You may remember that last year, when Jill invited me over to her house to bake pumpkin bread together, I accidentally purchased the wrong ingredients. Because I went to school for close to 22 years, reading short little labels, such as the ones used normal food products such as "pumpkin mix" has become quite the challenge for me, and so I showed up at her house with two cans of pumpkin pie mix. Fortunately, Jill does possess common sense, and she was able to rescue the pumpkin bread by reducing some of the other ingredients.
So this year, when I decided to make pumpkin bread to give to our co-workers and neighbors, I made doubly sure my husband knew he had to purchase "pumpkin mix", and not "pumpkin pie mix". I underlined it on the grocery list, I told him in person, and when he called while in the store, I reminded him again. Delegation, people, is a lot of work. But, he succeeded (naturally), and came home with two cans of pumpkin mix. Excellent.
That Saturday (this would be last week), when I decided that if I graded one more paper my brain was going to explode, and that baking would be the one thing to restore my sanity, husband-dear requested if I would mind baking an extra loaf for him to take to work. Absolutely not. I had, after all, two cans of pumpkin mix, and I would simply double the recipe.
So off I went. I pulled out my recipe book full of slightly stained index cards, and found the recipe that Jill had written out for me the previous year. Three-and-a-half cups of flour became seven cups, four cups of sugar became six-and-a-half cups sugar, and one-and-half teaspoons of cinnamon became five. Math is relative, when baking, obviously. As the ingredients filled up our mammoth 16-cup mixing bowl, a sliver of doubt started to creep into my blissfully Christmas-filled mind. Did we really use that many ingredients last year? Did it really take this much to make two loaves of pumpkin bread? Really? But, dedicated as I was, I kept going, pulled out a smaller bowl, and added a moat of water, four eggs, a ridiculous amount of oil, and two full cans of pumkin. And just as I was staring at the two completely full bowls, wondering how I was ever going to mix them, I decided to flip over the index card. And there were the final instructions, including the underlined statement: "Makes TWO loaves (and in case of smaller pans: THREE)".
Holy pumpkin mix, Batman. I had just made enough batter for six loaves of pumpkin bread. SIX. More importantly, however, I had also just made enough batter to where none of our bowls where big enough to hold the combined concoction.
Being the independent, well-educated woman that I am, I of course had a solution on hand. I called on husband-dear.
"Can you find a bucket and clean it for me?"
"Why?"
I showed him the two bowls of batter, "The recipe was enough for two loaves already. Or three, in our case, since our bread pans are smaller than Jill's."
"And?"
"And I doubled the recipe. This is six loaves of pumpkin bread. And that" I pointed at the huge red bowl, "is our biggest mixing bowl."
I would love to tell you that husband-dear didn't laugh, but he did. Once he was done laughing, we began the hunt for a "really, really big container". Since husband-dear's American standards for food hygiene precluded using a bucket that had ever come in contact with cleaning products, even if said bucket were to be washed out with water, he eventually decided on the pot we usually use for low country boil, Dutch mashed potatoes, and other dishes that require a ridiculously large pot. I then used a four-cup measuring beaker to combine and the two bowls, while husband-dear hunted for baking pans that would work for pumpkin bread. We only have two bread pans, and so we had some interesting decisions to make for the other four loaves. A bundt-shaped pan? Or a casserole dish? Glass or china? We ended up settling on some old casserole dishes, at which point the two hour bakefest it took to get all six loaves done began. As did the extensive washing of bowls, pots, and other utensils.
So yes, I did finally make "normal" pumpkin bread this year. And I was able to make lots and lots and lots of people happy with a couple of slices. But if there is one lesson to be learned, it's that I really, really should start to do a better job reading instructions.
Showing posts with label Fee-fi-fo-Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fee-fi-fo-Food. Show all posts
Monday, December 10, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Exploring China: Daily life
Once we had conquered the mounds of red tape, had figured out how to keep the local bug population under control, and had accepted the fact that going to the bathroom was just going to be an adventure every single time, we were ready to start living life the Chinese way.
