Author: momsequitur

That’s Ridiculous!

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Buckle up kids! 

It’s time for the further adventures of, “Back in my day.”!

This time, Gentle Reader, I’m sharing with you a short list of recently introduced ludicrous rituals that spring from unearned, over the top wealth, and the resulting near-French Revolution level of conspicuous consumption.

Nouveau riche, parvenu, arriviste, they all mean the same thing; people who have recently come by indecent amounts of money and want the whole world to know how very wealthy, classy, and flat-out better they are than everyone else. 

It’s not new.  The Biltmore Estate, and much of Providence Rhode Island was built during the Gilded Age (1870s-1900) as a big fat, middle finger to old, historic families by newly monied titans of industry and robber barons. 

Nowadays many of the new breed are social media and reality television stars.  And like every permutation of financial upstarts, subtlety and discretion are considered dirty words—what’s the use of being rich if you don’t show off?

The complete lack of humility, and any sense of shame, does though, seem to be a new concept that is directly related to the interwebs. 

Image is everything, and if it isn’t gorgeous, or impressive, or shiny enough, then they manipulate and stage their live’s until it is.  One’s social media presence must announce to every eye that views it that this person is richer, chic-er and more loved than you can ever hope to be.  So, a whole slew of holidays and celebrations tangentially connected to life events have been contrived to prove it.

Promposals.  This is asking someone to the high school prom.  But this isn’t the time-honored meet-up at the locker of your intended date and bashfully, adorably asking them out. 

No, this must be a production worthy of Busby Berkeley, complete with setting, props and co-stars which is of course filmed and then shared online so others may feel dumb, dull, and underserving of love in any form. 

Weddings have become six-figure extravaganzas that are complete failures if they don’t make every other couple swoon with envy.  It’s tough to pick one item from such a self-involved cornucopia but among body shaming bridesmaids, mandatory, color-based dress codes for guests, and the obscenity that is the unfrosted wedding cake is one particularly pretentious trend; the choreographed dance.

It’s not enough to eat bad chicken dinners, wear uncomfortable clothes and purchase a gift that costs more than your first car, no, you and seven other sad sacks have to rehearse for weeks in order to get up in front of two hundred  people and gyrate awkwardly for ten minutes to “Shake It Off”.  Or worse yet, watch your boss do it.  Try looking him in the eye on Monday morning after that nightmare.

Sorry, Brunhilda.  I gave up enough for your big day.  There’s no way I’m shaking my arthritic, uncoordinated, money-maker for you as well.

Fact: everybody that ever had a baby feels like they are giving birth to the most important, special child to ever walk the earth.  But that’s ok, because every baby should be born into a family that feels that way. 

What started as a gender reveal ended as a 47,000 acre forest fire.

But, here’s the thing; the world isn’t holding their breath to find out if it’s a boy or girl.  And a gender reveal party with (sometimes literal) explosive announcements of the news is something only the parents really give a rodent’s hind parts about. 

Is it wrong that I kinda wanna smack her?

A push present is a gift the father of the newborn gives to the mother.

You know what Joseph gave Mary?  He let her sit on the donkey on the way home, instead of walking next to it.

Just sayin’.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

An Okra Walked Into A Bar…

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This week was going to be the week I finally gave out the recipe for the world’s greatest sweet potato pie.  The life-changing pie that I had at my friend Maxie’s church potluck.

Honest, this pie made me, who’s never been a fan of sweet potato pies literally steal a piece to take home for later, then ration each bite so it took me three days to eat.

But I changed my mind (the pie’s coming next week—I promise).

Even though I may come off like I have this exciting, glittering social life, unless it’s the grocery store or library, I honestly don’t get out much.  The last time I was at the movies, Greta Garbo was the next big thing.

They all had 1990s skinny eyebrows in the 1930s…

Well, Friday night, I went with a friend, to a bar.

It was a wild, frenzied night of abandon.  We each had one alcoholic beverage and shared two appetizers (I know, I need to calm down from my hard-partying, rock star ways.).

