Category Archives: Ocean of Flavors

It’s BACON!

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I have to admit, when I first heard of a fully enclosed microwave bacon cooker, I was a bit skeptical. I mean, I’ve tried making bacon in the microwave, using everything from ceramic plates to funky crispers to plastic domes that are supposed to keep the grease from exploding – none of it worked.

Tonight, I learned that this bacon cooker is amazing. Out of the box, it looks vaguely like a water filtering pitcher, but I read the page of detailed instructions, and the email I received today, as soon as the post office scanned in the delivery info, and I have to say, it’s the easiest bacon cooking I’ve ever done – they even give you tips for how to separate the bacon easily (use a cheese-slicer type spatula and lift from the middle).

We don’t eat that much bacon because I’m just not that into cooking food that splatters, and – let’s be honest – bacon isn’t exactly a health food, but since I hadn’t defrosted meat tonight and we’re still working through the 36 eggs Fuzzy bought before Christmas, I had him stop and buy some on his way home tonight. Breakfast for dinner is a long-standing tradition in my family, and tonight it worked out fine. I started melting the butter for an omelet then draped six slices of bacon over the “vanes” of the cooker, sealed it inside, and set the microwave for 4 minutes. (The instructions recommend 45 seconds per slice for bacon that comes 11 strips/pound or 30 seconds per slice for bacon that comes 22 strips/pound. OF COURSE our bacon was 16 strips/pound. I used the 30 seconds per slice formula, and it worked fine).

After four minutes, we had six slices of crispy bacon, that wasn’t at all greasy, and with almost no mess. We poured the grease into the jar we use for such things, and made a second batch, and it was just as good as the first.

Cleanup was a breeze as well – just rinse all the parts in steaming hot water and let them air dry. According to the documentation, they’re also dishwasher safe, or warm soapy water will work, too.

I have to say that this bacon cooker makes cooking bacon so easy and clean, it’s a detriment to any diet, except that it strips almost all the grease away as well.

A Clam Chowder Kind of Day

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I woke this morning to the soft murmur of thunder high overhead, and the answering sizzle of cold rain falling into the pool. My dogs were huddled against my back for warmth and comfort (they hate thunder, and I lower the heat at night).

In the gray light of a cloudy morning I can never judge the time, so I turned around, craning my neck to see the clock. 7:30. Two hours before my late alarm, ninety minutes before the optimistic one. I could have lazed about in bed longer, but no, I got up, I got dressed (or as dressed as I was willing to get, which, today, is ratty sweats and an ancient red t-shirt), made coffee and oatmeal, and then started writing.

An hour later, a paragraph away from the end of the article in question, my laptop went “pffft” and I lost the text. I rebooted, recovered, hated what I wrote, and then rewrote it.

I had a virtual meeting with the guy who pays me.
I chatted with my aunt.

And then, because it’s still cold, icky, and gray, I made clam chowder. Oh, it’s from a can, but it’s Progresso, not Campbells, and it’s so tasty.

I poured it into a lighthouse mug, and carried it back to my computer.
It was delicious, but I knew it would be.

Because it’s a clam chowder kind of day.

Steam

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I am in love the night sky, in all its different guises. Starry, foggy, cloudy, brightened by moonlight, clarified by cold weather, made rosy at sunset and dawn.

I am in love with the scent of rain, the sound of water falling on the leaves of trees and then tumbling further down to the ground. The moist loamy smell of damp earth, the soft cooing of birds nestled in the deepest, innermost branches, and the streetlights making the rain-soaked world glisten as brightly as the Christmas lights strung up on almost every house and tree in the neighborhood.

I left my bubble bath tonight, and wrapped myself in a blue bath sheet the color of the blue between the ocean and the sky, and padded, barefoot, across the living room which was lit only by a small Christmas tree on the table by the window, through the dining room, and out to the deck.

My hair and skin were still damp, still so warm that steam rose when I stepped outside.

Standing on the wet redwood boards, I breathed in the cool night air and watched the duck-float glide across the pool. I stood there for the duration of the lull between raindrops, then came inside, put on a soft cotton t-shirt and ancient, ripped leggings, and sat down to a lovely dinner of roasted chicken breast, vegetables and a glass of chardonnay.

Happiness is a Mint Milkshake

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For the most part, I don’t eat fast food. Oh, I have a special fondness for McDonald’s fries, and I confess, I’m first in line in March when the Shamrock Shakes come out, but these are rare events for me. Normally, my idea of junk food is eating cheese. A lot of cheese. Or Ghirardelli double chocolate chip brownies. Home made. Warm from the oven.

Tonight, I desperately needed junk food, so I asked my husband to stop at Sonic. Now, Sonic’s burgers actually resemble real meat, and they have something like a gazillion flavors of beverages, but what I was after was a holiday blast. It’s a milkshake thing with peppermint ice cream and white chocolate and bits of regular chocolate and candy cane. It is crowned with whipped cream which is sprinkled with green and red sugar crystals, and I got to sip it through a cheery red straw. It was bliss in a cup, and just what I needed.

