eat. Not having a lot of faith in that idea, I've brought some reserves—leftover lasagna, three hardboiled eggs, and some sardines (I removed them from the tin so that the flight attendant didn't think I was going to use the sharp lid as a weapon. This causes a problem later on.). There was really nothing open at BWI at 4:45 in the morning, so I opted to go ahead and eat my eggs. I didn't think it was that big of a deal, but when you think about it, how often do you see someone in the airport eating hardboiled eggs out of their backpack? I got a few sideways glances, mostly from people undoubtedly considering the possibility that I'll be sitting next to them on the plane about the time those eggs start getting things going in my lower intestines. I just wished I had some pepper.
Once in Chicago, I discovered that not only am I on a different airline, my next flight leaves out of a different terminal. Yeah...not a different concourse, a different terminal. This means walking the epic 26.5 miles to get out of the airport, and taking a train thingy to the other terminal, check in, back through security and to this gate.
In an effort to reduce the invasiveness of the security procedure and avoid a full body cavity search, I like to stop before I enter the line and take everything I have except my boarding pass and ID card and shove it all into my backpack. As I was doing this entering the L concourse at O'Hare, I get passed up by a young couple that appear to be foreign-ish. I see when we get to the security goalie that they're traveling on U.S. passports even though this isn't the international terminal, but whatever. The amusing part came a few minutes later. Everyone who's been within missile range of a airport in the last several years knows that you can't have liquids other than the size they give you in hotels. Everybody knows this. Plus, it's posted on HUGE signs all over the airport. There's a guy wearing rubber gloves yelling this information to the passengers in line. Wouldn't you know it, every single bag these two put through the X-ray had more bottles of liquid than clothes. “What do you mean I can't have my 32oz bottle of 'This Just Looks Like Explosives' brand shampoo?
New learned fact: Sardines, even shielded inside Tupperware enclosed in a plastic bag will still stink. I found this out on the plane ride from Chicago to Atlanta. I opened my backpack to retrieve my lasagna leftovers when I was hit in the face by 'ode de fish cannery'. It was really bad—kinda funny too. See, the plane was only about half full. I had a nice window seat and it looked like there was going to be no one next to me. Then this GIGANTIC dude comes down the aisle and, of course squishes in next to me. (I was on the side that only had two seats) After the cabin door closed, I figured he'd move to one of the numerous empty aisle seats just like his on the 3-seat side that were not only unoccupied, but had empty seats next to them. He didn't. He just sat there, half-way in my seat. Why would he do that? Who does that? Who wouldn't want a little more space to themselves? So, when 13.5 minutes into the flight I opened my backpack and the unholiest of unholy reeking stenches wafted out of my bag (much worse than if I'd just farted in his face) I just sort of chuckled to myself and figured he had it coming. It was truly bad. When I got off the plane in Atlanta, it was as though I was dragging a string of week-old trout behind me.
My goal of hunting and gathering wild edibles along the way through the string of airports was an unmitigated failure. Every single eatery I passed, while appearing succulent, was riddled with pitfalls. The one thing I did note, was that several of them had fresh fruit. If I get in a pinch on the way home, I'll look into that.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Day 4 The Edible Tatonka
Day 4
I just finished eating my lunch consisting of two patties of ground bison leftover from last night’s bison burgers. I bought the bison at the commissary. I’d seen it there before in this little freezer bin they have for things that they only get occasionally. I never know if I should buy food out of that freezer or not. On the one hand, the contents may just be things that are rare commodities, and so don’t warrant permanent space in of the nice, upright freezers. On the other hand, everything in there could be the freakish reject-o-meat from 15 other stores that no one in their right mind would buy. Next to the bison I was eye-screwing, rested a pile of frozen pig stomachs. There’s a couple of things I don’t know about pig stomachs: 1. Why, if it is no longer inside a happy, slop munching pig, is it wrapped up loosely in plastic and sitting in this freezer unit at a food store. And, 2. Please see 1. The presence of the pig stomach is not casting the warm rays of credibility to the bison meat, which didn’t even have a price listed for it.
So, naturally, I bought 3 lbs of ground bison. It was $4.99 a lb, which I didn’t find out until I was at the checkout; where I was being pressured to hurry by one particularly grumpy BBW and her three poorly behaved heffalumps. Being not a courageous man, I just paid the $15 and quietly snuck out the door. (after not allowing the 113 year-old bag caddy to carry out my single plastic sack, which earned me a ghastly gaze clearly decrying me as an evil man who hates old people and puppies)
The bison, though expensive, was pretty good. I made hamburger patties out of it (cuz, what the hell else are you going to do with 3lbs of ground up tatonka?) and we had burgers. Well, Diana and the girls had burgers. Not allowed what might as well have been cyanide-laced potato buns that everyone else was going to enjoy, I used the remaining two misshapen homemade tortillas from the other night and made this groovy quasi-Mexican/Greek/Navajo buffalo quesadilla burgerwich. It was good. I might have enjoyed mine more than the others theirs.
They weren’t bad reheated at work either. Though, I didn’t have any more tortillas left, so I just ate them at my desk with a plastic fork. The microwave rendered them a bit tougher than my fork, so I just stabbed them and bit chunks off. I was having a swell caveman time of it until my boss walked it to ask me some inane question about a performance report and spied me gnawing at this cut of dead buffalo like a saber-toothed marmot.
