The Entropy of It All

I have never cared much for physics, or more precisely, for studying physics.  I take it for granted that gravity makes the world suck and that when my body is at rest it likes to stay at rest.  To me, thermodynamics is more interesting as a spelling word than a concept.  That’s why it is so unusual that I have been preoccupied of late with entropy. 

Everywhere I go, decay calls to me.  Perhaps it is a side effect of getting older that I am tuned in to signs of deterioration and decline all around.   My husband was oblivious to the surface sheen on his favorite sports coat, but the telltale signs of having undergone too much dry cleaning drove me to distraction.   My gleaming granite countertops assault my senses, calling attention to every scratch and chip.  I have become as sensitive to sagging seat cushions and flattened pillows as the princess was to her pea.   And every crack and creak in my house leaves me fearful that the entire structure will come toppling down upon us.

I find that my life is quickly transitioning to “maintenance mode.”  Whereas I was once a creative, forward looking person with boundless energy, today I operate from a list of reparative to-dos.   My house is a constant generator of activity--not as old as me, but with far more invested in it.  Most people do not notice the gentle signs of age that they face every day, eventually blinded to chips in the paint, a loose tile here or there, or the spidery pattern of crumbling asphalt in the driveway.  I cannot seem to allow these imperfections to become “next guy’s problem”—I want to them resolved.  And I want it done now.

Just recently we undertook a project to replace a wall of windows and sliders that had long ago lost the seal in their double-paned glass.  The foggy build up between the glass layers was approximating the way the Wall Street Journal looks to me without my reading glasses.  It cast a blurry haze over the beautiful view of my yard, where endangered wildlife frequently shows up for a photo opportunity.  The new French doors were a revelation, replacing an eyesore that predated our tenure in this house with a bright shiny gaze upon acres and acres of Nature.  But the second the paint on the trim was dry I could no longer stand the rough-hewn, water stained boards that lined the walls around the doors.  Painting these boards—with which we had lived for 15 years—was now a priority that kept me awake at night.  I managed to convince my favorite handyman to spend his day off with us, priming and painting this room.  Unfortunately, he got a glimpse of the rest of my lengthy to-do list and will no longer return my calls.  Thanks to a DIY father, when it comes to home repairs I can be somewhat self-sufficient.   I am forever raiding the local Home Depot for grout and spackle and caulk as I attempt to erase settling cracks, remove dents and secure lose tiles.  Out, damned spot!

It does not take a physicist or a therapist to figure out that my obsession with keeping my house looking new mirrors the fear of my own advancing age.  It is so easy to replace a rotted window sash, or upgrade a kitchen faucet.  But what can be done about the knobs that are beginning to appear in my arthritic finger joints?  Unlike the leaky toilet, or the drywall patch after repairing the frozen pipes, there is no “handyman” that can promise to make my sticky knees good as new.   I am resisting the awareness of my body's perpetual state of decay.  If I cannot restore my own ravages of time, at least I can repair the ones that envelope me.

So, dear husband, indulge me while I strip the front door of its seven layers so that it can receive a fresh coat of paint.  Don’t fight me when I assign you grease-stripping tasks that are near the ceiling where only you can reach.  Forgive my need to replace all the wall switches so they reflect more modern equipment.  Pardon me when I start an improvement project on the weekend and drag you into it with me.   These are not idle tasks; they are necessary ones.   I am waging a personal war against the laws of physics.  I am determined to prove, one way or another, that deterioration is not inevitable.   I will bring order to that which is in disarray.  The laws of matter do not matter--because ignorance of physics is bliss.   

Keen Wah

Because I have several vegan readers, I thought I would offer an additional recipe. 

We are trying to eat lighter these days, substituting whole grains and farm-grown products for meats and over-processed foods.  During this food revolution, I discovered a variety of new whole-grain products, including wheat berries, faro, and quinoa.  Quinoa is one of the ancient grains that is now very popular.  Discovered by the Incas, it is high in protein and fiber, making it an ideal fortifier in a low-fat diet.  This recipe uses my favorite southwest flavor profiles, making it a great accompaniment to our household go-to:  quesadillas.  Unfortunately, the one that does not translate well into whole-grain is tortillas.  I have sampled many store brands.  Whole grain tortillas are a sacrifice I am just not willing to make.

For the corn in this recipe, I “harvest” fresh corn in the summertime, cutting it off the cob and freezing it in Ziploc freezer bags in packages of 3 ears.  For those of you who haven’t planned ahead, I prefer frozen corn to canned.  It has a fresher flavor.

This recipe is good while it is still warm.  It is also good cold and will keep several days in the refrigerator.  Quinoa is an amazing budget ingredient, as 1 cup of dry drain will make about 3 cups of cooked product.

