The Clam Rampant

Kasia July 20th, 2008

You may or may not know this, but I don’t really know how to cook.

I mean, I sort of do. I know how the stove and the oven work (though the microwave is a more commonly used appliance at Chez Kasia). I understand the rudiments of cooking. But if cooking is an art, then I am a philistine.

It’s not entirely my fault. My mother was an ardent feminist who thought cooking, cleaning and housework were drudgery. So teaching her daughters how to keep house was not high on her priority list. And sure - shared housework is a good thing, and most couples I know do share housework to some degree or another. But one still needs to know how to DO it!

My dad did most of the cooking and quite a lot of the cleaning, but he was also supporting us, and was consequently way too busy to teach me much about what he was doing. And I was too busy having tantrums and refusing to clean my room to care. (I was a difficult child. I really hope any children Canuck and I have take after him.)
My only memory of doing anything in the kitchen before age 10 or so, apart from loading or unloading the dishwasher, was fluting the edges of pierogi with a fork as my grandmother made them. I don’t doubt that she would have taught me more about cooking as I got older, but unfortunately, she died when I was 8.

When I was 10, my parents divorced. My poor dad was running himself ragged trying to support us and keep us halfway sane. TBS was helping him. But the house was a madhouse and we were all hanging on by the skin of our teeth. At that point, my level of expertise graduated to making my own lunch: a sandwich, a drink box/Capri Sun sort of thing, and some sort of Hostess dessert. (The Hostess was a HUGE deal - my mother NEVER let us have junk food. Come to think of it, the Capri Sun was a big deal too…)

I started doing my own laundry in sixth or seventh grade, because my dad’s rule was that it all had to be downstairs, turned, pockets checked, zipped and snapped, on Saturday morning so he could do all our laundry. A very reasonable rule. But I could never get it together enough to have it done at a reasonable time Saturday morning, so finally I asked someone to teach me to use the washer and dryer.

Around that time, I learned to make pancakes. And at some point in high school, my stepmother taught me to make “monkey bread” (YUM). Along the way, she taught me by way of correction, a fair bit more about housework than I had known before.

But really, I still hadn’t learned to cook. And when I was 23, I flew off to England for a semester. No dormitory cafeteria - a common kitchen. I was going to live off my own cooking for six months.

TBS, being possessed of great foresight, anticipated the problem and started teaching me to cook some basic things: hard-boiled eggs, rice, banana bread, Greek chicken. After my arrival in Britain, a couple of Czech housemates of mine taught me some additional lessons. Like Czech pancakes (which are basically crepes), and that outside of the U.S. and Canada, throwing away food is simply not done. (Quite a culture shock!)

I made it through that experience with a little bit of TBS-taught cookery, a little bit of Czech help, and probably more prepared foods than I ought to have eaten (I was especially fond of a garlic-butter baguette that Tesco sold). Oh - and with some care packages from home, including my dearly-beloved grape jelly (which I couldn’t find anywhere over there) and some boxes of Velveeta shells and cheese. You should’ve seen the one Czech girl’s face when she saw me making it…but I convinced her to try it and she marveled at how good it was…

All this to say: my domestic skills were, and to a great extent still are sorely lacking. (I scrubbed my first floor, with the help and instruction of TBS, at age 25.) I’ve improved, it must be said, thanks to FlyLady, Saving Dinner, TBS, the Canuck, my parents (even my mother, who for my 30th birthday gave me a copy of Cooking Basics for Dummies with the phrase “Girls Whose Mothers Neglected Them” P-Touched over the word “dummies”), and countless friends. But I’ve got a looong way to go before I’m up to my age standard.

So you can see why I’m excited that I had a little domestic breakthrough today.

Inspired by Jennie C., I decided that I was not going to make my this-week’s grocery run be another hot-dog-and-frozen-dinner-fest. No - I picked out three recipes and made a list based on them. The first recipe was from Saving Dinner. The second recipe was from a cookbook TBS gave me as an early wedding gift, called Quick, Thrifty Cooking. The third recipe was Jennie’s sausage & pepper sandwich recipe. And I figured out a few other things I needed, like milk and bread.

Well. I went to Kroger. And do you know, not only did I follow my list (though I did pick up a couple of things that weren’t on it because they were on sale and I wanted to stock up), and watch sales, but I mentally shifted gears several times, initially scratching off one recipe because I thought it wasn’t going to be affordable, but then going back, recalculating, and deciding to do it after all.