The most important decision one has to make almost every day once you've settled into a foreign country is whether to venture out for your meals, or whether to play it safe and eat what you know. As Anderwoud predicted in her guest post last month, once the students discovered that there was a McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut, and a Subway right outside of campus, they rarely ventured back into the on-campus dining halls, but instead opted for the fries, pizzas, and subs they knew so well from back home. I wish I could be all awesome and inter-cultural and tell you that during that whole month I -never- ate at any of those places, and actually actively avoided them, because I really wanted to immerse myself in the local culture, but that is just not true. Out of the entire month, I probably ate at a non-Chinese restaurant once, maybe twice a week, and yes, every time I did it was usually because I had just about had it with the peeing bugs/overcrowded buses/lack of AC/iffy internet and needed something that was familiar and "normal". I ate all of my other meals at the campus dining hall (or local restaurants when were out on excursions), but again, not only because I had this lofty ideal to be all global and immersed. Sure, it played a role, but it also helped that the dining hall was a five-minute walk away from my dorm, while the western-style restaurants entailed a good twenty-five minute trek across campus; that I could buy close to four meals at the dining hall for the amount of money I was going to spend at, say, McDonald's on their number 2; and that the dining hall actually served fresh fruits and vegetables. Sure, gaining the cultural experience was nice, but money and convenience played as much a role as a desire to be this galloping global ambassador.
Even though I would have never guessed this when I first walked into the dining hall and thought the amount of people swarming around coupled with the smell was enough to make me go off food for an entire month, I really learned to like the place. Since none of our students ever went there (in spite of their spiffy e-cards), it meant that it was one of the few places where I could be little old me and not Dr. D. It was the place where I would meet with our other professors and assess the day's events. It was the place where other foreign students and faculty members I had met came as well, and made me feel at home by greeting me like an old friend, and in some cases, stopping to chat for a while. And it was the place where I learned how to eat with chopsticks like a pro.
Chinese dining halls, you see, really are Chinese dining halls. They don't seem to care a whole lot that a sizable chunk of Xia da's student and faculty population is not Chinese. The only food you can purchase there is local and the only utensils available are chopsticks and the little spoons for noodle soup. The staff does not speak English, and unlike most European and American dining halls, the concept of queuing is yet to be introduced. If you want to eat, you will need to jostle your way to the front of the buffet, and push your plate at one of the workers waiting to ladle your choice of food on to your dish or bowl. And you had better remember to get your rice first. No rice? Well, then no meat or no veggies either. The rice comes from a gigantic trough in the corner of the buffet, and even though seeing the rice slopped onto your plate by a man who looks as though he'd rather be dead than serve one more annoying student did little for my appetite, it was the best sticky rice I ever had. And the same goes for the rest of the food. Yes, the workers are surly, rude, and will gladly avoid serving the foreigner if they can help it, but the food they served was magnificent. Lunch and dinner always featured a mouth-water selection. Shrimp, salmon, flounder, pork, beef, tofu, sweet and sour chicken so succulent it makes me hungry just thinking about it. There was Chinese broccoli, "hollow tube" greens, beets, carrots, corn, and lots of other green veggies that tasted like heaven but whose names I could never remember. And breakfast was no different. There was rice porridge (which, by the way, absolutely rocks), sauteed green beans (odd, I know, but very tasty when it's hot outside), hash browns, eggs, assorted pastries, and the best of all: nai cha (tea with milk).
When I first walked into the dining hall, the hustle and bustle, as well as the apparent lack of organization completely overwhelmed me. Where did I start? Where were the plates? Where was the silverware? How did I pay? How did I order? It took a few tries, but eventually, I learned to navigate the place like an old pro. Pick up your plate with rice from the dead-rice-man, elbow your way to the front of the queue to see if they were serving sweet and sour chicken today, swipe your e-card across the little register hung above the buffet, then cut across a line to find the basket of chopsticks, and then sit and enjoy.
So as far as the food was concerned, all was well in China.
