I very much like this blog and have been filled all day and night with stuff that I could and would and indeed, needed to write about. Which of course has all flown out of my head as soon as I sat down, but I'm used to that.
Keith will be home soon anyway, he's off in the little Bronco to make an appointment with the movers. We will be moving in less than two months.
After weeks of modifying our diet, Keith's gone on a mini cheese and pizza roll rebellion. I did however switch out regular dressing with fat free and we use 2% Velveeta, so I did get away with a lot. I introduced him to pork loin: his first instinct was to make it a sandwich, slapped between two pieces of (reduced fat) mayo slathered bread with a slice of cheese and some ketchup to top it off.
I made a roast as well, finally. I kept mentioning the possibility of roasts, but Keith was ambivalent about it. It seemed strange to me, him being such a meat and potatoes kind of guy. But I've learned that Keith will like just about anything I cook so I just went ahead and bought a chuck roast.
I like watching "The Barefoot Contessa" because she looks like my mom, and the weathered shingle Cape Cod house and the artsy fartsy-ness of her particular culture; that Old Money New England feel, it feels like home.
Not that we were Old Money, no. We were the solid working class/artisan sub strata that is so genuinely appreciated by Old Money. There's a good symbiotic relationship between the classes; they need us to keep things up and running, we enjoy their architecture and little boutiques that cater to them; we might not be able to afford the hand made, maple wood mixing bowl on display for eight five bucks, but we're glad somebody can.
Anyway, the Barefoot Contessa cooked a roast the other day and before she seared the meat she rolled the roast in flour with salt and pepper to thicken the sauce. I tried that, it turned out ok but I think there's more flavor if the meat is directly against the pan and besides, it's easy to thicken the gravy later.
I had to call my dad, my go to culinary guy, because I suddenly panicked about how much water should be in the roasting pan. My dad is the kind of cook that throws unexpected things together and somehow delivers something delicious. I don't think he uses the measuring cups at all anymore.
I had to call my dad during the Deadly Brown Bread episode as well. It was my first attempt at making bread with my Kitchen Aid. I was prepared for mishaps, but I should have upped the ante. It all started when I realized I had only one bread pan and therefore had to halve the recipe.
Which I did, but forgot to alter the directions. Therefore, in the directions it called for three cups of wheat flour to be added, when in the list of ingredients the total amount of wheat flour was only two cups. Did this add up? No. I put three cups of wheat flour into the bowl and ended up with flour dusted bread dough bits.
I got very angry with my handwritten recipe card until I called Dad and light dawned. What to do? Dad suggested returning the entire recipe back to the original volume and keeping one half the dough in the fridge while the first half baked. This I did.
The first loaf came out lopsided and I was reminded of Pollyanna's first attempt at baking bread. I ate two pieces of the bread and almost immediately experienced an overwhelming sensation of fullness. The second loaf came out better and I knew Keith and I would never be able to finish it, so I pawned it off on the ever obliging Larry the Good.
Early the next morning I woke with some of the worst stomach cramps ever and spent a full hour getting up close and personal with both toilet bowls in the house. I started with the upstairs bathroom, but it was impossible to put my head between my knees and still remain comfortable, that particular throne is too high off the ground. And I absolutely had to keep my head between my knees if I wanted to keep my head at all.
Eventually I wound up prostrate on the carpet downstairs, not wishing to stray far from the blessed bowl and too tired to sit upright.
I spent the rest of the day recovering and in deadly fear for the neighbors. Were they even alive? I was too afraid to call. The house appeared silent; I was certain I was single handedly responsible for the decimation of clan Larry.
The next day to my incredible relief I saw Mrs. Larry and Larrietta alive and well in the front yard. I confessed my fears.
"We're fine," they exclaimed, amazed. "We ate it with butter and jam."
"I'm just glad you're alive!" I returned, before ducking into the house. I don't think I'll be giving away anymore bread, that is unless I find myself needing to take care of a pesky future neighbor or experience a rodent problem.
Anyway, the roast turned out absolutely mouthwateringly delicious and though it was consummed rather late at night (I had gotten the idea of cooking it around five in the afternoon), neither of us suffered any ill effects.