It was possibly the most enjoyable grocery shopping trip I’ve ever done. And not a hot dog or frozen dinner in the cart. (Not even a frozen lasagna!)
THEN, after I got home and unloaded everything, I debated whether I ought to heat up my last remaining frozen dinner - after all, it was 80 degrees out, my air conditioning doesn’t work, and I live on the second floor - or whether I should suck it up and COOK.

I cooked.

I used the stove. I used the oven. I used three pans and a casserole dish, baby! AND IT TASTED GOOOOOOOOD!!!

(I even washed a load of dishes after. I had to take a shower when all was said and done because it was so stinkin’ hot, BUT I DID IT!!!)

And now, the challenge becomes doing it again tomorrow. Or the next day, if my leftovers carry me through…

• Autobiographical ramblings , Domesticity , Family , Home , Stuff I do
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Kasia July 7th, 2008

As my beloved mentioned in his blog post, we went to check out Chatham’s first effort at a “Taste Fest” on Saturday.

Now, when you call something a “Taste Fest”, call me crazy, but I expect there to be, you know, food for sale.

Chatham’s no Detroit (for better and for worse), but they do have, you know, restaurants. They also have at least a small variety of ethnic groups that could have been tapped to serve food. I’m thinking of the Italians, the Portuguese, the Poles, and the Slovaks, at the very least, plus of course your garden-variety Scotch-Irish and French-Canadian folk. I mean, I know poutine is gross, but I’m quite sure the French legacy has left more to French-Canadian culinary palette than that…

Anyway, it wasn’t so much of a “taste fest” as a combination block party and sidewalk sale along the main drag of town, King Street. They’d rented some of those inflatable kids’ romper rooms (think Moon Walk) and had those set up in the street, as well as some musicians stuck at various intervals playing Nirvana, some light jazz, and what sounded like a so-so Janis Joplin cover. Some of the restaurants had extended their tables out into the sidewalk/street area, and a lot of the shops had either put out tables of wares or were inviting people in to check things out.

Canuck and I did, however, see a sign advertising Breyer’s ice cream, which is my absolute favorite brand; and it was quite hot, so we went in to buy me a cone.

Well. That shop is owned by an earnest Pentecostal man, who was dead set on trying to save us from the Big Bad Catholic Church.

I should mention he was raised Catholic.

A lengthy discussion ensued, which included his following us out to the sidewalk as the shop got busier and we tried to let him get back to, you know, his livelihood.

Next time I have some money, I’m picking up a copy of Deacon Alex Jones’ No Price Too High and an extra copy of the Common Ground DVD Father John made with Kensington Community Church and dropping them off as gifts for him. Canuck joked that the Pentecostal churches probably all have “Wanted” posters in the back with Deacon Alex’s picture on them, warning people against talking to him or reading anything he writes. I hope not - it would be a shame to completely waste my money…

What drove me the most bonkers about the whole encounter…well, two things. First was how he clearly misunderstood Catholic doctrine in several areas, including that pesky little question of salvation. He obviously thought it was “works salvation”, no matter how many times and different ways I tried to tell him it wasn’t.

Second, he was all over the map with his apologetics. I’m a very linear thinker, and I tend to proceed from A to B to C with bridges in between. Throw me six different trains of thought in as many minutes, and I’m apt to get dizzy and not be able to respond effectively. It wasn’t quite the “buckshot” approach that the Jehovah’s Witnesses use, but it wasn’t entirely dissimilar from that either. Drives me up a wall…give me a point and let me counter it, then counter my point. Don’t go skipping from one topic to another to another and another!

You know. Kind of like this somewhat scattered post. Don’t do that. 

• Apologetics , Autobiographical ramblings , Catholicism , Chatham , My Beloved , Stuff I do
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Kasia June 25th, 2008

My beloved reminded me in the combox about Dogdini and DJ of a particular DJ story that just screams for its own post. What can I do - I aim to please…  

Several years ago, when my mother still lived in Detroit, TBS had a brilliant idea for Mother’s Day. And I mean it: it was really a great idea.

We had been in the habit of ordering Pizza Papalis (mmm…) for Mother’s Day. It was quite popular, but also quite expensive. TBS said, “Why don’t we cook her a nice meal for Mother’s Day instead? It can be less expensive AND more thoughtful.”