The most important decision one has to make almost every day once you've settled into a foreign country is whether to venture out for your meals, or whether to play it safe and eat what you know. As Anderwoud predicted in her guest post last month, once the students discovered that there was a McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut, and a Subway right outside of campus, they rarely ventured back into the on-campus dining halls, but instead opted for the fries, pizzas, and subs they knew so well from back home. I wish I could be all awesome and inter-cultural and tell you that during that whole month I -never- ate at any of those places, and actually actively avoided them, because I really wanted to immerse myself in the local culture, but that is just not true. Out of the entire month, I probably ate at a non-Chinese restaurant once, maybe twice a week, and yes, every time I did it was usually because I had just about had it with the peeing bugs/overcrowded buses/lack of AC/iffy internet and needed something that was familiar and "normal". I ate all of my other meals at the campus dining hall (or local restaurants when were out on excursions), but again, not only because I had this lofty ideal to be all global and immersed. Sure, it played a role, but it also helped that the dining hall was a five-minute walk away from my dorm, while the western-style restaurants entailed a good twenty-five minute trek across campus; that I could buy close to four meals at the dining hall for the amount of money I was going to spend at, say, McDonald's on their number 2; and that the dining hall actually served fresh fruits and vegetables. Sure, gaining the cultural experience was nice, but money and convenience played as much a role as a desire to be this galloping global ambassador.
Even though I would have never guessed this when I first walked into the dining hall and thought the amount of people swarming around coupled with the smell was enough to make me go off food for an entire month, I really learned to like the place. Since none of our students ever went there (in spite of their spiffy e-cards), it meant that it was one of the few places where I could be little old me and not Dr. D. It was the place where I would meet with our other professors and assess the day's events. It was the place where other foreign students and faculty members I had met came as well, and made me feel at home by greeting me like an old friend, and in some cases, stopping to chat for a while. And it was the place where I learned how to eat with chopsticks like a pro.
Chinese dining halls, you see, really are Chinese dining halls. They don't seem to care a whole lot that a sizable chunk of Xia da's student and faculty population is not Chinese. The only food you can purchase there is local and the only utensils available are chopsticks and the little spoons for noodle soup. The staff does not speak English, and unlike most European and American dining halls, the concept of queuing is yet to be introduced. If you want to eat, you will need to jostle your way to the front of the buffet, and push your plate at one of the workers waiting to ladle your choice of food on to your dish or bowl. And you had better remember to get your rice first. No rice? Well, then no meat or no veggies either. The rice comes from a gigantic trough in the corner of the buffet, and even though seeing the rice slopped onto your plate by a man who looks as though he'd rather be dead than serve one more annoying student did little for my appetite, it was the best sticky rice I ever had. And the same goes for the rest of the food. Yes, the workers are surly, rude, and will gladly avoid serving the foreigner if they can help it, but the food they served was magnificent. Lunch and dinner always featured a mouth-water selection. Shrimp, salmon, flounder, pork, beef, tofu, sweet and sour chicken so succulent it makes me hungry just thinking about it. There was Chinese broccoli, "hollow tube" greens, beets, carrots, corn, and lots of other green veggies that tasted like heaven but whose names I could never remember. And breakfast was no different. There was rice porridge (which, by the way, absolutely rocks), sauteed green beans (odd, I know, but very tasty when it's hot outside), hash browns, eggs, assorted pastries, and the best of all: nai cha (tea with milk).
When I first walked into the dining hall, the hustle and bustle, as well as the apparent lack of organization completely overwhelmed me. Where did I start? Where were the plates? Where was the silverware? How did I pay? How did I order? It took a few tries, but eventually, I learned to navigate the place like an old pro. Pick up your plate with rice from the dead-rice-man, elbow your way to the front of the queue to see if they were serving sweet and sour chicken today, swipe your e-card across the little register hung above the buffet, then cut across a line to find the basket of chopsticks, and then sit and enjoy.
So as far as the food was concerned, all was well in China.
 | ||||||
| The dining hall at its busiest: right around dinner time |
 |
| The famous chopstick-bucket |
 |
| Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Who can tell which is which? |
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Let them eat cake!
