Merry Christmas 2022

 

The Curry Rice of My Childhood

 When we were very small, anything green at mealtime was a signal that something unpleasant awaited. Seven layer salad. Canned asparagus. Groene bonen on boiled potatoes (again). Salad-courtesy-of-the-chef's-back-yard. Spinach fandango.

Mem's Curry Rice was an exception. It was green in a not entirely natural way. In a nature-says-stop-this-is-not-edible way. In a 90s turn-a-turtle-into-a-ninja way. In a definitely-not-a-vegetable way. I still don't know how she got it so green.

I loved the way it smelled cooking down in the plug-in skillet. I loved the way we passed around the can of tomato sauce with two triangular punch-holes from plate to plate as we impatiently waited our turn to create a masterpiece in livid green and red or play tic-tac-toe with our food. It was the meal I most associate with the gezelligheit of my upbringing. It must have been convenient to make too, because we ate it a lot. Mem usually ate something else, though Heit dove right in with us.

Ingredients

1 lb ground beef

1 onion, chopped

1 tsp curry

1 cup rice

1 3/4 cup water

1 tsp salt

1 dab butter

8 oz tomato sauce in can

Process

Brown the hamburger in a skillet with the onion. Drain off the liquid. Mix in the curry, Add the rice, water, salt and butter. Cook on low for 20 minutes. There it is, dead simple. The art comes in when serving: get an old fashioned can punch-style opener and put a small and a large triangular hole in the lid of the can roughly opposite each other. Pour the tomato sauce into the individual bowl in your favorite impressionist style.

-Thanks to Reanna Bergman for codifying a lot of this recipe.

NB: while looking for a picture of an old-fashioned can punch, I learned that the tab on the back of some bottle openers is for lifting the tab on an aluminum can.

Shouting Hollowly into the Void - 2021 wrap-up

 This is the fifteenth year of the death list, which is a sort of anniversary I suppose. Every year I look over my running list of celebrity passings, scan wikipedia for a few nights to confirm I didn't miss too many, and put it all together. I've been doing this long enough now that friends send me notice when someone famous dies, as do coworkers. It feels a little more pointless this year, and I'm not sure why. It may be the general feeling I've had recently, where every goal is put on hold, and I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I can't help feeling that every time I react emotionally to a stimulus, it's an act, and I can view it objectively while still responding in an expected way. I guess I'm maintaining. So as we enter this, our fourth year of pandemic, I adjure you all to do your best to stay healthy; I knew several people on this list personally.

Bret Hoekema
Siegfried Fischbacher
Phil Spector
Hank Aaron
Larry King
Dustin Diamond
Christopher Plummer
Larry Flynt
Chick Corea
Carmen
Rush Limbaugh

Merry Christmas 2021

 

Halloween Pumpkin 2021

 

The Garlic Bread of My Childhood

 This is the first garlic bread I remember having. It isn't much, but every time I have it, it reminds me of all my favorite parts of mealtime together. 

Ingredients

1 loaf french bread*

1/3 cup of butter

1/3 tsp garlic powder

Process

Heat oven to 350

Melt butter in the microwave (probably ~30 sec)

Mix garlic powder in the melted powder

Pour mixture into a 9x13 pan

Dip one side of the bread and swipe around until evenly coated

Flip bread, swipe around again

Bake for 12-15 minutes**

*The crumb of the bread seems to be important here. If the bubbles left from the yeast are two big, the bread isn't as easy to coat evenly. If you use a different style bakery roll, the results will taste about as good, but it's more worrying during the process.

** I pull the bread out when the top of the bread has firmed up.

Untitled Funeral Ruminations

  At my Opa's (grandfather) funeral in 2020, I remember a picture that brought up more emotion than any of the others. It was a shot of my grandparents walking down a boulevard somewhere in Europe. They were already gray. My Oma (grandmother) was laughing.
 Oma has dementia. It's been years since I've seen her walk unassisted, seen her smile, or even heard her speak. She's a little like an antique that we keep around, polish up from time to time, but don't bring out very often.

 I hadn't considered at the time why that particular photo hit me. She laughed sometimes, but more frequently was impatient with us, strict, and quick to correct. She pinched pennies to keep the family of 9 fed. My Opa was generous, sometimes extravagant. He might invite guests over on short notice, probably without consulting Oma. They took us to Europe with them when we were kids and I have a tough time deciding my favorite memory from the trip: either Opa buying us ice cream from a different street vendor every day, even in bad weather, or him getting lost driving from city to city without consulting maps, or locals. His impulsive qualities were frustrating to some of the family, but to the kids, he was magical, always ready with encouragement or something we could do together.

 Oma on the other hand, was not fun. I never looked forward to being with her. Opa would send us down the dairy convenience mart for ice cream. Oma would set me up on her bike and then would get upset when I crashed it. The bike was much too big for me, which means this must have been a very long time ago. Opa would send us out to play in the junkyard, Oma would inspect our beds to make sure they were made properly. Again, I understand why; every large group needs an enforcer as well as an inspiration.

 When I consider my own flaws, I see a lot more of Oma in me. I'm impatient with my children, though I have so many less to contend with. I've discussed a theory with my siblings that maybe Oma went deaf on purpose to finally get some peace and quiet. As I get older, I've found that I retreat into silence more often in conversation with my children. I don't know if this is something I learned from watching Oma age, or something I picked up from my dad. I remember many times being excited to talk to him about something I was learning, and he wouldn't say much, just letting me talk. It always made me feel like I was talking too much. I'm strict and critical with my kids. I remember the stress my mom would always be laboring under when Oma was coming to visit. Everything had to be just so. I remember hearing stories about Oma's good times, but I don't remember them. Like me, I think she spent a lot of time trying to scratch out a little control in a chaotic world.