I had something delicious with blueberry and rum to drink.  One plate was poutine, a French-Canadian delicacy comprised of French fries covered with cheese curds and brown gravy—it truly is food of the gods, and this place makes the best.

Hummina hummina.

But the second item is the reason you won’t be getting that sweet potato pie recipe this week.

It was okra.  I thought that cornmeal coated, fried okra was this poor, misunderstood, and maligned vegetable’s highest calling.  But I was wrong.  It’s the okra we had Friday night.

Okra is such an ancient vegetable that no one actually knows where it first grew; either Africa or Asia.  But it’s no mystery that Africans brought it to America where it’s been growing for so long in the South that Thomas Jefferson wrote about it.

Growing okra is not for the faint of heart.  It must be tended by hand, in the heat of the summer.  There are spines on it which cause some people to swell and itch.  The roots are shallow, so you must take care weeding and harvesting as not to damage it.  Okra grows up to six feet so there is much stooping and reaching.  And if you wait too long to gather it, it becomes too tough and woody to eat.

You know, I love okra, but I don’t think even I love it this much.

And the eating of it brings another stumbling block.  There’s no pretending or camouflaging it, okra has an unapologetic green, earthy, vegetal flavor.  And then, of course, there’s that texture.  In scientific parlance, it’s called mucilage.  Most of us know it as slime.  That’s why the favored preparation is breading and frying.  It all but eliminates the s-word. 

Is that not glorious?

It’s almost as if okra’s daring us to love it.

But if you don’t love this okra dish, there’s no hope for you.

Cast Iron Skillet Okra

1pound okra, cleaned and cut in half, lengthwise

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

Kosher salt, to taste

Preheat oven to 180 and place a shallow oven-proof dish inside.

Put ½ tablespoon of oil into cast iron skillet and heat to medium-high.  Lay half the okra, cut-side down into skillet in single layer and cook for 4 minutes.  When it’s very browned, flip over and cook 2 minutes more, until tender.  Then sprinkle with half the salt and toss lightly to make sure each okra’s salted.  Place in dish in oven to wait and cook the second half.

Serves 2-4.

So, here’s the thing.  This stuff is so good, so easy, that if you don’t try it, you’ve got only yourself to blame.  But I won’t be mad, I’ll just be disappointed.  Disappointed, over here in the corner, eating this wondrous okra.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Hurricane Debbie

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Luckily, Dorian didn’t spank us too hard here in the Heart of Carolina.  So, now we look ahead to what more Mother Nature has in store for us silly humans this year.

Because, anybody with a memory and even a few firing synapses knows that between now and the end of hurricane season, the Atlantic and the Gulf will experience quite a few more storms, and probably see at least a couple more category fivers.

As the child of a Coast Guard family, except for San Diego and Michigan, everywhere I’ve ever lived has been in hurricane country.  When I was five and Hurricane Camille hit, we were living in Mobile.  That was the first of probably a hundred or more I’ve experienced since. 

Heck, there was a hurricane that hit Orlando one year during a Matthews Family Band vacation at Disneyworld. 

When little, I went outside and played under the calm eye of many hurricanes (and the watchful eye of my parents).  I’ve been battening hatches, filling bathtubs, and counting batteries and non-perishables since I was tall enough to see the top shelf of the refrigerator.  I can refill and light a Coleman lantern in thirty seconds. 

Grouse and moan all you want, but if you live in hurricane territory, you can get hit.  Nobody, no matter how famous or powerful, ever won an argument with Mother Nature or changed her mind.  Even the most stable of geniuses can’t move a hurricane’s path by one inch.  The only way to approach her is with abject humility.  And we can’t just pay lip service—we must internalize this elemental truth.

When a storm’s headed your way, there are only two things that will save lives and can slightly ameliorate the purgatory of post-hurricane life.

They’re information and preparation. 