If there is one thing I absolutely, wholeheartedly, unequivocally do not like about my newly adopted country, it's the bread. I'm sorry America, but compared to a French baguette, or a Dutch Tijgerbrood, or even a German Kaiserbrotchen, your bread just does not make the cut. You make great burgers, an awesome Caesar salad, and the best biscuits and gravy I ever had, but don't count on winning any prizes for your bread.
I'm sorry.
Luckily for me, husband-dear shares my dislike of American bread. And after trying every single brand of bread in our local commissary as well as our local Publix, we've had to come to the conclusion that American bread is just not for us. It's too heavy, too sweet, and the texture is just not right. Bread is supposed to be light, airy, chewy, and definitely not sweet. Oh, we'll always keep a loaf of something whole-wheaty and healthy in the freezer, just in case one of us gets a sudden craving for a PB&J sandwich, but let's be honest here, it's kept in the freezer because we know it will probably last us about two weeks if not more, by which point it would have gone moldy had it been kept anywhere else but in subzero temperatures.
But as we all know, bread is an excellent source of carbohydrates. And as we also all know, husband-dear and I are insane health-tri-freaks. So we need carbohydrates at least every once in a while. And if you don't like bread, the options you're left with (pasta, potatoes, rice), smack more of a major dinner than a quick after-exercise snack. And truth be told, we both missed having a good sandwich. Like the kaiserbrotchen with cream cheese and salmon we used to have for lunch in Germany. So when our tax return came in earlier this month, we decided to splurge and bought ourselves a bread-machine.
This bread-machine was going to be the end of all of our bread-related troubles. We were going to make healthy, airy, chewy, right-textured wheat bread that was going to knock your socks off. Our bread was going to be the envy of the neighborhood, and people were going to be begging us for more. Several of our friends make their own bread using a bread-machine, and they love it. Their bread is awesome. I also remembered several of my good friends back in Holland spending about five minutes each night pouring flour and water into their machine, only to produce the most delectable bread ever.
It was going to be a piece of cake.
Was.
Because it's not. Holy crap. Making bread is hard.
We're now on loaf number three, and we've yet to make one that looks AND tastes alright. We can apparently either make a bread that looks like a turd and tastes great, or a loaf that looks great but tastes like your regular Walmart Great Value whole wheat. And not to be a prima donna here, but don't you at least want your bread to resemble an actual loaf? And not some gnarly knots of baked wheat? I mean, call me picky, but my bread needs to look like bread, or at least somewhat resemble it.
Not only are the recipes horribly complicated, requiring gluten, yeast, sugar, salt, special flour, butter, and water, even if you follow them to a "t", your bread still does not come out right. And trust me, between husband-dear and I, there's enough anal retentiveness to make sure we REALLY follow the recipe.
So right now we're looking into alternative bread recipes. Ones involving oil. Or something odd called lecithin. Or perhaps asking our friends in Holland to send us that "all in one flour" where all you do is add water. Or possibly sending our bread-machine back to where it came from.
Either way, the bottom line is that we still haven't solved our bread problem.
Perhaps we should take after Marie Antoinette, and just eschew the bread completely and eat cake.
Hrumph.
I'm sorry.
Luckily for me, husband-dear shares my dislike of American bread. And after trying every single brand of bread in our local commissary as well as our local Publix, we've had to come to the conclusion that American bread is just not for us. It's too heavy, too sweet, and the texture is just not right. Bread is supposed to be light, airy, chewy, and definitely not sweet. Oh, we'll always keep a loaf of something whole-wheaty and healthy in the freezer, just in case one of us gets a sudden craving for a PB&J sandwich, but let's be honest here, it's kept in the freezer because we know it will probably last us about two weeks if not more, by which point it would have gone moldy had it been kept anywhere else but in subzero temperatures.
But as we all know, bread is an excellent source of carbohydrates. And as we also all know, husband-dear and I are insane health-tri-freaks. So we need carbohydrates at least every once in a while. And if you don't like bread, the options you're left with (pasta, potatoes, rice), smack more of a major dinner than a quick after-exercise snack. And truth be told, we both missed having a good sandwich. Like the kaiserbrotchen with cream cheese and salmon we used to have for lunch in Germany. So when our tax return came in earlier this month, we decided to splurge and bought ourselves a bread-machine.