I thought that was a lovely idea, but there were two big drawbacks. One, we both lived in small apartments and didn’t really have room for guests. Two, I was even less proficient a cook then than I am now.

“No problem,” said my intrepid seester. “I’ll handle most of it. I’ll do the prep work at home, and the grocery shopping; and then you cut me a check for your share and help with what needs to be done at Mom’s.”

So she spent her weekend chopping and dicing and slicing and otherwise slaving over a hot countertop, and on Mother’s Day she came over with the lamb chops and the side dishes and whatnot, all ready for last steps. I came over with myself and my checkbook.

First TBS discovered we had to scrub out the broiler, because my mother (and you can bet this is where I get my propensity to do things like this) had apparently forgotten to do that the last time she used it.

Then TBS instructed me on how to start the broiler and put the lamb chops in. In all things, I am her sous chef. The most complicated thing I think I’ve ever done on a project with her is knead dough (which I think I’m actually pretty good at - I learned from my beloved) when we made stollen. Meanwhile, she’s bopping around the kitchen doing all sorts of kitchen-madonna type of things, and instructing me on something else to do after.

After a short time we notice an odd smell.

We wonder what it is, but dismiss it.

It grows stronger.

For some inexplicable reason, it occurs to one of us to have me check the oven.

There is a giant blue blob in the oven. I have no idea what it is. I shout, perplexed and frustrated, “Who left a candle in the oven?!?”

My mother comes running and looks.

It’s not a candle. It is the dishpan they keep their recycling in. The plastic dishpan they keep their recycling in.

Now, you may be wondering why my mother would keep her recycling in a plastic dishpan, much less put that plastic dishpan into the oven. That’s a fair question.

She kept her recycling in the dishpan because it was easily stored and moved to places where DJ the incorrigible Brittany spaniel couldn’t get to it and chew up all the recycling.

But she didn’t usually keep the plastic dishpan in the oven. (Of course not. That would be silly.)

She usually kept it in the microwave.

It was not in the microwave that fateful Mother’s Day. She had moved it out of the microwave to use the microwave for something, and we, her unsuspecting daughters, did not think to ask “Mom, is there, perhaps, some chance that you might have put it into the oven for safekeeping?”

In fairness and in hindsight, I should have checked the oven before turning the broiler on. I usually check the oven before preheating it; it just didn’t occur to me to do so when using the broiler.

In equal fairness and hindsight, it was probably not one of my mother’s more intelligent decisions to put a plastic dishpan into the oven for safekeeping, especially when she knew other people were coming over to use her kitchen.

The lamb chops had melted plastic drizzled onto them, but we scraped it off and finished cooking them on the grill. They were salvageable. The oven, on the other hand, was not salvageable.

We had to air out the house and put DJ outside (where he tried desperately to get at the grill with the lamb chops). The cats hid in the basement, so we had to hope and pray that they didn’t asphyxiate from the fumes before the house was fully aired.

Poor TBS. She worked like a maniac trying to make a nice Mother’s Day, and that’s what happened. She was…shall we say , less than happy? I felt awful for her.

By the time dinner was ready the house was not yet fully aired, so we ate al fresco at a card table in my mother’s back yard, to the sounds of neighbor kids playing basketball and neighbor parents good-naturedly asking why we were having an outdoor dinner.

The oven was ruined. My mother had to buy herself a new stove for Mother’s Day.

And all because she had a Brittany spaniel.

• Animals , Autobiographical ramblings , Domesticity , Family , Tales of holiday woe
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Kasia June 24th, 2008

About a week ago, I stumbled onto a blog that I’ve been enjoying. Maybe some of you have been clicking the link from the sidebar for Snarkolepsy? Those of you who haven’t, by all means check it out, though I will warn you that some of the language there is not safe for children’s consumption or for sensitive adults. Be ye thus advised. 

Anyway, I got sucked in by pictures of cute bunnies, and the next thing you know, I was reading a post about the neighbor’s dog, a.k.a. Dogdini, who has an uncanny knack for getting into the Snarkoleptics’ yard.

I’m reading, and I’m laughing, and I’m scrolling down. And then I saw the picture. And the pieces clicked together, and the heavens opened up, and there was a sort of a light and “LAAAA!” song by the angels…because I suddenly understood exactly what the Snarkoleptics are going through.

Their neighbor has a Brittany spaniel.