I know it’s not healthy for food to be used as a mood-altering drug. I know I shouldn’t be drinking milkshakes. But sometimes what you should do and what you need to do are in direct opposition. I was having a suckful day. I was given a chilly concoction of sugar, milk, mint and chocolate. I sipped. I swallowed. I smiled.

Happiness comes in many forms. It can be in the arms of one’s husband, the unconditional affection of a small furry animal, the encouraging words from a friend, the convictions deep inside your own heart and mind…and sometimes, just sometimes, it can be found in a mint milkshake.

You can’t buy love.
But you can buy a smile.

Gold Medal Wine Club: Delicious

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Gold Medal Wines

While I publicize my great fondness for froufou cocktails and microbrews, I also enjoy wine a great deal, even if lately it’s only been to have a glass while soaking in a bubble bath. Fuzzy doesn’t touch alcohol, but when I was offered the chance to review a couple of different wines offered by the Gold Medal Wines wine of the month club, I jumped at the chance.

My pair of wines, a bottle of Belvedere Russian River Valley Chardonnay (Sonoma County 2005) and bottle of Bradford Mountain Grist Vineyard Zinfandel (Dry Creek Valley 2004) arrived packed in a tight-fitting styrofoam bottle case fit snugly in a sturdy brown box. I’ve received wine before that wasn’t packed anywhere near as securely, and while we don’t really need boxes, I insisted we save this packing material. Inside the foam, each bottle was wrapped in tissue and tied with a colorful bow. The box was marked “gift card inside,” and I had been told to expect one, as well as a newsletter, but both items were accidentally omitted from my box. No matter , pictures of both are available at the Gold Medal Wine website (the gift cards are a rich wine-y purple), and I enjoyed reading the pdf version of the newsletter, so I could read the tasting notes, which were informative and interesting, as well as being neither pandering nor pompous in tone.

The wine itself, of course, is of real interest here. I tried the Zinfandel first, because I generally like Zin, and this one, rather typically of California wines, was oaky, but while the oak was present it wasn’t overpowering at all. In the bottle, this was a smokey Zin, in the glass it opened up a bit, and the spicier textures were evident, and on the tongue a little more oak than I’d originally expected but not bad, though I thought it tasted a little young.

The Chardonnay, on first taste, was sweeter than I’m used to chard being, and sweeter than I’d expected, since Gold Medal Wine’s website stresses that they feature very dry selections, but not a bad sweet, and after the first taste, the sweetness dissipated a bit, and more flavor came through – almond, especially – and the overall impression was exactly what chardonnay should be.

Both these selections come from the Gold Series of the wine of the month program, which costs about $32 / month (for two bottles). This series is an excellent first step for wine aficionados who want to educate their palates with some lovely wines from small-production California vineyards, or those who don’t have huge amounts of money to spend on their passion. As a former Californian who used to have a winery on her street, and made frequent forays to Bonny Doon (their framboise and cassis were favorites of mine for a long time), the Gold Medal Wine club also gives me a taste of home.

I’m buying a subscription on the strength of these sample bottles.

Egg-cited?

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Last night, Fuzzy went grocery shopping without me, because he is a kind soul, and because I was tired and cranky and would not have been very good company. I called him just as he was loading the bags into the car and said, “Remember that I said I knew I was forgetting something? It’s eggs. I only have four left.”

He sweetly volunteered to go back inside the store, and get eggs. I asked for 18. He brought me twice that. “They were two for one,” he said. “The manager said, ‘tell your wife to bake a lot of cookies’.” I’ve just baked eight dozen, mind you.

So here’s my question today: I can’t possibly use 36 eggs in 16 days, even if I do another batch or two of snickerdoodles. Got any egg-heavy recipes to share? I mean, I’m all for quiche, but it’s awfully fattening, and I’m not the best at making meringue. Why 16 days? Because we leave for Mexico on the 19th, and I really don’t want eggs sitting in my fridge for the two weeks we’re gone. .

Help?

Snickerdoodles

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I don’t have the counter space to roll out Christmas cookies, so I decided that I would make snickerdoodles instead. They’re surprisingly easy, if time-consuming, and very tasty.

Here’s the recipe I used:

1 cup butter (or shortening, but actual butter is healthier than shortening in the long run. And tastes better.)
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 3/4 cups flour
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 teaspoons baking soda
cinnamon and sugar mixed to taste

Preheat oven to 400F. Mix together butter and sugar until smooth, then add eggs, cream of tartar, and baking soda. Stir in flour until well mixed. Roll into balls about 1″ in diameter and roll in cinnamon and sugar to coat. Place on ungreased cookie sheets and bake 8-10 minutes. Cookies are done when they are just barely browning.

