Dining as Routine

I'm at home for the summer, spending my days with my daughter. Our day is divided into chunks of time where we focus on household chores, academic pursuits, and general fun. Two weeks ago we each began the day by making a list of five goals we would like to achieve in June. Writing two blog posts a week is one of my goals. I want to gain some momentum with this blogging business.

Today I thought I'd share an excerpt from John Feinstein's book A Season on the Brink, which gives readers an insider's look at legendary college basketball coach Bob Knight. The idea for this post percolated in March as I listened to Coach Knight provide color commentary for the Big 12 Men's Basketball tournament, and I kept thinking about the following passage in the book:

At home, the team eats in the student union, in an elegant third-floor meeting room. Everyone, players and coaches, wears a coat and a tie - everyone except Knight, who usually arrives in slacks and a sweater. The players sit at a long table and eat spaghetti, hamburgers without rolls, scrambled eggs, pancakes, and ice cream. They drink orange juice or iced tea. The meal is always the same, home or away. Everyone gets vanilla ice cream - except Knight, who gets butter pecan.

Initially I thought the pregame meal was ridiculous. The meal makes no sense. It's something a father from the 1950's throws together for the kids when mom is out of town. Where are the vegetables? Then I started to reflect on the meal and the purpose it served, and then I began to reflect on my own dining eccentricities. Specifically, I thought about my lunch ritual at school. For the past two years, 98 percent of the time I ate the following for lunch.

 

Yogurt and Uncle Sam cereal. Uncle Sam cereal won't have prominent placement in most cereal aisles. It will be tucked away from the sugar-infused throng of traditional breakfast cereals. It's a stodgy cereal consisting only of wheat flakes and flax seeds, healthy goodness to fuel the body. Some of my colleagues probably think I'm crazy. Some probably marvel at my monastic allegiance to this meal. You would think that a food blogger would mix up his lunch routine. Today I'll close my post by listing three reasons this lunch routine.

1. At school I get only 15-20 minutes to eat lunch, and since I hate to rush a meal, I choose something that can be casually enjoyed in the allotted time. Time (specifically, lack of time) stresses me out. I don't wear a watch because he ticking of a clock and the realization that my days are numbered evokes stress and neurosis in my bones.

2. This lunch routine provides me with self-discipline. I love to eat, and who knows what I would look like if I ate whatever the hell I wanted to eat for lunch. I'm already a little heavier than I'd like to be, so I tether my health to this anchor.

3. I think, the stress of being an introvert in front of a classroom of teenagers dulls my appetite. I don't require a big meal, and I prefer to be light and nimble in the classroom.

I just wanted to get the blogging ball rolling with this post.

take care,

muddy waters

 

Confession of a Heartless Bastard

Recently I attended an open house at my daughter's daycare center, and one parent informed the group that he used a file cabinet to catalog all of his child's artwork.

When I heard this, guilt overwhelmed me and I shamefully stared at the floor. You see, I don't archive my daughter's artwork. In fact, sometimes when I find artwork in her cubbie, I'll toss it in the garbage before we leave the daycare center, so it never even makes it home. I know -- I'm a terrible parent. I'm convinced that someday my daughter will write a memoir, and there will be a scene where her drunken father picks her up at daycare, and in front of her friends, he'll shred a Crayon portrait of the family, declare that it's crap, and promptly toss it in the trash.

I'm not totally heartless and unnurturing. Remember, I'm the guy who cries while watching Little House on the Prairie and Hallmark Card commercials. I do keep some of her artwork. Last week the theme of the week was food, so students designed placemats depicting favorite meals. Here's my daughter's placemat:

I know it isn't pretty, and I'll probably need to translate for you. What we have are some chicken nuggets at the top of the plate, French fries, a big piece of cake topped with cherries, blueberries, and a single strawberry. She washed the meal down with a glass of chocolate milk.

I won't express my disgust at her decision to include chicken nuggets and French fries on her placemat. She already knows how I feel about processed foods. Instead I want to focus on the cake. Here's a closeup.
Not only is it the biggest item on the menu, but it's in the center of the meal. Everything else revolves around dessert. This is the way my daughter views the world, a place where dessert is the center of the universe, which is probably the way things should be.

Treat yourself to dessert,
muddy

Skeletons in My Pantry or Confessions of a Squirrel Hunter

"Wild Peaches"

When the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong,
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.


***Elinor Wylie

Once upon a time, in the 1980's, I fancied myself a hunter. Let me be more specific, and I say this with a hush: Once upon a time, I hunted squirrels. Squirrels! Squirrels. Squirrels. Those furry little creatures that frolic in parks and backyards. Today I cringe when I think about firing my .22 and plucking a squirrel from a tree branch, and when I remind myself that squirrels are member of the rodent family and that I often enjoyed eating fried squirrel with mashed tators & a good cream gravy, I shudder.

