Iron Skillet

I wanted to write more about this, but haven't had time. This is my favorite Christmas present this year. I knew I was getting it (though not as a gift). It cost a bunch of money to ship to myself. It is a family heirloom, though I think they are common enough old and new.

It is an Iron Skillet.

I directed a play once (written by my high school english teacher) of the same name. The adult children give their mother a similar skillet for her birthday, and she ends up blugening them with it. There was a 'moral' at the end of the story: Don't give your mother an iron skillet for her birthday. I thought it was about the presumptuousness of giving a cooking tool when I was 17. Now I wonder if my teacher was thinking more of her mother and the danger of giving her such a heavy, potentially dangerous weapon?

The skillet made me think of that, even though I don't respond to it the same way. This one belonged to my great grandmother. It was given with a new book about skillet cooking (and care-- I had to coat it in Crisco, then cook it for an hour).

This meal (pictured above) is the first time I have used it. I had been on a cleanse (more on that later), so this is the first flour, tomatoes, cheese, wine, or turkey I had had in two weeks. That made digestion a little surprising, but it was so good. This skillet has lasted me three lunches and two dinners so far.

Thankgiving

My first college course, my first fall away from home (eleven long years ago), was a writing intensive "California culture" course. We had very vague writing prompts, that may have been followed by something like "or write whatever you feel like writing." I think we were supposed to be writing persuasive essays, or thoughtful analyses on the nature of culture. I ended up writing about my personal observations of my immediate culture, then comparing them to the ideas posed by our readings. The professor loved it and I earned a very high "A" in the course.

One of the essays I always remember was talking about Thanksgiving. I wrote something like how it was all this work and all these family members I mostly didn't know, the awkwardness, the good food, etc. When I found the essay years later, I was surprised by how much negative sarcasm it was riddled with. I am a sarcastic person-- it is my style of humor-- but mostly I was recounting these activities in such a negative light.

I bring this up because I really did feel those things at that time. Thanksgiving was a stressful, frustrating ritual filled with food catching fire, smelly old folks swapping pills, pomp and circumstance and uncomfortable shoes. As far as I was concerned, it was an interesting experience I would skip if I could and would not participate in as an adult (other than going to relatives' homes and letting them do it).

There was a trend on t.v. shows of friends in their 20s getting together and having a Thanksgiving of their own, sans family. I tried that once for a person I was living with. I cooked all day and prepped for two. We sat down at the meal, and it was over in fifteen minutes. "Well," I thought, "I tried, but it still seems pretty stupid."

Last summer, I read a memoir, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle." The details aren't important, but she pointed out a detail I had never thought about. The idea of this meal replicating a celebration made by religious zealots (who were dumb and planned poorly), in honor of actually overcoming their racism and hence, not starving to death, always seemed a little lame. As I was reading more about food culture, about how (before trade) you only ate what was in season, or what could store over winter, the idea of the pumpkin pie and squash soup was appealing for the first time. Having never been a fan of pumpkin pie, this was quite a discovery. The sweet, fruity, squashiness was delicious as it had never been. The memoir went on to talk about all the traditional Thanksgiving staples as being native and inherent to the North American continent, hence, a truly American meal (turkey, cornbread, pumpkin pie, etc.).

This year, I made the decision not to go home for Thanksgiving, in leu of going home for the winter break. I kept saying I would 'probably' make a meal, but kept secretly hoping to be invited to someone else's. J came back for the week, and mostly we have been hanging around, killing time (I hate killing time). I kept saying, "you don't mind if I don't do Thanksgiving dinner, right?" and he kept saying, "not at all." But I was feeling guilty about it. Top it off with a whole week of hanging around town or the city (i.e. not making art or applying to jobs, i.e. killing time), I felt this was a truly wrong decision. Last night, around 9PM, I said, "J, I don't have a plan. I don't have recipes picked out, but I am making a shopping list and we are having Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow."

Thus began the ritual of cooking a meal, preparing a bird (we had a free-range, local-farm chicken instead of a giant turkey), preparing sidedishes (the one time of year I make multiple sides of veggies), gravy (I don't even like gravy), and taking a stab at an heirloom stuffing receipe and a pumpkin pie (why didn't I just buy one?). I couldn't believe how gross and fascinating it was to separate the skin of an animal from its muscles, to thrush my fingers in that new space, pushing in tiny cubes of butter, cloves of garlic, and twigs of rosemary. J looked at me like I was crazy as I revealed the secret ingredient to my home-prepped sun-dried tomatoes.

It took all day.

I utilized every culinary technique I have learned in my life. J went out and bought a meat thermometer for me (nope, didn't have one). My step-mother's stuffing (recipe retrieved from an internet site which copied it out of sunset magazine). I marveled at the beautiful smells of the fresh herbs-- from the food and the tips of my fingers. I remember when it was first published, her outrage at the maazine's inclussion of the phrase "can be substituted for dried herbs." At least the internet copy removed that phrase from the receipe. Chopped onions in everything (the finer the better, but what a chore). Cornbread for the stuffing (did I leave my skillet in the last rental?). Potatoes, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, bacon-greese gravy. Cranberry sauce. Zuchinni and yellow squash. Country-style biscuits.

The point is, I made it, it took hours, and it was delicious. The onions tasted of butter and rosemary. I never noticed flavors transfer that way. The gravy still tasted like bacon, ergo, I loved it.

Mid-September

J: It's getting cold out. It's starting to feel like winter.

K: No. It's September. This is what they call "fall." It gets colder later.

They will harvest the corn in November to make all the candy bars and cola we can eat. I had no idea it was harvested so late.