Educate yourself.  Learn about hurricanes; what do the categories mean?  Learn the stages of tropical wave, depression, storm, then hurricane.  Where do they form, and how do they move?  What’s storm surge? 

No.

From June 1st to November 30th, become a weather nerd.  Keep up to date with the current weather in traditional hurricane areas from a trusted knowledgeable source, whose only goal is to impart pure info with no agenda and no drama. 

If a hurricane’s headed your way, keep your gas tank full and cell phones charged.  Refill prescription meds.  Check bottled water and perishable food supplies; restock if needed.  Have extra batteries, a weather radio, and lanterns.  Make sure there is food, water, and any necessary medicines for pets.

3-4 days out, board up windows and put away outdoor items.  Fill up bathtubs with water to flush toilets.

If you’re ordered to evacuate, go.  Don’t be stubborn, don’t be foolhardy.  Just go. 

*A plea and a word of warning from a Coastie kid.  If you have a boat, don’t take it out.  Do not foolishly and selfishly risk the lives of heroes.

The book/movie Perfect Storm infuriates me.  As cute as George Clooney is, he had no business out on that water.

If you are a recent transplant and want to know what a hurricane can do, read Isaac’s Storm, by Erik Larson.  It’s the story of the deadliest hurricane in US history which hit Galveston, Texas in 1900 and took almost 12,000 souls.

Thankfully, today we have forecasting that is eons more comprehensive than Isaac Cline had.  People now have time to flee.  And that’s the point—go. 

When a hurricane hits, use common sense and stay safe.  If you die because you made dumb decisions in a hurricane, the angels will make fun of your dopey butt for eternity.  And those guys are relentless.

Assbutt.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

The Whistle Stop Café Has Been Burgled

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I stole a tomato—sort of.

We’ve known neighbors Tim and Misha forever.  Their son Mick, daughter Noelle, and The Kid all went to preschool together. 

I love Misha because she has a big heart and tells it like it is.  And, Tim really reminds me of my dad.  He can’t stand to sit still.  He’s always doing something in the yard, fixing something, walking their dog, Cosmo.

Crowley

Both he and Misha are dog people and are on our pooch Crowley’s list of humans he adores.  His whole body wiggles and his ears drop down, parallel to the earth as he rushes up to smoosh his head on their hips with his huge noggin (It’s his version of a hug). 

The other day Tim was outside when we went by, and after Crowley finished losing his mind, Tim offered me a couple green tomatoes.  They were growing in a large pot next to his front porch, and he had tons.

I thanked Tim, and he told me I could have all I wanted.  I decided I’d fry them.

The thing is, I’ve never actually made fried green tomatoes before.

In the parlance of tech savvy youth, this is called a fail.

I started to think a spare would be a good idea in case my novice effort resulted in having the first batch go wonky, like with pancakes.  The next morning, I grabbed another tomato in case of trouble, and left them a note.

This is just sad.

The biggest problem with fried green tomatoes is that often, most of the coating falls off—I hate that.  That’s why I got them breaded and let them hang out in the fridge hours before cooking.  I hoped the crust would set up and not flake off while cooking—it worked.

First, I dusted them with heavily seasoned flour.  I used buttermilk for the middle/wet step because it’s creamy and it gives food a delicious tang.  For the outer layer, I chose crushed Ritz crackers.  They’re buttery and sweet, which plays well against the sour astringency of green tomatoes.

Stolen Fried Green Tomatoes

3 firm green tomatoes, sliced into ¼ inch slices (10-12 slices)

2 cups flour heavily seasoned with salt and pepper

2 cups fat-free buttermilk

1 & ½ sleeves of Ritz crackers, crushed

For frying: vegetable oil

Salt for sprinkling on finished tomatoes

Four hours before cooking, bread tomatoes; first coat in flour, then buttermilk, then cracker crumbs, making sure they’re completely and thickly covered.  Cover loosely with plastic warp and refrigerate at least 4 hours.

To fry: Heat oven to 175 and place a cookie sheet with a cooling rack inside.  This is where the finished tomatoes will wait. 