I vaguely remember my life as a squirrel hunter. At Pomona Elementary School, all the boys took a hunters' education course during their 5th grade year. We spent an entire week of school studying gun safety, hunting etiquette, and hunting techniques. The fact that we took time out of our studies to study hunting and that females were excluded from this good ol' boy activity, boggles my mind. In this pre-Columbine age, we actually handled guns in the classroom. The times have changed.

If you're going to trust me as a food blogger, I think it best that I continue to disclose such scandalous facts about my past.

Today I don't hunt or handle guns or eat squirrel. I don't have anything against those activities. As my five-year-old daughter would say, "It's just not my taste." I still enjoy romping around in the woods; I just like to leave the squirrels as I found them.

Don't take your guns to town,

muddy

NOTE: I found the poem for this post in a tattered copy of The Norton Anthology of American Literature. I found the following information about the poet interesting:

"Elinor Wylie characterized herself as poet who strove to make 'enamelled snuff-boxes' in words, the product of a 'small clean technique.' In so doing, she was intentionally rejecting the grand ambitions of many male poets of the time, preferring to celebrate the traditional woman's art of beautifying small spaces."

While I don't quite understand what this means, I do think it's healthy to reject the grand ambitions of most males.

Confession of a Culinary Snuggle Bear

I'm considering sleeping with my rye sourdough culture. No, I'm not someone who has a fetish for Saccharomyces cerevisiae. You see, I'm struggling to bring my culture to life. I'm into day #5, and my starter remains a lifeless glob resembling brick mortar. There are no beautiful strands of gluten. No rising. No air bubbles. Just a sour scent.

I think, my sourdough culture's lack of life can be attributed to the fact that my furnace themostat is usually set at 65 degrees. According to the recipe I'm using, the culture should rest in an environment where the temperature is between 70 and 75 degrees. After day #6, the recipe recommends a balmy 80-85 degree temperature.

The inside of our home rarely reaches these temeperatures, so I'm contemplating sleeping with my sourdough culture. I'm a bear of a man who generates a lot of body heat when I'm nestled underneath our down comforter and flannel sheets.

I've read that grizzled mining camp cooks often snuggled with their pirzed crocks of sourdough starters when evening temperatures dipped. I'm willing to do the same for my art, but I need to consider one thing: Is sleeping with a sourdough culture grounds for divorce?

Maybe I should just buy a little papoose for my sourdough starter, and I could cradle it next to my body all day. No one would stare; would they?

I'm not a well man.

Dressing sharp, but feelin' dull,
muddywaters

Chuck Wagon Chow

If you're a regular reader of The Greasy Skillet, you know that I'm subject to whimsy. In fact, The Whimsical Skillet might be a more apt name for my blog. I try to travel the road of practicality, but it never works out. With the crack of a book, a chance conversation, the melody of song, or idle time to daydream, whimsy grabs the wheel and I veer into the ditch. Once again, I'm here to confess deviant thoughts that flutter around in my head:

Confession #1:

I often dream of being a chuck wagon cook for a big ranch. This is a product of my love of cooking, food, history, and the geography of the American West. It's a way to connect with the mythology and romanticism of the West without getting in the saddle - a place I'd rather not be. This summer I went on a ten-hour horseback ride over the Continental Divide, and the ordeal traumatized me and soured me on the notion of ever getting on a horse again. If I can ever muster the courage, I'll blog about this experience.

Confession #2:


I've wrangled up a small herd of cookbooks about the art of chuck wagon and cowboy cooking. I have so many books that I have to store some in boxes in the basement.

Confession #3:

If I had more storage space, I would collect cast iron cookware.

Confession #4:

I sometimes contemplate building a fire in my backyard, so I can cook like a cowboy. I control such urges because folk frown upon fires within the city limits. I've found that most city folk feel the same way about discharging firearms, allowing dogs to roam unleashed, urinating outdoors, and public drunkenness. I don't understand all the fuss.

If I did build a fire in my backyard, I would cook this:

Chuck Wagon Chow
From The All Beef Cookbook: Favorite Recipes from the American National CowBelles.

I learned this little recipe from my dear wife. For the record, she opposes any of the following within the city limits: discharging firearms, allowing dogs to roam unleashed, urinating outdoors, Christmas decorations before December 1st, chicken coops, and public drunkenness.

The recipe can be prepared with ease, and it's sure to satisfy cowpokes, cowhands, cowboys, and cowtippers.

Ingredients:

• 1-pound of beef cut into 3/4-inch cubes (I usually just use beef stew meat, sirloin, or chuck)
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons chili powder
• 1/4 teaspoon pepper
• 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
• 2 tablespoon cooking oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 green bell pepper, chopped
• 1 can kidney beans, with liquid (We usually use Ranch Beans because my wife despises kidney beans. I, on the other hand, hate to see a good bean maligned. Kidney beans need love too.)
• 1 can whole-kernel corn, with liquid
  

Preparation:

1. Season the meat with salt, chili powder, pepper, and garlic powder.
2. Using a skillet or dutch over, brown the meat over medium-high heat. Remove the meat.
   