This bread-machine was going to be the end of all of our bread-related troubles. We were going to make healthy, airy, chewy, right-textured wheat bread that was going to knock your socks off. Our bread was going to be the envy of the neighborhood, and people were going to be begging us for more. Several of our friends make their own bread using a bread-machine, and they love it. Their bread is awesome. I also remembered several of my good friends back in Holland spending about five minutes each night pouring flour and water into their machine, only to produce the most delectable bread ever.
It was going to be a piece of cake.
Was.
Because it's not. Holy crap. Making bread is hard.
We're now on loaf number three, and we've yet to make one that looks AND tastes alright. We can apparently either make a bread that looks like a turd and tastes great, or a loaf that looks great but tastes like your regular Walmart Great Value whole wheat. And not to be a prima donna here, but don't you at least want your bread to resemble an actual loaf? And not some gnarly knots of baked wheat? I mean, call me picky, but my bread needs to look like bread, or at least somewhat resemble it.
Not only are the recipes horribly complicated, requiring gluten, yeast, sugar, salt, special flour, butter, and water, even if you follow them to a "t", your bread still does not come out right. And trust me, between husband-dear and I, there's enough anal retentiveness to make sure we REALLY follow the recipe.
So right now we're looking into alternative bread recipes. Ones involving oil. Or something odd called lecithin. Or perhaps asking our friends in Holland to send us that "all in one flour" where all you do is add water. Or possibly sending our bread-machine back to where it came from.
Either way, the bottom line is that we still haven't solved our bread problem.
Perhaps we should take after Marie Antoinette, and just eschew the bread completely and eat cake.
Hrumph.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
An ode to my travel mug
The one utensil that, in my opinion, is almost as American as hot dogs and crackerjacks (and yes, apple pie I suppose), is the travel mug. Not only do most people in my world own one of these nifty inventions, all cars are outfitted for two, if not three of these mugs, every institution who thinks at least a little of herself will have a travel mug with its logo, and you can't go to any conference without departing with a be-logo-ed travel mug.
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
Friday, June 3, 2011
Recipe for success, sometimes: Tri-Pasta
Tomorrow will be our second triathlon of the season, and I was preparing our customary pre-race dinner just now, I realized that that is one thing I've never shared with anyone: our absolutely delicious Tri-Pasta.
I first made this dish when I was a poor college student on a hot summer evening who realized she needed some veggies. Never in all of my library-computer-lab-filled days would I have imagined that this recipe would become the one and only thing my husband (husband? What husband? Me? Marry? Hah!) would eat prior to major races (I'm sorry? Did you just say races? As in sporting events? Really? Hah!). Yeah, I'm telling you, I had no idea.
Anyway, for all of you dying for a cold, yet healthy dish during these three-digit-days, or for those of you who have been on the lookout for a perfect pre-race meal, here is my first (and probably only) blog-recipe:
Ingredients:
A box of tri-colored pasta (Just 'cause it looks prettier. You can go all health and get whole wheat pasta too, but prior to a race, we like to carboload. A lot).
A cucumber (English or American doesn't matter)
Two/three tomatoes
A block of feta cheese
Can of whole corn
Bacon
Oil
Vinegar
Various herbs and spices
A large bowl (with lid preferably).
Boil the pasta, strain it and then let it cool off. Make sure that if you put it in the fridge, you cover it, or else it will harden too much.
Bake the bacon (or if you're like me, and you tend to burn regular bacon, buy a microwave-ready package and stick in the microwave).
Let the bacon cool and then cut it into tiny squares, then put it in the bowl.
Strain the corn and put about 3/4 of a 16oz (448gr) can in the bowl as well
Cut up the cucumber into very small pieces. You can leave the rind on or not, it's entirely up to you. If you must know, however, we leave it on, 'cause husband-dear thinks it's healthier. And he's probably right. Put cucumber in bowl.
