Broccoli Cheddar Soup and Jane Austen's Emma

Last week, I made an updated version of Broccoli Cheddar Soup, thanks to 101 Cookbooks' marvelous recipe (http://bit.ly/mp0V5). I didn't take any pics, but it actually resembled the lovely photo featured on the site. I must insist that you don't skip the mustardy croutons. They're a crunchy counterpoint to the creamy soup. As an added benefit, it is a decadent soup without the guilt.

On Sunday, I watched the second installment of PBS' new version of Jane Austen's Emma. Nothing better than a little Regency-era amorous intrigue to end the weekend.

Loafing around

Last Sunday afternoon, I had a craving for comfort food, so some friends (Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Otis Redding, The Temptations, Al Green, and such) and I set about assembling a lovely salmon loaf. I must admit that ever since I was a kid, I relished crunching the little round bones in my teeth. And while doing so, I say:

Fee-fi-fo-fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman
Be he 'live, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.

That's a joke. I don't do that.....Well, not when anyone is around. Kidding! Ahem. Yes. Time for the cooking portion of the entry, don't you think?


I started by sauteeing onions, garlic, and curry powder.


Then I crushed multigrain crackers with a rolling pin to provide the breadcrumbs for which the recipe calls.


Next, I mixed all of the remaining ingredients (eggs, salmon, parsley, onions, garlic) together in a large bowl.

Then I chilled the mixture for 15 minutes, and baked it in a *loaf pan. So Joy of Cooking's salmon loaf turned out pretty well, although I think next time, I'd leave out the curry powder. It and my poor photographs make the loaf a crazy sort of yellow. Also, I was trying to avoid the fatty white sauce (with peas) that usually accompanies the loaf, but in the end, the salmon loaf seemed incomplete without it. I guess there's a reason they're usually served together.

*Upon searching in my cupboard for a loaf pan, I realized that I am without one, which is odd. I could've sworn that I had one, but perhaps it vanished in one of my many moves. I used a casserole dish instead, but salmon casserole doesn't sound nearly as classy as salmon loaf. ;)

Got milk?

I'd sort of forgotten this story, but a friend* reminded me of it the other night.

I was interviewing for a job at a bed and breakfast. Rather than a formal office, it took place in the owner's apartment, which adjoined the B&B. As we chatted, the owner's four-year-old daughter watched cartoons nearby.

At some point in the course of the long, rambling interview, the little girl walked over to the mother and started pawing at her. I thought the girl just wanted attention because we'd been talking for quite awhile. But then the mother said, "Oh, she's just hungry. But I'm not going to do that while we're talking."

I think I still didn't understand what she meant. So I said, "Oh no. That's fine," thinking she'd get up and make a sandwich for the kid in the adjacent kitchen while we continued our conversation. But she wasn't talking about peanut butter and jelly or alphabet soup. Nope. She was talking about breastfeeding. I finally realized this and of course assured her it was completely fine. But what am I supposed to say, "No, let the kid starve"? So after my continued reassurances, she whipped out her boob. She breastfed two or three times, which was a bit awkward and distracting during an interview, but I survived.

Now let me intercede for a moment to say that I support breastfeeding (if a woman is capable of doing so). The benefits for the mother and the child are well-documented.

My question is what about biting? That child possessed a maw full of razor-sharp teeth connected to a strong jaw. Women, please take a minute to contemplate that: rows of tiny, calcium-fortified teeth like a miniature metal bear trap ready to clamp down on your unsuspecting nipples. You've heard of Freud's vagina dentata? Well, this is just dentata, and it's a helluva lot scarier.

*Thanks, AB!

Haiti and Pat Robertson

I'd like to take this opportunity to nudge anyone who hasn't donated to the Haitian relief effort to do so.

Also, I wanted to officially say that I think Pat Robertson is a ninny.