Put about ¼ to ½ inch of vegetable oil into cast iron skillet and heat on medium.  When a pinch of cracker crumb sizzles, carefully place in about four or five tomato slices—if you crowd them, they’ll never get nice and crispy.  You don’t have to rush, you have a landing area in the oven.

Fry first side until golden-amber, then using spatula and fork, carefully turn over and fry the other side.  As each one finishes, place on cooling rack in oven and lightly sprinkle with salt. 

They were so good, we ate them all because I’d made no duds.  And next time The Kid comes for dinner we’re making pimento cheese and fried green tomato sandwiches, just like Granny’s sells at the State Fair (WooHoo! State Fair! Next month! Can’t wait!).

After dinner I called Tim and Misha to thank them and offer to make some for them.

Misha’s from New York.  She passed.

Bless her poor Yankee heart, she doesn’t know what she’s missing.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Puppy On The Couch

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Mr. Crowley Pants.

When The Kid turned 15, Petey and I were constantly high-fiving each other.  We had a teenager who was kind, polite, helpful, and an all-round joy to be around.  We were the best parents in the history of parents.

And then.

And then, The Kid went upstairs for bed one night and didn’t come down the next morning. 

Instead, what came down those stairs was some kind of monstrous, hideous mockery of our sweet child.  We, the parents, were deemed too lame to exist.  There was so much eye-rolling it’s a wonder blindness didn’t ensue. 

We asked ourselves how we could’ve been so wrong about our parenting skills.  No two worse parents ever lived.

Steve.

Before Crowley, our Yugo-sized Akita, we had another Akita, Steve, and a 200-pound Anatolian shepherd named Riker.

Riker was the most loving dog I’ve ever known, and Steve was as gentle as the breath of a fawn.  Although a full-blooded Akita, he never showed a hint of the aggressiveness that many people think define the breed.

So, of course, Petey and I thought, “We got this.  We could make rabid badgers docile enough to sleep with newborn babies.”

Then, we got Crowley, a black Akita puppy as solid as a tank. 

He and I walk miles a day around our neighborhood, greeting everyone we meet.

Everything went well until Crowley was about eighteen months old. 

He started becoming aggressive.  With us, and a short list of humans that he adores, he was and remains, sweet and wildly affectionate.  But he’d growl when anyone else got too close.

Then came the day my father; the man who gave me my love for canines, the man who’s almost more dog than man, met him.  When he knelt down to him, Riker knocked him over on purpose.  My dad wasn’t hurt, and Riker didn’t bite him, but my heart was broken.

My Dad and Riker. Can you see the grin on that happy dog’s kisser?

I felt like a parent who’d raised a serial killer.  I called our vet, crying so hard I could barely tell her what happened.  She suggested a behaviorist.  We made an appointment.

The thing was, he didn’t do a thing for the dog.

I was the patient. 

I kept saying, “But Steve…” 

Finally, he said, “debbie, this is not Steve.  You need to accept that and help Crowley to have the best life he can.  He’s not dangerously vicious, but he is what he is.”

So, we learned coping strategies to keep him focused and bought a soft, flexible, plastic muzzle for when he’s outside.  It’s really for me (no smarty-pants Gentle Reader, I don’t wear the muzzle).  It’s so that I know no matter what happens, my dog will never bite anyone, human or dog. 

I’ve kept up the long walks, and he’s become calmer and steadier.  We’ve begun carefully reintroducing familiar people, and each encounter has gone well.  We’re cautiously optimistic.

The lesson I learned with Crowley is something we should keep in mind with everyone, every day.  Preconceptions, and assuming someone knows the lines of the script we’ve written in our heads is the road to disappointment, discord, and the deepest of doo-doo. 

Like that dog shrink said, “This may not be exactly what you expected, but it’s what you have.  Deal with the reality you’ve got.”

And that horrible teenager/hobgoblin that resembled The Kid?