Southwestern Quinoa Salad

1 cup of quinoa

1 ¼ to 2 cups water*  (*according to package directions)

2 teaspoons cumin

¼ teaspoon cayenne

1 can black beans, rinsed well and drained

3 ears of corn, kernels removed (you may substitute 1 cup of frozen corn, thawed)

½ red onion, fine dice

1 scallion, thinly sliced

½ cup cilantro, chopped fine

Juice of 2 limes

1 teaspoon of salt

½ teaspoon of fresh cracked pepper

½ pint cherry of grape tomatoes, sliced in half

In a small pot with a tight fitting lid, place quinoa, water (in the proportion specified on the package), cumin and cayenne pepper.  Bring to a boil on high heat, then cover and reduce to low.  Simmer 12 minutes (again, check you package—some say as much as 15 minutes).  Remove from heat and let stand 5 minutes without removing the lid.  Fluff with a fork.

While the quinoa is simmering, place black beans, red onion, corn, and scallion in a large bowl and mix.  Add the prepared quinoa and toss to distribute evenly.  Season with salt and pepper, then add cilantro and lime juice and toss well.  Before serving, add halved cherry tomatoes. 

Store tightly covered in the refrigerator for up to one week.  Cool completely before refrigerating.

Dignity Trumps Stupidity

I had high hopes for Donald Trump’s big announcement this week.  I expected that this would provide fodder for another blog, giving me an opportunity to ponder, with a semblance of objectivity, the facets of some well-considered-though-conservatively-tipped plan.  I believed that his legions of advisors and sycophants would have helped him to vet his actions.  I would have thought that he could afford the best public relations professionals in the business.  I braced myself.

What we got, was a warmed over repeat of his tired refrain.  Blah, blah, blah about the president and his impeccable academic credentials.  Why is it so unfathomable to this man that our President could be his intellectual superior in every way?  After all, most Americans are his intellectual superior.   

For anyone who has been living under a rock, The Donald offered to make a $5 million charitable contribution if the President turns over his academic and passport records by Halloween.  I guess he thought that should the President choose to ignore him, he could then argue in the final week before the election that the President does not care about helping people.  He failed to consider that the thing that the President does not care about is Donald Trump.

The most amazing part of this story is that failed to gain traction.  In this world of sound bites and sensationalism, one would expect such a ridiculous story to float around the airwaves and Twitterdom for at least few hours.   But apparently, even our media has standards—and Donald Trump didn’t make the cut.  The reports of Trump’s gesture were perfunctory and remarkably brief, dismissed as nothing more than a sour footnote.  His announcement fell as flat as his comb-over. 

Of course it did not help that Trump released his huntless dog in the wake of Richard Mourdock’s declaration that unwanted pregnancy resulting from rape is “something that G-d intended to happen.”  Even the crazy mind of Donald Trump failed to conjure something heinous enough to steal the headlines from such a freak show. 

Still more curious is that Trump would put a Halloween deadline on his offer.   It gives his proposal a rather odd context—placing it in the company of howling screams, fake blood, and projectile eggs.  It makes it harder than usual to take him seriously, as we anticipate an evening where children disguise their youthful innocence, donning fantasy costumes and being granted the right to eat way too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  It is a night to laugh at our fears, allowing gruesome characters to stalk our homes, knowing full well that they are just our closest friends and neighbors.  Behind each mask, we are as we always are.

Stephen Colbert's great visual notwithstanding, my only response to Donald Trump’s offer was to laugh out loud.  Although he thought he could hide behind a human mask of charitable goodness, he nonetheless remains every bit the ass we know him to be.

Cedar-Plank Salmon

In honor of reaching 11,000 hits, it is time for another recipe.

This is my go-to recipe for special occasions.  It is a spectacular presentation and unequalled in flavor.  Even people who swear they don’t like fish find this to be succulent and delicious.  I am partial to Pacific salmon; even though we live currently in New England, we are able to get wild caught salmon at Whole Foods.  When selecting a salmon filet, I choose the deepest red color and the thickest (rather than broadest) piece.  To remove the tiny pin bones, which are hidden beneath the surface in a row running the entire length of the fish, I use a pair of needle-nose pliers (specially purchased for culinary use).  Feel the flesh with your finger about an inch from the edge to locate the bones.  These must be removed before cooking.  It is not unusual to remove 20-30 bones.

This recipe is easy to prepare in a conventional oven, however, to really impart a good flavor cook it on the grill.  We have experimented with both a charcoal fire and a gas grill, concluding that the gas grill is best.   It does not flare up and burn the cedar plank, allowing a more consistent preparation.

Cedar planks are sold near the fish counter at Whole Foods.  They have started selling other wood species, such as cherry and walnut.  Be careful to look for cedar, as it imparts a unique flavor to this dish.