And to channel Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

In praise of ramen

It's the last night of the three-day weekend, and I'm settling in to enjoy Letterman with a steaming bowl of picante chicken ramen* (doctored up with several handfuls of spinach) and some crusty, multigrain bread. Some people think only college students eat ramen. But it has always been a favorite of mine, and it contradicts those who claim that I am a food snob. :)

I promise to present something a bit more exciting on the culinary front in the near future. The potatoes in the kitchen have been clamoring to be used before they are irreparably spoiled, so I'm thinking potato-leek soup is on the horizon. Also, I saw Julia and Jacques cooking French onion soup and a Mediterranean fish stew with rouille, and I'd like to attempt those, too.

*This post generously sponsored by a donation from the Nondorf Foundation.

Elementary, my dear Ritchie!

I saw Sherlock Holmes the other night, and it was just ok. Maybe I was surly because I was up past my bedtime. Or perhaps I'm unprepared for such a physical version of Holmes. I know that several of his stories mention Holmes' proficiency in boxing, martial arts, and other fighting skills, but only small amounts of text are devoted to actual combat. I mean, Holmes also habitually used cocaine and occasionally used morphine, but the new interpretation doesn’t feature Holmes in a cocaine-fueled stupor.

Guy Ritchie is a heavy-handed presence in some parts of the movie. For instance, the scenes wherein Holmes mentally rehearses his fight moves before executing them in rapid-fire motion are highly reminiscent of Ritchie’s earlier works, such as Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. This way of visually representing Holmes’ thought processes is effective the first time, but it becomes stale and contrived after about the third or fourth repetition.

Certain elements of the movie worked for me. The witty dialogue was still there, and the dynamic between Holmes and Jude Law's Watson was particularly endearing. At times, they ventured into old-married-couple land and at other times, they seemed like two hormone-drenched adolescents trying to aggravate each other. They may bicker, but they can’t imagine a world without the other.

The upshot is that because I don’t see movies in the theater very often, I expect sheer awesomeness when I do plunk down my hard-earned dollars. For some people, SH would’ve provided that, but for me, the steady stream of fighting, ships crashing into the Thames, and orchestrated explosions eclipsed the substance of the tale.

Bravo, Google!

I'd like to commend Google for making moves to pull out of China because of censorship. China has a strong history of quashing dissent. This time, they've hacked into human rights activists' Gmail accounts.

With approximately 384 million internet users last year, the Chinese market will yield an estimated $600 million in revenue for Google. This is a small fraction of Google's predicted $26 billion in annual profits. But if they decide to cut ties with China, Google's real sacrifice would be China's future growth.

Their move signifies ideals rather than bottom lines.

NPR has some great coverage of this.

Uncorked

The weekend was lovely and low-key. I taught yoga, worked out, hung out with friends, and thoroughly cleaned my house. Since none of that is very entertaining, however, I'm going to regale you with a story from online dating land.
I received the following message on an online dating site several months ago:

Your hometown refers to diluting something with water, something my French father-in-law did to his own wine.
Does our age disparity absolutely preclude dialogue? Because I find you interesting, and you should know by now that men take a long time to mature, like good Bordeaux. Think I'm ready to be uncorked.

First things first: The name of my hometown means "a mountain with its feet sitting in the water" because of the bluffs situated by the Mississippi River. It has nothing to do with dilution. Perhaps he's confusing dilution with delusion. He's obviously familiar with French. And what purpose does the reference to his former French father-in-law serve? Am I supposed to be impressed by that?

Let's skip the age disparity thing for a moment. We'll get back to it.

Next, we have the trite comparison of men to wine. Really? Wow. Clearly, he has been imprisoned in a wine cellar since 1947 because that one is ancient. As for the "uncorked" thing, it invokes a mixture of nausea and amusement at his sheer cheesiness. For anthropological purposes--and to give him the benefit of the doubt--I consulted an older colleague to see if this man's message appealed to a different generation. Nope. She confirmed that he is odd to people of all ages.