About ten months after it showed up, one morning our sweet child came downstairs for breakfast, and the teenaged beast was never seen again.  Heck, every once in a while, The Kid even apologizes for the trauma that pod person rained down upon us.

So yeah, I think we crushed that parenting thing…

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Perfect, Brilliant, & Jubilant

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Our last day of Lad and Lassie kindergarten in Mobile Alabama, we had a theme party.  The theme was an airline flight.  This was back when men wore suits, ladies wore hats and dresses, and kids wore their Sunday best to fly. 

Our “flight” had attendants bearing 1970s party refreshments like popcorn balls and cupcakes.  One genius mom had made up a stack of fancy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut into neat triangles with the crusts removed.  But the best part was the jelly.  These sandwiches were made with apple jelly.  The warm, mellow apple flavor is the perfect, and I mean perfect, foil to creamy, smoky peanut butter.

From that day forward, I was a convert.

I always pick up new and interesting flavor of jams, jellies, and preserves whenever I find them.  The store Home Goods is a terrific resource.  They have tons of unusual types, and at outlet prices.

All that jelly used to just go on toast and biscuits.  Then I found Fogwood Farm’s Balsamic grape hull jam.  It’s spicy, sweet, and delicious on a sandwich. 

Since that day I eat a couple nut butter/jelly sandwiches a week.  But I mix it up constantly, so much so that the only versions I have more than once every month or so are my faves that I keep on repeat.

For a great PB&J sammich, there are a few things I strongly recommend.

Bread: Fresh and soft, but robust.  Most grocery stores have a multi-grain sandwich loaf that is Wonder Bread-soft with a long shelf life. 

Nut butter:  The very best peanut butter is Reese’s.  It’s creamy, delicious, and 400 zillion peanut butter cups can’t be wrong.

Big Spoon has an amazing line-up, I love the pecan peanut.  But, they’re gourmet nut butters, which mean they’re pricey.  For me, they’re special occasion sandwiches.

Simons Says flavored nut butters (sold in gourmet shops and local farmers markets).  As smooth as James Bond on a slip-&-slide.  They grind their butters for hours, then flavor them.  My favorite is the hazelnut orange, which remind me, in the very best possible way, of Pillsbury orange rolls.

Sun butter: Made from sunflower seeds.  It’s salty, sweet, unctuous, and brings an unexpected note to a sandwich.  Most supermarkets sell a jar for up to eleven dollars, but Trader Joes comes to the rescue again for $4.89 apiece.  Store it out of fridge upside down so when you open it, it’s easier to spread after just a quick stir.

Jams, jellies, and preserves: Go nuts here; homemade, old school grape, something cheap, or some type of gourmet concoction.  I’ve no desire to judge another human’s PB&J choices.  I frequently eat root beer jelly (What?!?).  So, good; spicy, sweet, and holds up to all other flavors in the sandwich.

Root Beer Jelly

½ bottle or can of your favorite root beer

1-18 ounce jar of apple jelly

1 teaspoon root beer concentrate

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon salt

Put the root beer in a heavy pot and cook on a boil until it’s thickened to a syrupy consistency.  Add jelly and cook until it’s smooth and thickened slightly (it will get thicker as it cools).  Stir in concentrate, vanilla, and salt.  Take off heat and let sit until it’s cool enough to pour into a jar.  Keep refrigerated.

This jelly makes an awesome ham glaze, with mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and Chinese five-spice powder.

A nut butter and jelly sandwich is childhood comfort food.  But, add some thought and a little imagination and it becomes something else—fancy finger food for glamorous old school (old school, get it?) airplane travel.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

An Upcycle Made By Two

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In my high school, there was a girl named Kacey. 

She was imposing, and fully, forcefully, occupied all the space her body inhabited, like a warrior queen.  She was neither self-effacing nor apologetic.  Kacey was quiet but not shy.  She had a gaze that could quell both the boisterous and the boneheaded. Even someone as illiterate to the subtle as me could interpret her silent condemnation.  

