Mommadods' Day Off

I have been spending an inordinate amount of time sitting at the computer, writing.  Everywhere I go I run head-on into warnings about the dangers of sedentary living.  So while I live to write, apparently my blog is also killing me.  With this in mind, I ignored the little voice in my head and stole myself from my computer, heading out of the house with no particular goal in mind.  The next thing I knew, the autopilot setting in my car had me arriving at our local farm. 

I was pleased to find myself at this destination, remembering my husband’s mentioning that we were out of milk.  Just perpendicular to the dairy case, I was distracted by a row of small plastic bears.  One of them tipped his hat to me, suggesting that the reason I had not filled the empty jar in the kitchen with my signature homemade granola is because we were out of honey.  I thanked him and invited him on my journey.

Just then, a navel orange jumped its display and rolled playfully toward my feet.  He warned that if I ever want to make that homemade ‘orangecello’ liquor I had been talking about I would need a bushel of oranges.  He rounded up his friends and jumped aboard.

As I rounded the vegetable counter, an adorable kirby cucumber winked at me.  With great tenderness, he reminded me that I had purchased those fancy French jars with the locking lids in order to make pickles.  I gathered up a cohort of cukes and added them to the party.

On the way out I grabbed a banana.  It was at that perfect point when green gives way to yellow—still firm just growing into its sweetness, but before it softens and becomes cloying. 

Back at home I realized I had forgotten the milk, but I did not care.  I had a kitchen full of projects to fill my day.  Nothing could be further from my mind than my blog!  I made two batches of cranberry vanilla nut granola, filling the lidded glass jar to capacity with the tasty concoction and replacing the small scoop that had sat idly for too long on the bottom.  While the granola was baking in the oven, I peeled the zest from the many oranges, letting the bright-colored strips come to rest at the bottom of my grandmother’s favorite crystal pitcher.  I added a fifth of vodka and covered the mixture to steep for the rest of the week.

Faced with a counter full of newly bald oranges, I grabbed my sharpest chef’s knife and peeled them completely.  Cutting carefully between the membranes, I removed orange “suprèmes” and sequestered them in the refrigerator to enjoy later.

Next came the pickles.  I mixed a batch of brine and set it on the stove.  While it simmered, I washed and sliced the cucumbers on a mandolin, packing them into my French jars with some garlic and dill.  I filled the jars with the hot brine and latched them shut, allowing them to cool before storing them away.

By now it was time for think about dinner.  I marinated some chicken breasts, threw some potatoes in the oven and tossed a salad.  I minced some shallots, added a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, and whisked in some champagne vinegar before drizzling in the olive oil for a light champagne vinaigrette.  But as I gazed upon the salad it asked if this was really the best I could do.  Like MacGyver, I checked the pantry and the freezer.  Grabbing a small skillet, I threw in a handful of whole walnuts, a small scoop of brown sugar, a teaspoon of cumin, and a pinch of cayenne.  I stirred the mixture, trying to keep it from burning as it turned into candy.  Absentmindedly, I reached in with my finger to wipe down the silicon spatula, shocked to realize that the molten sugar was a million degrees.   I ran quickly to the sink, but the tap water did nothing to soothe the second degree burns now covering my fingertip.  I opened the freezer, finding the moon-shaped cubes giggling smugly at my pain.  It was “cold comfort;” the ice did little to quell the deep burning sensation or the quickly forming blisters.

How often do we invent tasks for ourselves as a productive form of procrastination?  I am no crusader against the sedentary life; I was rationalizing my own fantasy Ferris Bueller day.  And what a day it was, doing what I love most:  being creative, playing with food, taking care of my family.  Somehow I managed to escape harm from an arsenal of sharp kitchen tools.  In the end, I was punished for deviating from the discipline of my daily writing.

So forgive me, gentle reader, as I peck away with my nine remaining fingers.  I took a chance, but I got burned!

Tomorrow's blog:  Hammering it Out in Black and White