This may get confusing, because I have often referred to a friend of mine who frequents this blog as DJ, and his wife as Mrs. DJ. Forget that, for the moment. The DJ I am about to tell you about is NOT my dear friend with the awesome wife and the four great kids, three of whom are special-needs. No. Not that DJ.

The DJ I’m about to tell you about is a dog. A Brittany spaniel, to be precise; and as long as I’m working on precision, I may as well use the past tense. DJ was a Brittany spaniel. After a long, full life of raising Cain, he died and is presumably flailing against the gates of Heaven while St. Peter stares in shock at this dog who is actually going to scale the gates.

DJ stood for Dakota Jewel, which was his AKC name. My mother had fallen in love with a Brittany at a pet shop a scant week or two before getting a call from a friend, asking if she could take a rescue Brittany.

My mother knew nothing about Brittanies except that the one in the shop was beautiful, and so sweet and playful! She took the dog. And much as I loved that dog, many was the time each of us rued the day she took him.

Shortly after she adopted him, she took him to the vet to get him checked out and vaccinated. Her vet, a charming man with a fabulously dry wit, said “You do know that saying a Brittany is hyperactive is like saying Attila the Hun was assertive, right?”

On top of “normal” Brittany energy, DJ had been crated for most of his puppyhood. Crated during the day while his owners were at work, let out for three or four hours in the evening, then crated again overnight. That’s a recipe for trouble with just about any puppy, much less a high-energy, good-sized one. And they wondered why he was so frantic when he did get out of the crate. Gee, I wonder.

And Brittanies are seriously high-energy dogs. For a Brittany to be happy, you really need a high-energy person or set of people who will engage with it and keep it active. I mean taking it out for runs a couple of times a day, a lot of play and attention, etc. They’re unbelievably sweet dogs, but I have yet to see anyone really give a Brittany the attention and activity they need. And when a dog is bored, that excess energy is going to translate into inappropriate behavior.

With Dogdini, that inappropriate behavior seems to primarily manifest in getting into the Snarkoleptics’ yard (over a six-foot fence). With DJ…well, let me count a few of his more notable escapades…

1. He had a habit of getting into the kitchen trash. My mother started putting a luggage strap around it, which did confound him for a few years. Then one fine day he figured out how to get the luggage strap off the trash can, and all bets were off.

2. He ate cockroach traps. Seriously - those Combat things? Yeah. Chewed up a box. No ill effects that we noticed.

3. He ate the lion’s share of a wooden spoon, and chewed up a metal frying pan.

4. Like many dogs, he thought the street was part of his territory. So every time the mailman (or anyone else) would come, he would wail out the most unbelievable series of barks you ever heard, and hurl himself against the foyer door. The <i>leaded glass</i> foyer door. One day - you guessed it - the glass gave out and he crashed right through it. Not a scratch on him. When my mom replaced the door, she had to have the glass covered with Plexiglass.

5. I am given to understand that someone I know (neither TBS nor I, and no, not my mother either) left some quantity of a herbaceous controlled substance within dog’s reach. Nobody saw it happen, but the ganja disappeared, Baggie and all, never to be seen again. We can only presume that DJ was a very happy puppy that day…

6. Although his behavior improved for several years with shock-collar training (yes, shock collar - it was the only way my mother found to get him to behave, and she was on the verge of getting rid of him before she found what we dubbed “The Hand of God”), after about age 10 he started to regress. I think it was senility. One day he actually ate vegetables that were roasting in the broiler RIGHT OUT OF THE PAN IN THE BROILER. One might have thought that would shock his system, but apparently not…

7. What finally did him in, after fourteen years of insanity, was - believe it or not - cat food. He broke into the room where the animal food was stored, broke into the metal trash can that held the cat food, and ate about seven pounds of it. You know how dogs will eat until they pop? Well, he didn’t pop, but he did throw his stomach, pancreas, and various other organs waaaayyy out of whack. He was on chicken and rice for a month, was slowly recovering, and then had a stroke in the backyard one day.

I have to admit that I miss him. He really was one of the most loving dogs I’ve ever known, and to this day I can’t see a Brittany without asking the owner if I can pet it and telling them about DJ.

The few of you who knew DJ, please feel free to add in any other stories about him that I’ve left out in the combox. Those of you who didn’t know him, how about some other dog stories? I’m feeling doggy and nostalgic…

And say a prayer for both the Snarkoleptics and their neighbor, eh? I think they’ll both need it.  :-p

• Animals , Autobiographical ramblings , Family , Friends and fellow bloggers
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