I admired her.  She was kinda my hero.

Kacey was an amazing artist and her mom was a decorator. The inside of their house was a revelation.  It looked like a spread in House Beautiful. 

But the furniture and accessories didn’t fall into any one category.  There were pieces from various periods, ethnicities, and design philosophies.  They also used repurposed found objects; this was the first time I’d ever seen a trunk used as a coffee table.  I asked the name of this style.

“Eclectic.”

Kacey’s mom explained that meant using many different styles to make a harmonious whole.  I loved it.  And I loved the idea of repurposing well-worn items to new uses. 

The Kid has an apartment with a small patio containing a hammock chair.  I offered to get a table for the space.

But there were a few, very specific requirements.

It needed to be tall enough that The Kid could easily reach it from hammock height.  It needed to be impervious to weather.  It needed to be either heavy enough to not blow in around in a storm, or easy to bring inside.

I also wanted it to be unique and look good.  Purchasing something purpose built that had the qualities needed would be very expensive.  I would make like Kacey’s mom and create a table from various parts.

Not my collection. For illustrative purposes only.

There’s a thrift store nearby that I love to visit.  I’ve bought a really cool lamp for the living room, books, old Corning Ware which I collect, and other items I find that are interesting and cheap, even if I have no idea what to do with them.

I have a wooden stool in my kitchen that I painted years ago.  I also did one with an Argyle design for The Kid’s kitchen for Christmas one year.  They come in handy all the time.  During a visit to the thrift store, I’d scored another for $8 ($40 at Target).  I put it away until I figured out what to do with it.

Then I had a thought.  The stool would be the perfect height for that outdoor table.  Then I found a large tray to top it, about two feet across with a ridge around it.  I planned on just gorilla-gluing it to the stool.

But then Petey began collaborating on the project.

He had a much better idea than glue.  We went to a hardware store and he helped me choose the right product to make both parts weather-proof.  But instead of glue, he suggested Velcro.

But not the regular Velcro that’s on jackets and children’s sneakers.  He showed me industrial Velcro.  This stuff holds fifteen pounds per square inch.  And the entire tray didn’t weigh three pounds.

Then Petey really stepped up and helped me with measurement, placement and assembly.  It turned out great; The Kid loved it.  It fit perfectly in the back of the car for the ride to its new home.  But if it hadn’t—Velcro; it could’ve been broken down for transporting.

The total of supplies came to around $30.  A quick google for something similar shows the cheapest version online starts at around $80.

So, if my math’s right, I think my project might have earned me fifty bucks…?

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Pantry Raid

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Famous for their navy beans…and a few other things.

It all started with a free can of navy beans and a bag of frozen meatballs.

The meatballs were extras from The Kid’s birthday dinner.  They’re kind of complicated and labor-intensive to prepare, so I always make tons, and freeze what doesn’t go into the birthday pink sauce.

I love the extra meatballs cooked slowly in Sweet Baby Rae’s barbecue sauce and topped with melted sharp Cheddar and sprinkled with shards of crispy bacon.  I serve them with macaroni and cheese, and roasted broccoli.

Sounds delicious, right?

Well, Petey, normally the least picky of men, is not a fan so the barbecue prep is very infrequent.  I’m always looking to come up with something different as a replacement.

I love farro.  So, I decided to make a one-pot meal with farro, the meatballs, and to take the opportunity to use up some pantry odds and ends, like the navy beans—my local co-op was giving a can to members every time we shopped there in August.  And, the bit of spinach I had which was too old for salad but not enough for a full side dish. 

If you don’t have a bag of homemade frozen meatballs, most supermarkets sell them in their freezer section.  Really though, you can use this recipe as a jumping off place.  Use your own leftovers and bits and bobs.  Farro is not only awesome tasting, it plays well with almost any guest stars—you can even go sweet with it, and have it for breakfast, ala porridge.