To serve the cooked fish, I like to lift the entire filet off the cedar in one piece, allowing the skin to stick to the wood.  I have a special wide spatula for this purpose.  It is beautiful served over a platter or wild rice, or roasted vegetables.  And we always make an extra—it’s just that good!

My son loves to find leftovers in the refrigerators.  He swears they make the best quesadillas in the world.

 

Cedar-Plank Salmon

1-2 cedar planks to match the length of the salmon, soaked in water for at least 30 minutes before preparation

2 lb salmon filet, skin on, pin bones removed (removed from refrigerator 20 minutes prior)

3 Tablespoons high quality maple syrup

½ cup packed light brown sugar

2Tablespoons canola oil

1Tablespoons dried thyme leaves

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, or gas grill to high.  Place waterlogged cedar plank(s) on a rimmed baking sheet.  Place salmon skin-side down, lengthwise along the cedar plank.  Brush with maple syrup.

Combine brown sugar, oil, thyme, and cayenne in a small bowl until well mixed.  Spread over the salmon, pressing it together until it covers the fish completely, packing it into a crust.  Roast in oven 20-25 minutes.  To check for doneness, take a fork and flake the flesh.  It is done when it is flaky.  Do not overcook.  (On a gas grill, remove the fish and planks from the baking sheet, placing the cedar directly on the grill.  Close the cover on the grill to promote smoke. )

Serve cooked fish immediately, lifting carefully to keep the entire fish intact.

For everyday cooking, you can use this recipe for salmon filets, placing them on the soaked cedar plank and dressing them individually with the sugar crust.

Kiss the Cook

With the exception of the occasional recipe (by popular demand), I have strayed away from cooking topics in this blog.  I wanted to avoid any semblance of aspiring to be a Julie Powell-wannabe.  So far I have succeeded in this goal, as evidenced by the publishers and movie producers who have kept a safe distance.  To be sure, my efforts this year are about writing and not cooking. 

That being said, cooking is an important part of my life.  It is one of my favorite past times, one that I enjoy sharing liberally with friends on a regular basis.    It occurs to me that cooking has been, for generations, one of the most powerful of oral traditions.  Young girls, for the most part, learn family and cultural traditions from their mothers and grandmothers.  And while standing as an observer at the elbows of my maternal forbears certainly piqued my interest, I realize that my cooking sensibilities are dramatically different.

My grandmother was a good cook, but not an inspired one.  A young newlywed during the depression, she could roast a chicken or turkey, make a pot of soup, and transform leftovers into casseroles and sandwiches to squeeze out extra meals.  I think of her as the war horse who dutifully produced ethnic favorites for the Jewish holidays.  No one begged to take away her chopped liver duty.  I used to love when she pulled out the ancient meat grinder, pulverizing cooked livers and hard-boiled eggs into a moldable spread.  Today it could pass for “pate” in a fancy restaurant, but to us it was just Nanny’s chopped liver.

Nanny was also a great source of cheese blintzes and potato latkes—foods that required such major productions that she would close down all other cooking activities for days in advance.  Blintzes required dozens of thin pancakes (crepes, really) to be thrown down individually on her threadbare white baking towels.  Once enough were fabricated, she would turn to fillings.  Cheese blintzes require ‘farmer cheese.’  The product is sold in a wax-wrapped brick, filling the evolutionary gap between cottage cheese and cream cheese.   It is curds drained of the whey, imparting the dry creaminess that makes a perfect filling without creating a soggy crepe. 

My own mother enjoyed cooking as well as my father’s appreciation for her efforts.  Her style was a mixture of traditional Jewish techniques from her mother (‘always shake the pot; don’t stir’) as well as French cooking techniques gleaned from public television and the occasional cooking class.  My father was raised on bland foods, so my mother enjoyed introducing him to the joys of garlic and melted cheese.  My mother also enjoyed the time-saving benefits of culinary science and industrialized food products; she loved frozen foods and microwave ovens.

Today, I have distilled my ‘joy of cooking’ down to three main aspects:  the process, the ingredients, and the love.  Process has been a recurrent theme in my life.  I love problem solving and program planning—whether it is corporate strategy or implementing a surprise party for my husband.  I enjoy taking a large task down to its basic elements, making lists, and crossing things off one by one.  Nothing excites me more than a Thanksgiving dinner or a Passover Seder, meals that can take weeks of shopping, research, and yes--cooking.

Over the years I have also adopted a high standard for ingredients.  Living in a semi-rural suburb with access to farm-fresh fruits and vegetables has changed my tastes.  I love being able to ‘see’ everything that goes into the dishes that I make.  It is exciting to unpack a harvest of vegetables from the local farm, laying them out and arranging them on the kitchen counter like a vibrant still-life.  For me, the purity of ingredients elevates cooking to an art form.