Cut up the tomato into (you guessed it) small pieces. Try to include only the "meaty" part, since if you include a lot of the gooey (for lack of a better word) tomato parts, it's going to leak all over everything else. Add tomato to bowl.
Cut up the feta into squares, or triangles, or whatever shape works for you. It's hard to tell you how much to use; we buy an 8 oz block (227gr) and use about 2/3 of it. The feta goes in the bowl too.
Mix up all the ingredients. This is the point where you check if each ingredient is equally "represented" so to speak. You don't want a whole lot of corn and very little cucumber, for instance (can you tell I'm not really an exact science cook?).
Add the pasta. Mix the whole thing up again.
This is when it's time to make the dressing, and get a little creative (yes, even more). I just add 2 parts of olive oil, 1 part vinegar, and then mix in salt, pepper, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, basil, parsley, oregano, dill weed, and a hint of sugar. However, husband-dear has been known to just add Balsamic vinaigrette, and that works too.
Add the dressing to the salad, and you have got yourself one great example of a pre-race meal. And please don't feel like you have to call it tri-pasta either. We just started calling it that last year (husband-dear thought it was the funniest thing, as we eat it before tri's, and use tri-pasta. Yes, I married a dork. But a loveable one).
Anyway - Enjoy!
I first made this dish when I was a poor college student on a hot summer evening who realized she needed some veggies. Never in all of my library-computer-lab-filled days would I have imagined that this recipe would become the one and only thing my husband (husband? What husband? Me? Marry? Hah!) would eat prior to major races (I'm sorry? Did you just say races? As in sporting events? Really? Hah!). Yeah, I'm telling you, I had no idea.
Anyway, for all of you dying for a cold, yet healthy dish during these three-digit-days, or for those of you who have been on the lookout for a perfect pre-race meal, here is my first (and probably only) blog-recipe:
Ingredients:
A box of tri-colored pasta (Just 'cause it looks prettier. You can go all health and get whole wheat pasta too, but prior to a race, we like to carboload. A lot).
A cucumber (English or American doesn't matter)
Two/three tomatoes
A block of feta cheese
Can of whole corn
Bacon
Oil
Vinegar
Various herbs and spices
A large bowl (with lid preferably).
Boil the pasta, strain it and then let it cool off. Make sure that if you put it in the fridge, you cover it, or else it will harden too much.
Bake the bacon (or if you're like me, and you tend to burn regular bacon, buy a microwave-ready package and stick in the microwave).
Let the bacon cool and then cut it into tiny squares, then put it in the bowl.
Strain the corn and put about 3/4 of a 16oz (448gr) can in the bowl as well
Cut up the cucumber into very small pieces. You can leave the rind on or not, it's entirely up to you. If you must know, however, we leave it on, 'cause husband-dear thinks it's healthier. And he's probably right. Put cucumber in bowl.
Cut up the tomato into (you guessed it) small pieces. Try to include only the "meaty" part, since if you include a lot of the gooey (for lack of a better word) tomato parts, it's going to leak all over everything else. Add tomato to bowl.
Cut up the feta into squares, or triangles, or whatever shape works for you. It's hard to tell you how much to use; we buy an 8 oz block (227gr) and use about 2/3 of it. The feta goes in the bowl too.
Mix up all the ingredients. This is the point where you check if each ingredient is equally "represented" so to speak. You don't want a whole lot of corn and very little cucumber, for instance (can you tell I'm not really an exact science cook?).
Add the pasta. Mix the whole thing up again.
This is when it's time to make the dressing, and get a little creative (yes, even more). I just add 2 parts of olive oil, 1 part vinegar, and then mix in salt, pepper, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, basil, parsley, oregano, dill weed, and a hint of sugar. However, husband-dear has been known to just add Balsamic vinaigrette, and that works too.
Add the dressing to the salad, and you have got yourself one great example of a pre-race meal. And please don't feel like you have to call it tri-pasta either. We just started calling it that last year (husband-dear thought it was the funniest thing, as we eat it before tri's, and use tri-pasta. Yes, I married a dork. But a loveable one).
Anyway - Enjoy!
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