This recipe made almost five dozen small-ish cookies, probably more like 3 dozen if you make them bigger. I strongly suggest lining your baking sheet with parchment paper to make them easier to remove, and to keep the bottoms from burning.

And in my oven 8.5 minutes was the perfect amount of time.

Fuzzy got to sample one, but the rest are being packed off to my adopted soliders in Afghanistan. Next up: chocolate chip.

Red is the Color of my Favorite Cup

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…or rather the color of the cups that signify the beginning of the holiday season. Yes, my friends, the red cups are back at Starbucks and with them have arrived peppermint mochas (which you can actually get all year, but taste better in red cups), eggnog lattes, and caramel apple cider. I’m a mocha girl myself, while Fuzzy’s a cider guy.

He was up til six this morning working on, well, work, and I spent yesterday using Nyquil to help nuke the last of a cold that I couldn’t shake, since it was determined I have nothing wrong that antibiotics can help (no sinus infection). Nyquil doesn’t do much but knock me out, but sometimes being asleep is the best thing you can do. I had a long nap yesterday afternoon, had the lights out for the night by eleven-thirty, and didn’t get out of bed this morning til after ten, then returned to nap some more about an hour later.

This evening we went to Panera, but it wasn’t at all satisfying, and then to Half Price Books where for $63 we got more than 100 Christmas cards, a book for Fuzzy, and a bunch of little gifty things that I can’t mention because some are for my mother who reads my blog.

And then, of course, we went to Starbucks for hot, steamy, red-cupped goodness, and another present for Mom.

It was a good day.

By the way, if you’re not on my Christmas list, and want to be, or are, and have moved since last Christmas, please send an email to Melissa AT MissMeliss DOT com with your name and snailmail address so you can receive a card from us. (If you’re reading this on LiveJournal, I’ll be setting comments to be screened, and you can reply there.)

Wheat Germ

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My Thursday Thirteen post for today is below, so scroll down if that’s the only reason you’re here. Otherwise, I want to talk about wheat germ.

Specifically I want to talk about why I like wheat germ. It’s not for nutritional value, and it’s not for flavor or texture, though it offers all three. I like wheat germ because it reminds me of my grandfather.

Chilly mornings when i was little I would come downstairs to find my grandfather standing at the stove in his robe and slippers, the former a faded blue that matched the shade of a stormy sea, the latter scuffed brown man-slippers. (Men’s shoes are so distinctly masculine, even the slippers. They’re masculine in ways that women’s shoes are NOT feminine. It’s weird. Or it’s me. Probably both.) We would discuss the merits of raisins and walnuts, of brown sugar and honey, and always, at the end, I would watch him spooning wheat germ from the tall jar, sprinkling it over his bowl.

Wheat germ smells like fall. It’s an aroma that is reminiscent of baking bread, of cold nights, of warm ovens, of home. It is a little sweet, a little nutty, gritty, and faintly metallic. Sometimes it’s like cookie crumbs, other times it’s not.

This morning, as I write this, I am just finishing a bowl of oatmeal with wheat germ.
And honey.

Thanks, Grandpop, for all the great memories.

Pounding

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The problem with the creative personality is that if I don’t keep fairly regular hours, I get migraines. I also get them if I eat foods with MSG in them, don’t drink enough water, but it’s the funky sleep patterns that are the worst.

I went to bed at 11:30 PM on Thursday, was up before seven on Friday, and then stayed up til about 5:00 AM Saturday morning, after a day of writing, cleaning, and re-arranging the closet, with the help of the miniseries The 10th Kingdom, for company. (As an aside, if you haven’t seen this miniseries, which is from 2000 – do. It’s frothy fluffy fairy-tale with a twist, and Scott Cohen is wonderfully funny and sexy as Wolf. Well, sexy in a neurotic east coast guy with a tail sort of way. )

Anyway, Fuzzy finally got home around 10 on Saturday night, and I woke Sunday with a horrible headache that was making me see white and feel dizzy and crabby, so I slept through much of Sunday, finally dragging Fuzzy out around six for groceries (pumpkins and Halloween candy) and Jamba juice, and then I got home and called my mother to say hello.

“I’m thinking of having laser treatment for the fine lines around my lips,” she announced.

“Not Botox?” I asked. “It’s cheaper. Actually,” I added. “I need Botox for migraines. I saw it on a website, somewhere.”

We then talked about how migraines were more like cramps than wrinkles, but then I corrected, “Well, more like a charlie-horse than a normal cramp, so maybe it would work.”

The rest of our conversation was much gentler, and my head was starting to hurt, so I hung up, and then came to my cool, dark bedroom, where I read a bit, and watched a little bit of tv, and finally fell asleep around one, waking up with a slight cold, and a headache that, if not pounding, is still kind of pulsing.

I hate headaches.