But the best thing about cooking is the way it translates into love.  My kids know that when they arrive home from college the house will be filled with the tastes and aromas of their favorite home-cooked meals.  It is a signature act that I do for my kids--something that cannot be replaced or reproduced by anyone else.  There is no app for that.  I will put hours into shopping and peeling and chopping and simmering, just to convey how glad I am to see them and how much they mean to me.  And when my labors all disappear in an instant, leaving behind nothing but a few crumbs and a pampered glow, I know in that moment that they love me back.

First World Problems--A Fairy Tale

It was a sunny day.  Mommalina woke with the sun.  She could not get herself out of bed, not because she was ill, but because she had no particular plan for the day.  The plush mattress and stack of soft pillows created a luxurious cocoon; the Fall day made the high thread-count sheets the perfect temperature.  It was not too warm and not too cool; it was just right.

Mommalina stared at her fingers, wondering how she managed to chip her pricey manicure.  Without moving from her comfortable position, she reached over to her nightstand and pulled her cellphone from its charger.  Finding the spa number on speed dial, she booked an appointment to restore perfection to her evenly filed and painted nails.

No longer able to find a cool side on her pillows, Mommalina arose and headed for the shower.  It was a Fall day that left a chill in the house—too warm for heat and too cool for air conditioning.  She was annoyed to discover that her husband had neglected to turn on the switches for the radiant floor system and the heated towel rack in the bathroom.  The marble floor was a shock to her bare feet, giving her an unwelcome case of goosebumps.

She brushed her teeth, making a mental note to nag her husband for the umpteenth time not to squeeze the tube in the middle.  Standing in front of her closet, she sighed, not knowing what the day would bring.  Should she put on her old jeans and a “chore shirt,” or the good jeans with a washable silk top?  She hates when she can’t decide what to wear.  As if in response to her dilemma, the phone rings.  It was her husband reminding her that old friends were in town and she was to meet them at the restaurant at noon.  She was relieved to find a focal point for her day.

She spent the rest of the morning applying make-up and styling her hair.  Glancing at her watch, she realized that she should have left fifteen minutes earlier to make it into town for her lunch date.  She stuffed her iphone 5 in her Gucci bag while stepping into two different Tori Burch flats, deciding at last on the brown suedes over the black patent leathers.

Once in the car, Mommalina cursed out loud at the Talk Radio blasting at her from every direction.  She hates when her husband changes her radio station.  Why can’t he simply listen to her Top 40s station on those rare occasions when he drives her car?  At least this car remembers her personalized seat settings so she does not have to fumble underneath to slide forward to reach the gas pedal.

Pulling up in front of the restaurant, the valet attendant opened the driver’s door and handed her a ticket.  Quickly, she ran inside hoping she was not too terribly late for lunch.  As she stood in the vestibule, trying to straighten her outfit and shake out her hair, she found herself cornered by the valet, who needed the key fob for her car in order to drive and park it.  Frightfully embarrassed, she foraged in her purse until she found it.

Finally seated, she apologized to her guests for holding up their lunch.  Scanning the menu, she sighed deeply when she did not find the specific pasta dish she had the last time she dined here.  This was the reason she had suggested this restaurant, setting her heart and her palate on that tasty dish.  Biting her lip in frustration, she pointed to something on the menu, but repeated her disappointment to the server.

Back at home, Mommalina stretched out in a comfy chair to read a book.   Within a few minutes, the phone rang.  Cursing to herself for the interruption, she closed her eyes until the ringing stopped, and then resumed her place, thankful for a quiet afternoon.

As dinner hour approached, she was glad for the large lunch, allowing her to simplify meal preparation.  Checking the refrigerator, she was pleased to find enough leftovers to put together a casual meal but dismayed at the poor job her husband had done covering the food.  Opening the pantry, she was furious at the disorder that she found.  Although her husband had made dinner the night before, he put all the spices and condiments away randomly. 

After dinner, Mommalina sprawled out upon the couch and clicked on the television, irritated to discover that her favorite shows had been pre-empted, replaced by channel upon channel of news shows spouting statistics and pointing at maps.   The fact that it was Election Day had escaped her notice.   She had meant to vote, but having failed to do so, she merely shrugged it off.   

 

 

 

Well-Heeled Opposition

Well-Heeled Opposition

What strange convention beckons women’s feet,

To amble high atop such threat’ning heels,

Impossible to make a quick retreat,

From those who lack the sense for how it feels.

The limits of the physical must stretch--

Say Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin,

But pardon me, I must needs whine and kvetch,

If artificial stature is the plan.

A longer limb is sexy, argue men,

Whose dreams of thin stiletto spikes abound,

But when it comes to legs, I stress again,

I’m lucky just to have mine reach the ground.

When shopping shoes, discomfort thwarts each pair--

I think I’ll paint my toes and leave them bare.