Farro and meatballs

½ cup dried mushrooms

rehydrated in

3 cups chicken stock

3 cups water

splash of Worcestershire sauce

1 teaspoon dry thyme

¼ teaspoon dried rosemary

1 ½ teaspoons umami powder (such as Trader Joe’s) or 1 anchovy and extra splash of Worcestershire

Bring all ingredients to slow boil then cover and let sit off heat for at least thirty minutes.  Then drain over cheesecloth or double layer of paper towels in fine mesh sieve, reserving the liquid for cooking the farro. 

Give the mushrooms a very brief rinse, then chop very finely. 

And, the rest of the story

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 cups farro

2 tablespoons tomato paste

2/3 cup Marsala wine

1 can navy beans, drained

2 teaspoons honey

zest from one lemon

2 bay leaves

2 big handful spinach or other cooking greens such as kale or collards

18 small meatballs

Heat olive oil in large heavy pot with a tight-fitting lid.  Add mushrooms and onions and sautee until the liquid has cooked out and the veg are lightly browned.  Stir in farro and cook until it has begun to toast.  Add tomato paste and cook until the paste has darkened in color and there’s lots of browning on the bottom of the pot.

Stir in Marsala, scraping up all the bits (called fond) on the pot.  Cook until almost all the wine’s cooked out. Add reserved stock, beans, honey, lemon zest, bay leaves and greens.

Place the meatballs evenly on top, nestling into the farro.

Cover and lower to medium-low.  Cook 45-60 minutes or until the liquid has cooked out and the farro is cooked.  Take off heat and let sit, covered for 20 minutes.

Makes 4-6 hearty servings. 

This turned out so tasty.  Petey and I ate way too much the first night, and The Kid stole a large portion of the leftovers to take home.  Add a little liquid and it nukes up beautifully.

And if it was good in the middle of a hot, sticky NC summer, imagine how toasty and satisfying it would be one cold winter’s night.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Keep Your Mitts Off My Moola

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The Kid calls me a bunny rabbit, and as loathe as I am to admit it, it’s kind of true.  My default setting is to trust. 

My mom will correctly size up a stranger in mere seconds.  It likely comes from being a Jersey girl.  The Kid is a probably much healthier combo of both world views.  But despite protestations of massive amounts of street cred, my sweet child falls much more on the bunny rabbit side of the scale.

Actually, rabbits are probably much more suspicious of people than even my mom.  Have you ever met a bunny in a grocery store and exchanged not only chicken recipes but life stories?  Most of the time the mere sight of you in the frozen food aisle is enough to send them fleeing in terror.  There is very little love and trust for humans on old Watership Down.

But I would much rather live my life leading with my heart and assume that everyone around me is good, and true, and full of the milk of human kindness.

Except.

Except for when it comes to my money.

Then, Gentle Reader, I make Sherlock Holmes look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm on ecstasy.  Every penny that leaves my hand has been run through a rigorous series of checks and double checks.  If you send me a bill or ask for money, you’d better have an airtight case, or you ain’t getting a penny.  You’d have a much better chance of getting a kidney out of me (literally; I’ve offered a kidney more than once to dialysis patients).

You’ve got to deserve my money and play fair.

When my cable goes out, I always call and request a credit for the time I had no service.  The other day one of their representatives said, “It’s not worth you calling us for this outage.  It only comes to sixty-three cents.”

Um, excuse me Miss Spectrum.  When you’re paying my bill, you get to decide that.  But right now, I’m responsible for it, and yes, I want every darn penny of that sixty-three cents.

When we bought our house, I had only lived with my parents, then with Petey in a tiny little mobile home park, and an apartment.  I’d never lived anywhere where I was responsible for a monthly water bill. 

One day, about eighteen months after we’d moved in, I got my first water bill.

For $1300!

The city informed me, when I called in the midst of a financially provoked stroke, that they’d neglected to bill us since we’d moved in, so what I was holding in my trembling hand was for the entire time we’d lived there.

Yeah…nope.