I just finished eating my lunch consisting of two patties of ground bison leftover from last night’s bison burgers. I bought the bison at the commissary. I’d seen it there before in this little freezer bin they have for things that they only get occasionally. I never know if I should buy food out of that freezer or not. On the one hand, the contents may just be things that are rare commodities, and so don’t warrant permanent space in of the nice, upright freezers. On the other hand, everything in there could be the freakish reject-o-meat from 15 other stores that no one in their right mind would buy. Next to the bison I was eye-screwing, rested a pile of frozen pig stomachs. There’s a couple of things I don’t know about pig stomachs: 1. Why, if it is no longer inside a happy, slop munching pig, is it wrapped up loosely in plastic and sitting in this freezer unit at a food store. And, 2. Please see 1. The presence of the pig stomach is not casting the warm rays of credibility to the bison meat, which didn’t even have a price listed for it.
So, naturally, I bought 3 lbs of ground bison. It was $4.99 a lb, which I didn’t find out until I was at the checkout; where I was being pressured to hurry by one particularly grumpy BBW and her three poorly behaved heffalumps. Being not a courageous man, I just paid the $15 and quietly snuck out the door. (after not allowing the 113 year-old bag caddy to carry out my single plastic sack, which earned me a ghastly gaze clearly decrying me as an evil man who hates old people and puppies)
The bison, though expensive, was pretty good. I made hamburger patties out of it (cuz, what the hell else are you going to do with 3lbs of ground up tatonka?) and we had burgers. Well, Diana and the girls had burgers. Not allowed what might as well have been cyanide-laced potato buns that everyone else was going to enjoy, I used the remaining two misshapen homemade tortillas from the other night and made this groovy quasi-Mexican/Greek/Navajo buffalo quesadilla burgerwich. It was good. I might have enjoyed mine more than the others theirs.
They weren’t bad reheated at work either. Though, I didn’t have any more tortillas left, so I just ate them at my desk with a plastic fork. The microwave rendered them a bit tougher than my fork, so I just stabbed them and bit chunks off. I was having a swell caveman time of it until my boss walked it to ask me some inane question about a performance report and spied me gnawing at this cut of dead buffalo like a saber-toothed marmot.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Snake Oil
I took Diana to MOM's (the organic market) today. I didn't really need anything since yesterday. I just figured she'd like the store. She did. While there, I had a mini-epiphany about my quest. Over the past two days I've struggling with some of the specific rules governing what I can get away with in terms of packaged good, I.e. canned beans, canned tomato sauce, etcetera. My premise thus far has been focused on the ingredients. If it's all natural, and has nothing in it that I wouldn't use in my own kitchen, it was fair game. At MOM's, I came up with something better: If there are two ways to consume a thing, I will pick the least complex of the two, or the more basic.
Diana has been trying to get me to start taking fish oil as a dietary supplement. Just recently, I agreed that it is good for me and would do so. So, we're at the natural store looking at the vitamin section. I had to ask the lady for help, as I have yet to become a fish oil expert. She took me around the corner to a couple of shelves exhibiting a veritable cornucopia of fish oil products and proceeds to direct my attention towards the most popular bottle of gel capsules. At this point I'm forced to pause. I can see bottles of fish oil capsules, but below them are bottles of liquid fish oil.
As I realized with what I had just come face to face, my stomach turned a little, and I think I may have thrown up in my mouth a bit. This was going to suck.
Immediately seeing my dilemma (A blind ferret could have read the expression on my face from space), Diana jumps to the rescue.
Diana, “No way. That's disgusting!”
Me, “I have to look at the ingredients of the gel-caps themselves.”
Diana, “It says glycerin and water. That's completely natural.”
Me, “I think I should get the liquid.”
Diana, “I'm not taking that”
See, on the one hand, yeah, the gel caps are pretty simple and they're made of stuff I can probably buy in that same store. But, the liquid is, without a herring's doubt, the less complex of the two. So will be buying liquid fish oil and taking it with a spoon. Diana purchased a bottle of capsules. Bitch.
And you thought the sardine burps were bad.
Diana has been trying to get me to start taking fish oil as a dietary supplement. Just recently, I agreed that it is good for me and would do so. So, we're at the natural store looking at the vitamin section. I had to ask the lady for help, as I have yet to become a fish oil expert. She took me around the corner to a couple of shelves exhibiting a veritable cornucopia of fish oil products and proceeds to direct my attention towards the most popular bottle of gel capsules. At this point I'm forced to pause. I can see bottles of fish oil capsules, but below them are bottles of liquid fish oil.
As I realized with what I had just come face to face, my stomach turned a little, and I think I may have thrown up in my mouth a bit. This was going to suck.
Immediately seeing my dilemma (A blind ferret could have read the expression on my face from space), Diana jumps to the rescue.
Diana, “No way. That's disgusting!”
Me, “I have to look at the ingredients of the gel-caps themselves.”
Diana, “It says glycerin and water. That's completely natural.”
Me, “I think I should get the liquid.”
Diana, “I'm not taking that”
See, on the one hand, yeah, the gel caps are pretty simple and they're made of stuff I can probably buy in that same store. But, the liquid is, without a herring's doubt, the less complex of the two. So will be buying liquid fish oil and taking it with a spoon. Diana purchased a bottle of capsules. Bitch.
And you thought the sardine burps were bad.
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