Anniversaries and iPhones

Today is our 4 year anniversary. To celebrate, we went to Indy & bought iPhones (?) and celebrated with Maggianno's. Oh, Maggoanno's, how I've missed you. Tonight, we have a picnic at the president's house. Fancy! This text is brought to you from my new phone while waiting for dessert.

Fresh food and fireflies

I went to prepare my lunch sandwich just now. It might sound banal, but there is something very appealing about cleaning up the dishes and preparing a delicious sandwich. I have been using the beautiful romaine leaves from the plants grown before I left for N.Y. I was surprised to find these perfect romaine heads on my return. The corn did not reach knee high the month I was gone (clearly, hefty fertilizers are involved in those fields), and the zucchini (normally a garden champion) succumbed to the attacks by the weeds. But my beautiful little lettuce was thriving. I only planted one, and looking at it, I think it would make a good salad for one. To spread out the delight it gives me, I am reserving its leaves for sandwiches-- two per day. When I went to pluck my two leaves, I found this little fellow, reminding me of the videos I had prepared for you, waiting silently on my camera. I apologize for the delay, and will post them now, post-haste.

The fireflies here seem to not trust the dark. They are all gone by 10:00 P.M. or so, and with a 9:20 sunset, it is not a lot of time to see their full, lightening spectacle. Here is what they look like. Kind of ugly at first, then when I realized what they were, I thought he was quite a pretty fellow.

Here is an example of their flying/lighting action.

This video, taken at 8:30, is at the height of their activity in my front yard. Your challenge: count how many you find.

Things to love

Believe it or not, there are things I love here, unexpected, mundane everyday things that have called for my attention, and I have carried throughout the day like a sigh of relief. They are as follows:

A beautiful breakfast sandwich, made with mozzarellas (I will never want one with cheddar again), eggs (white only), and bacon from Grandpa's Farm in Ohio (a tourist stop, not my Grandpa). Lightly toasted and delicious.

Summer wild flowers-- they are heftier than the spring ones were, and they wave at me from the sides of the roads, like hitchhikers beckoning me to take them home with me. I am convinced the purple one is a wild onion, and is has a sweet smell that has filled my dining room.

New hair color, paired with great grandma's beads I have never worn. I needed to touch up the color, and with a new cut, I thought I would start with a clean slate altogether.

I had been slightly influenced to change my color by the fact that, last weekend at a 5th of July party, I was being confused with "the other blond lady in the art department." Perhaps the greatest problem with teaching at an all male college is women are rare enough, folks (OK, only the men were doing it) surrender to their temptation of distinguishing us by the tones of our tresses. At the time, someone shouted, "no, she isn't that one. She's the one that saved the man from the river." OK, at least a more exciting a description than 'the blond.'

Anyways, I was ready to change my locks' shades. Last night I took the plunge into the bottle, this morning, unleashing my new color on the masses. Today, I had a technology meeting with a friend from across campus, who happens to have a similar color of hair as my new one. Oh, now I can be confused with her! I'm starting to see that this is not the answer to being a unique woman in a small town in Indiana.

I am at work right now. The evening security guard came by to lock up the doors. He's seen me before, usually just says hello and moves on, but for some reason, stopped in just now and asked if I was the new Costume Design person. No, I'm not. "Oh, because I ran into her husband and he said they just moved here." Nope, not me. "Oh. Then you're the one who saved someone from the river." It is so hard to distinguish women around here.

Good eats

Grocery stores have such wonderful things.

Green Leaf

Route 90 through New York is a toll road. You get a card when you get on the freeway, with your on ramp marked with "xxx" and a list of subsequent off ramps and their prices. This means: potty-breaks cost money. But the states can offer you "free" off ramps with certain vendors, restrooms, etc. I think I mentioned this in December on the drive to Indiana. In that case, you could only eat at McDonald's.

So I was hungry, had to use the restroom, and was itching to post to 'twitter', when I saw a sign that said, "free exit", "free wifi", and "Greenleafs Grille" restaurant. Don't try to find it online-- it doesn't exist there yet (I know, who would have thought). The exit is in a town called Pembroke. The restaurant sounded like the same one I was in while in Denver (also don't bother searching for it on the internet), introduced to me by a delightful woman named, Angela Faris Belt. It had all kinds of yummy salads, so between that and the WiFi, I was practically forced off the road.

I also acquired a stack of brochures about New York and all the amazing things there are to see and do in the Finger Lakes region. The most hauntingly tempting for me, is of course the George Eastman house.

Cuisine

We have been trying to eat at local restaurants when we go out. We have also made several meals at home, but as the house isn't quite as clean as we would like yet, and we are used to going out, we have gone out a lot. I have been wanting to write about the local food scene for a while, but not just yet.

Right now, we are in a cafe in Indianapolis, called Paradise. Soup, sandwiches, free Wi-Fi, coffee, and the most delicious cookies, with chocolate chips all the way from Ghirardelli. Truly Paradise! Civilization! Would you be surprised to hear this is a chain? And would you laugh like we did to see it originated in Long Beach, CA? Despite never having eaten at this cafe at a California location, it was a delicious surprise to find in Indiana. Hope you visit it and enjoy!

Cherokee Tranding Post, Oklahoma

We took a break at the Cherokee Trading Post. I like to look at Native American crafts at these types of shops. I was disappointed that a lot of the more popular items-- leather goods, small knick-knacks-- were made in China. They did have an amazing selection of Navajo pottery, with bios of the artists who signed them. Out back, there was a pen with three buffalo, a long-horn, and a calf. The biggest buffalo, Bucky, was quite happy to come to the fence and pose for photos.We ended up buying buffalo jerky in the shop. I felt a little guilty, but honestly, it was the best jerky I have had in a while. We got some in Roswell that was the worst I have ever had, so there you go! They also had fudge, which was excellent!

Phoenix, Arizona

Stopped to have a late dinner with J's brother.