As I politely explained and kept politely explaining over a week-long conversation, I had openly called the city to turn on our water.  My mail box is right in front of our house.  The house is not hidden behind a bush, we were right there, out in the open, using water, every day.  This was 100% on them, and I was not paying.  But they were free to start sending me a monthly bill with new charges, and I’d be delighted to pay it.

I won.

So, if you’re having a dispute with your credit card company, or you think you may have won a trip to the Bahamas from a contest you never entered, or you’re thinking about ordering a brand-new, authentic, Vera Wang wedding dress online for $40, give me a call.

‘Cause you might be all starry eyed and gullible, but I’m a bunny rabbit.

 A bunny rabbit that’ll take you out.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

It’s a Two-fer!

/ momsequitur / Leave a comment

I always forget how much I love eggplant until I eat it.  Then I wonder why I don’t eat it more often. 

There are a few good reasons: eggplant is best in the summer; from the farmers market or your own garden.  It’s uber-delicate, and gets bruised at the slightest bump, or even a harsh word directed its way.  And cooking it’s usually a complicated, messy pain in the keister.   

This week marks the final week of the Local Dish series with two delicious recipes made from NC products. 

First up is a delicious soup with a deceptively fancy name.  The eggplant dish, we’ll get back to.

Le’CHOP Soup 

Servings: 4

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Total Time: 45 minutes

2 Tbsp. avocado oil

1 leek, light green and white parts, finely chopped

1 cup swiss chard stems, finely chopped

1 habanero pepper, seeded and finely chopped

1 sweet yellow onion, finely chopped

4 cups chicken stock, divided

1 potato, diced

1 cup buttermilk

1 Tbsp. onion powder

1 Tbsp. garlic powder

Salt and pepper to taste

In Dutch oven, heat avocado oil on medium-high heat, then add leek and swiss chard. Cook for 3 minutes until softened. Add habanero and onion and cook until onion’s translucent. Move contents to a bowl.

With Dutch oven still hot, deglaze with ½ cup chicken stock. Add remaining chicken stock and bring to light boil and add potatoes. Cook for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to low and stir in onion and garlic powder. Add cooked vegetable mixture back into Dutch oven and simmer for one minute. Remove from heat.

Pour half of mixture into a food processor, blend and pour into bowl. Add remaining vegetable mixture to food processor and blend slowly, while adding buttermilk. Pour back into Dutch oven, add salt and pepper, stir then heat on low to warm back up. Or use submersible blender.

Garnish with chives and small dollop of sour cream.

Lisa’s Notes: This is a great way to use leeks and chard. If you aren’t a fan of the heat, leave out the habanero or try a jalapeno. The stems can be a little bitter so try using the leaves instead. We liked leaving some potatoes chunky when blending. Domino Ireland won first place with this delicious soup in the NC Vegetable Growers Contest at the NC State Fair.

And, finally, the eggplant.  This is the easiest to make eggplant recipe I’ve had the pleasure to eat.  It’s also the most forgiving.  It’s cut into cubes and roasted, so it doesn’t need to be perfect, blemish-free, straight from the garden eggplant.  You could make this in the middle of February and the dish would be just as tasty as mid-August.

Debbie’s notes: If you enjoy them, capers are a terrific addition.  The briny Mediterranean flavor is perfect with this recipe.  And when cold, the dish makes for a perfect bruschetta.  

Roasted Eggplant

1 Eggplant, diced ¼”-1/2” thick with skin on

1 Tbsp. olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

2 Tbsp. lemon juice

2 Tbsp. kalamata olives, sliced

2 Tbsp. green olives sliced

2 Tbsp. Feta, crumbled

1 Tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped

Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees. In medium size bowl, combine eggplant, olive oil, salt and pepper. Pour onto baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes.

Once done, return to bowl and toss with remaining ingredients. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Lisa’s Notes: The dish can be enjoyed hot or room temperature.

I hope you enjoyed my adventures with television.

I’ll be back next week with the best dish I’ve invented in years.  And it’s made with only things I had on-hand. 

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.