His profile said he was 63, but a friend pointed out that he was probably older. The profile also informed me that he "eventually wanted babies." This is disturbing on a few fronts. First, he used the word babies. Not children. Not kids. Babies. Second, I'm troubled by the word eventually. When, exactly? Even if he's not lying and if someone wants to immediately procreate with this guy, he'll be 78 when the aforementioned baby is 15. Cripes. Junior could break this man's hip by playing catch with him. Sheesh. And besides, he already has kids. Has no one else heard of overpopulation?

So: No, the age disparity does not preclude dialogue, but your smarminess most certainly does.

Takumi and the snow rabbit

I completed my grueling (ha!) two-day workweek with flying colors. After work, L. and I swam some laps at the gym and then tried Takumi, an unassuming Japanese restaurant on the east side. I'd heard good things about it, but its location in a strip mall had always made me leery. Surprisingly, once inside I forgot that I was in a strip mall. Its tasteful decor is welcoming and doesn't venture into swanky bistro territory. The food was satisfying and simple. We had miso soup, age (fried) tofu, ika kara age (fried squid), seaweed salad, a California roll, and the crunch 2-in-1 roll.

I'm slowing re-acclimating to winter. While I was getting ready for work on Thursday morning, I spied a sweet little bunny perched on a snow bank in the backyard. Not sure what s/he was doing there--just chillin', as far I could tell. He could have been hatching sinister plans to steal Bob's identity (Bob is the bunny who lives upstairs) or contemplating his own existential dilemma, I suppose. But I'm pretty sure he was just chillin'. I snapped this wretched shot of him before startling him away with my second attempt. (So much for the career as a wildlife photographer. :))

Hiking at Camelback

Tomorrow morning, I fly back to Wisconsin to reclaim my place among the snowdrifts. While I'll miss the heat, I'm anxious to resume my routine and to see my kitties.


A few days ago, I went hiking at Camelback Mountain for the third time. I always forget how different hiking is in Phoenix. The trails are swarming with people, and the trailrunners scare of the bejesus out of me as they hurtle themselves up and down the mountain. When you stop to take in the beautiful vista (and regulate your jagged breathing), you're rewarded with a dreary view of the sprawling city. What ever happened to hiking as a way of communing with the natural world and/or a well-deserved silent retreat from everyday life?



Plus, hiking there always makes me feel wretchedly out of shape. My nose runs continuously and I never remember to bring tissues, so by the time I'm done, an amalgam of sweat, snot, and dust has coated my face. The jagged, uneven rocks and gigantor stone steps murder my ankles and knees, and about 15 minutes in, I recall that I have the world's worst balance.

On the upside, some of the rocks looked like sun-washed Georgia O'Keefe skulls, and desert plants can be astoundingly beautiful. And I'm sure once my calves and hamstrings recover from their severe beating, I'll remember my little foray on the trails with fondness.

*note: The pics aren't from Camelback. The one where I'm wearing the orange tank top was taken in Glendale and the other was at Piestewa Peak.

Cold pizza and tundra

I am sitting in the sun eating cold pizza and drinking coffee. I have temporarily escaped the Wisco. tundra* to luxuriate in the warmth of Phoenix. The pool is in the foreground, an orange tree's to my right, and a palm tree is to my left.

Rejecting excuses is the motivating force behind this blog. I have been on this planet for 32 years. In medieval Britain, I would be dead or within goosing distance of the Grim Reaper. So no more excuses (e.g., lack of inspiration, vagaries of publishing industry) about why I can't write. In the eloquent words of my forebears: Shit or get off the pot.

I want this blog to be a forum for discussion and a method for encouraging me to write every day. I'll cover art, politics, literature, history, cooking, fashion, yoga, health, music, film, and basically whatever pops into my cranium.

*I know. I know. It's not true tundra, but the term is a great shorthand for the climate. I mean, c'mon. It feels like tundra after a few weeks of sporting long underwear.