3. Add onion and green pepper. Saute until soft.
   
4. Add meat, beans, and corn.
   
5. Simmer for 45 minutes. I prefer to prepare this the day before I plan on serving. The meat becomes more tender with two rounds of braising.

Sometimes the ditch is more interesting than the road,
muddywaters

My Dirty Little Secret

If you're reading this blog, you're probably wondering: Who is this guy muddywaters? What skeletons lurk in his pantry? Is there a dark side? Where's the dirt? My friends, today I'm premiering a new monthly feature titled My Dirty Little Secrets, where I deliver the dirt on muddywaters.

As you know I've been reading a lot of fiction and nonfiction by Tony Earley, so the following passage from one of his essays inspired my new feature:

I do no like, have never liked, nor expect to like. watermelon. For the record, I consider this a private, dietary preference, not a political choice, neither sign of failing character, nor renunciation of Southern citizenship. I simply do no like watermelon. Nor, for that matter, grits, blackberries, cantaloupe, buttermilk, okra, baked sweet potatoes, rhubarb, or collard greens. Particularly collard greens. I don't even like to look at collard greens. But, because I am a Southerner, a North Carolinian of Appalachian. Scot–Irish descent, off-spring of farming families on both sides, my family finds my failure to like the foods they like somehow distressing. Whenever I eat at my grandmother Ledbetter's table, my relatives earnestly strive to convince me that I am making a mistake by not sampling this or that, that I do not know what I am saying when I say no, that I should just try the greens, have just a little slice of watermelon, a small bite of cantaloupe, that I would eventually get used to the seeds in blackberries, the mealiness of grits, the swampy odor of greens boiled too long in a big pot. And, when I refuse, as I have been refusing with passion and steadfastness for as long as I could talk, they stare at me for a few seconds as if they do not know me, their mouths set sadly, then look down at their plates as if preparing to offer up a second grace.

Now I don't know Mr. Earley, but I quickly judged him after reading his confession. How could I ever trust someone who doesn't enjoy a slice of watermelon? Is there any greater summer joy? Throw in a shade tree, a summer breeze, and I'm in heaven.

You can tell a lot about person by what they eat and don't eat. For example, my brother once dated a girl who didn't eat the following foods: anything with bones, anything with grill marks, beans, potatoes, or anything green. When she sat down at the table for dinner, her plate looked like one of those minimalistic plates you see in a gourmet restaurant. This is the gospel truth, my friends. For me these facts were signs that the relationship was doomed, but as you y'all know, love sometimes paralyzes logic. The ill-fated relationship ran its course and fortunately ran aground.

Perhaps, I'm too quick to judge. Perhaps, I'm a culinary snob. Perhaps, I need to take a look in the mirror, which eventually leads us to the point of this rambling entry. In this monthly feature, I'll reveal my culinary quirks, so that you can judge me and determine whether or not I'm worthy of following on my ramblings.

Here's the dirt: I don't like pancakes. Anytime pancakes are mentioned in our house, my wife and daughter beam with delight. When my wife prepares pancake, she, along with my daughter, sing and dance like they're in a Broadway musical. I expect Julie Andrews to gracefully burst into the house at any minute. On pancake days, I feel left out of the fun.

It's always been this way. When I was a child, my mother would shape pancakes into teddy bears to coax me into liking them. It didn't work. I've tried to like pancakes. I've tried banana pancakes, cornmeal pancakes, pumpkin pancakes, and pancakes with a variety of toppings. I've tried calling a pancake by other names: flapjacks, griddle cakes, crepes, hoe cakes, dutch babies, . Last week I spied, a recipe on chowhound.com for Hoddeok, which is a brown sugar pancake part of the Korean street food culture, so I printed the recipe with intentions of trying it. I decided to not attempt the recipe because I know that a pancake by any other name is just a pancake.

Now if I'm guest somewhere and pancakes are served, I politely and slowly eat a pancake. Otherwise, I avoid anything that resembles a pancake. Why do I dislike pancakes? Well, it boils down to two things:

1. Pancakes always leave me feeling bloated and lethargic. Instead of giving me the energy to tackle the day with gusto, I seek out the nearest couch and blanket for a nap.
2. I also hate syrup. Even typing the word syrup repulses me and leaves my finger tips feeling sticky on my keyboard. Even if I avoid syrup on my pancakes, somehow my fork, hands, and chin end up getting sticky. It's even difficult for me to purchase pancake syrup when I grocery shop. Mrs. Butterworth and her sticky hands terrify me. I'm slowly getting over my aversion to syrup and stickiness. Having a four-year-old daughter gives me plenty of opportunities to stare into the abyss and face my personal demons. I'm thankful for this.

I guess that's it for this installment of My Dirty Little Secrets. Despite my flaws and quirks, I hope you continue to read The Greasy Skillet.

Keep on the sunnyside,
muddywaters