Carolyn has a better story:
Let me tell you about what it's like ordering a grilled cheese sandwich at the bowling alley.
When I was in a league, and on a team with 4 other meat-loving men (literally, not figuratively or metaphorically), they used to tease me because pretty much the only thing I could really get on the menu, as a non-militant vegetarian, was a grilled cheese sandwich. One Wednesday, during play, I bit into my sandwich to find out it had a slice of ham in it. They had made me a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. This was annoying, but it helped me to prove an entirely separate point - for the past month, I had been having trouble at Dunkin' Donuts, where they had a 50% rate of error with my Egg and Cheese on a Bagel Sandwich. 50% of the time, I'd get back to the office, and there'd be some kind of meat on it, either ham, bacon, or sausage. Apparently, Egg & Cheese (without any meat), though it is on the menu at Dunkin Donuts, was rarely ordered without meat. Included in the 50% of the time they actaully got it correct were the times they stopped in the middle of assembling the sandwich to shout, "What kind of meat did you want on this? Was it ham?" The last time I went there (for a long time), I got back to the office and had 3 huge pieces of ham on my sandwich, 2 more than the standard allotted amount. The guys and I figured that the sandwich-maker must have gotten back to the counter, started to make my sandwich, and was too embarrassed that he'd "forgotten" what kind of meat I wanted, so he just put 3 huge pieces on and figured I'd be happy because I got a lot of meat, even if it was the wrong kind. To support this, Doug from work pointed out that if he had order Bacon-Egg-and-Cheese and instead got 3-huge-pieces-of-ham-egg-and-cheese, he'd be psyched.
So back to the bowling alley - I had just sworn of Dunkin Donuts for breakfast, and now, suddenly, it was happening to me at the bowling alley, which had been safely providing me with meat-free grilled cheese sandwiches for over a year. The next week, I went up to the counter to order my grilled cheese, and was prepared to watch them assemble the sandwich before it went on the grill to be sure. I was not prepared for this conversation:
Me: Could I get a grilled cheese sandwich?
Her: Sorry - we're out of grilled cheese sandwiches.
(? - I see cheese burgers lined up by the grill)
Me: You're out of cheese?
Her: No, we're out of ham.
Me: Oh, well I just want a grilled cheese sandwich.
Her: Without any ham? (she is alarmed)
Me: Yes - no ham.
Her: Ooooo-kayy.
About 30 minutes later, my teammates gesture to the snack bar white board, where the woman had written this announcement shortly after giving me my meal.
"No grilled cheese sandwiches today.
We're out of ham."
-Carolyn
There's a pretty interesting thread over at Ask Metafilter regarding how to order normal coffee. I'm personally looking forward to trying out "roomy joe," which the thread claims is accepted in Central NJ, although I've never heard it before.
I've always been troubled by "regular coffee" vs. "coffee regular." Sometimes they mean coffee with milk and sugar. In Connecticut, either one means "not decaf," no additions specified. However, I had this exchange regularly at a particular deli in NYC...
me: small coffee, regular.
them: sugar?
Don't get me started on the venti grande dobo crap.
On the other hand, I could easily eat a half-dozen Dunkin Donuts right now without a second thought.
My parents, having burned themselves to a near crisp for the last few Thanksgivings, threatened for 11 months to go turkeyless this year, or at least to try the restaurant route again.
Five years ago, we went to a restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner. My uncle had just started dating a new woman, and she came back from the buffet at one point and announced that they had run out of turkey. My grandfather turned to my grandmother and said in his restaurant voice, "Isn't she cute!?" Turns out they had run out of turkey, and then they'd resorted to cold-cut turkey, and then they'd run out of that, and so all that was left was too-pink ham with cherry glaze.
The restaurant was also home to a work program for reassimilated convicts. Most reassimilated convicts end up in upstate New York, you see, and so the transition back into society takes place among the generally unaware residents. At this restaurant, they were put to work cooking and serving on the buffet line. Incidentally, buffets where someone has to scoop the food for me make me very uneasy, but that's another story. There was one particular reassimilated convict, coincidentally the one in charge of slicing the too-pink ham with a gigantic knife and then pouring blood-red cherry glaze over it with a ladel, who seemed particularly pleased with his lot in reassimilation. He was all too happy to fill our plates with, if not turkey, then ham! ham! ham! He was also given a steel sharpening device, which he made good use of in between each ham slicing. Ah, rehabilitation.
When we left, he followed us out into the lobby to wish us a happy holiday season. He seemed particularly interested in how and where my female cousins and I would be spending the holidays. He had reassimilated enough to know better than to bring the knife with him into the lobby, but that didn't stop him from bringing the sharpener.
When I reminded my parents about that Thanksgiving, they finally agreed to make another turkey meal this year, as long as I would contribute accordingly. So I've spent the last two days making rolls, pickled cabbage, candied sweet potatoes, butter cookies, and, miracle of miracles, what appears to be a perfectly passable pumpkin pie.
I was really worried about the pumpkin pie, not just because my grandmother made the best pies ever created, not just because my mother and brother are sentimental fools for whom every Thanksgiving detail must be exactly just so or else, but also because on that fateful Thanksgiving day where we all reassimilated with the convicts, we found out just before heading up to the dessert line that the restaurant had also run out of pumpkin pie. Or rather, just moments before, there had been one remaining slice, which my brother had dropped on the floor in his haste to secure it for himself.
We all had cherry pie, which wasn't the most appetizing follow-up to the plate of cherry glaze we'd all just choked down, the one with the freshly sliced ham floating in it. Thanksgiving really is my favorite holiday, as long as I ignore the possibility that it could be messed up so badly that you're still laughing about it years later. I'm glad my parents caved, because being five months pregnant means I can collapse into a quivering weepy mess at the drop of a hat, and no Thanksgiving probably would have left me completely useless for the next few weeks. On the other hand, I'm so excited that there's a possibility that I'll actually eat the whole turkey myself. I just hope the pumpkin pie sets up right as it cools.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, from me and mine!
Yet here I sit, eating a bowl of Total Raisin Bran. We were out of Cheerios. And now we are out of milk.
You can try to avoid the raisins, but the more you miss, the greater the concentraisin becomes.
And the flakes get soggy.
Not living in or around NYC has induced a serious Perceived Lack of Shoes (PLOS, not to be confused with PLOOJ, from which I also, coincidentally, suffer) of late.
Looking for the PLOOJ link just led me all over the place. I think this must be referring to me... and my vulgarity, which I hold even nearer and dearer than my shoes, sorry to say. Incidentally, and as I fear others would attest, I'm not half as vulgar here as I am in person.
What are you hoarding these days?
... unleashing the power of milk?
It's carbonated flavored milk. You know, for kids.
Everything I thought I knew about good smells was just obliterated when I took Diane's birthday cupcakes out of the oven. I'm not joking. I'm actually sitting at the computer, sweating, out of breath, hair mussed. They smell that good.
You've abandoned your fear of putting chocolate into a perfectly good-looking chili. Maybe you even sprinkled some shredded cheese on top, you wacky risk-taker. It was worth it, right? However, since it's just you and my husband eating from that big pot (if he can smell it, he'll be over... perhaps I should have included that warning previously), you're stuck with a couple of dishes worth of leftovers. And now you're getting excited about this whole thinning of the line between sweet and savory. You've been craving chocolate-covered pretzels. Coconut chicken. Mango curry. And have I got the perfect solution for you: cornmeal pancakes.
I first had cornmeal pancakes at the now sadly defunct Royal Canadian Pancake House in New York, on Second Ave around 17th St. I've never really been a pancake person, so I wasn't too excited about this choice of restaurant. I was eating there with several friends before heading up to Central Park for the Rocket From the Crypt show at Summerstage. It was the 4th of July.
Cornmeal pancakes, like chocolate chili, bridge the sweet-savory gap perfectly. The finished product can be just as easily topped with breakfast syrup as with black beans and salsa. Or, in this case, leftover chili reheated on the stovetop. The way to get Marc to enjoy leftovers (neither one of us is a big fan of leftover food) is to refocus the meal on a new main dish. This works for both of us. As Marc pointed out, they're not so strange with chili. They're practically cornbread. As an added bonus, the smell of these pancakes cooking is just about the greatest aroma you could possibly have around your house.
Here's the recipe, adapted from the Joy of Cooking:
________________
Cornmeal Pancakes
Makes about 18 pancakes
Ingredients:
1 1/4 c. yellow cornmeal
3/4 c. all-purpose flour
1 3/4 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 2/3 c. milk
4 tablespoons butter, melted, plus extra for the griddle
1/4 c. syrup
2 large eggs
small can of yellow corn
1/2 c. shredded cheddar cheese
Optional extras:
1 c. chopped fresh broccoli
1/2 c. chopped chile peppers
Whisk the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and salt together in a large bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the milk, butter, syrup, and eggs. Pour the wet ingredients over the dry ingredients and stir them together. This batter will be much thinner than normal pancake batter. Stir the corn and cheese into the batter. If you want to add broccoli or chiles, now's the time to stir those in, too.
Preheat your oven to 200°F, and place a cookie sheet on the rack inside. Heat up a nonstick griddle or fry pan on the stovetop. Melt about 1/2 tablespoon of butter on the hot surface. Once the butter looks foamy, spoon 1/4 cup of batter onto the griddle for each pancake. Leave room for the batter to spread. Cook until the tops of the pancakes are starting to look cooked around the edges. Turn and cook until the underside is lightly browned. As you finish the pancakes, scoop them onto the cookie sheet in the warm oven so they'll all be warm when it's time to eat. If things on the griddle start getting sticky, you can melt a little more butter in between batches. I find that the batter has enough grease in it that things stay pretty much non-stick without assistance, but I use a non-stick fry pan, and on something like cast iron your results might vary.
I tend to go a little crazy with the accompaniments for these pancakes, with shredded cheese, salsa, sour cream, chopped cilantro, and pancake syrup (to be used alone, not with all that other stuff). Now enjoy!
This has been the Winter of experimentation in the kitchen. It was the first room I unpacked. It's such a comfort to be in a place where we're happy at home. I grocery shop. I read cookbooks. I plan ahead, or I just whip something up. It has been a successful learning experience.
Since we started measuring temperatures on the Kelvin scale, we've been craving those deep, hearty dishes of Winter. The kind of meals that cook over low heat and fill the house with yummy smells. The crock-pot stews, the thick soups, and chili, chili, chili. When my mother came to visit in November, she made us her chili recipe. It's a basic, meat, tomatoes, and beans kind of chili. Then we stepped up to chicken and white bean chili. Last week, we finally went veg with this recipe, adapted from Real Simple:
____________
Vegetarian Chili with Chocolate
Makes 6 to 8 servings
Ingredients:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 green bell pepper, finely chopped
one 16-ounce can crushed tomatoes
1 14-16-ounce can borlotti beans, drained
1 14-16-ounce can pinto beans, drained
2 14-16-ounce cans kidney beans, drained
5 cups vegetable broth
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate
In a stockpot, over medium heat, cook the oil, garlic, onion, and green pepper until slightly softened, about 10 minutes. Add the tomatoes, beans, vegetable broth, cumin, and salt. Stir to combine. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer, stirring occasionally, 1 to 1 1/2 hours, partially removing lid to thicken during final 15-20 minutes. Before serving, stir in the chocolate until melted.
Tomorrow: What to do with the leftovers...
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