Cooking under pressure

Tonight I cooked another artichoke (yes, they were on sale at Costco). But instead of waiting the excruciating 45 minutes or so, I decided to pop it in the ol' pressure cooker, just like my mom used to do.


I borrowed the behemoth from work for this special task; and being unfamiliar with how this contraption worked, I needed to first do a little sleuthing online for instructions. Trim it up, add water, pop it in, lock the lid, turn up the heat.  Check and check. Easy peasy.


Soon it was rattling away and the haunting memories of my youth came hissing back. My mom only used this contraption occasionally and I learned to respect and fear it at the same time.  Anything that can turn bone into soft tissue in under an hour should be respected.  Hissing and rattling, we watched in awe expecting the giant silver time-bomb to explode at any second sending shards of molten metal and beef ribs into our tender little bodies.  


My mother's "STAY BACK!!" never went unheeded and served to bolster the terrifying effect of the steam engine pumping away on the stove. In fact, I stayed so far back that I continued to stay out of the kitchen for the next 20 years of my life.  I didn't really need to go in there to learn anything anyway. I had three older sisters who were perfectly happy to learn all of the diabolical and life-threatening secrets of preparing a home-cooked meal.


So, tonight everything was coming along just fine.  My son called me up to chat just when the timer went off.  I approached the pot with caution to turn the burner off, but I was perplexed about whether I should somehow lift it off of the hot stove to stop the rattling.  Instead, balancing the phone in the crook of my shoulder and a pot-holder in each hand, I managed to knock the pressure gauge thingy part way off of the steam nozzle. Steam started shooting sideways from the lid top (luckily not in my direction), and the noise was unbelievable.


"What in the world are you doing?" he shouts into the phone. "What is that awful racket?!"


"Oh, I'm just cooking in a pressure cooker," I respond more calmly than I felt.


"I didn't know you could cook tin foil and pennies in a pressure cooker," he yells over the hissing, clanging and sputtering. Frying turkey patties added to the harsh and chaotic symphony.


All ended well and the 'choke turned out perfectly. No one was injured in the preparation of this meal. The pressure cooker is going back to work tomorrow.

Choking on memories

Last night, as I was carefully dissecting my dinner, I had a time-warp moment when I was hurled back to the past nearly 40 years: I was at the dining table with my family gathered all around.  I don't know if it happened because I am nearing the anniversary of losing my dad and sister, or because of the action that I was performing with my vegetable.


I was eating an artichoke.  Very carefully, I slowly and methodically peeled back each layer, scraped the underside of the leaf with my bottom teeth (same technique employed with an Oreo, by the way) claiming every soft morsel. I was "in the now" at this point, totally in sync with digesting my potassium, magnesium, vitamin C, and dietary fiber.


Then I got to the hairy center and busted out my special moves on the choke.  I picked up my spoon, turned the back of the bowl up and with the tip of the spoon, very carefully and with precision, applied pressure near the edge of the fluffy core. 


This was the special moment that reminded me of meals with my family.  Using a skill taught to me by my patient father, at the lofty age of 10 I felt that I had perfected this method of hair-removal; steady pressure to separate the messy center from the heart, but with a light enough touch that I could see every impression left by each hair. I was so confident with my skill that I would leap from my chair, spoon in hand, asking to de-flock any vegetable that was handy.


Now, I sit in solitude contemplating my fuzzy navel, um heart. I miss those family times and am so grateful that I even had them. Holding my heart in my hand, I let the memories fill the empty chairs in my dining room.

Trash to treasure

Its official.  I've become a Bag-Lady. I know the instant it happened and I'm here to confess it; to just get the whole embarrassing mess out in the open.


It happened when I was taking the trash to the dump Friday before last.  It is officially called a "transfer station" because the garbage is thrown down a chute and eventually whisked away in a large truck to the landfill.  Anyway, I backed my pickup next to another one, put it in park, and jumped out.  Lo and behold, someone had left a pile of books and an impeccable table lamp right there on the ledge.  They could have easily thrown it over but there it was in all its glory; compact fluorescent bulb still intact.


I furtively looked around to see if perhaps the other rubbish-dumper had set it there.  Keeping one eye on the prize, I casually and slowly heaved my sacks over the rail and into the dark hole. Darn, another garbage patron moved over to the pile of books and gleaming lamp. I watched with horror and disappointment as he carefully picked through the interesting pile. After just moments, he stood up, walked back to his car and drove off. It was like he hadn't even seen the lamp! I quickly and non-chalantly swooped it up and placed it in my truck before climbing in, heart thumping.  To the casual observer I wanted to make it look like I had just set it down on the ledge to get it out of the way while I dumped my true rubbish, then retrieved it when I was done with the hard work.


As I drove off, I still couldn't believe what I had done.  I didn't even know if it worked! I have now tested it and it does, indeed, light up a room.  Do I need another table lamp? That is beside the point. Maybe I'll re-gift it with a nice new lamp shade. 


For now I'll just stash it in my grocery cart (aka house) with the rest of my worldly possessions.  I'm a little worried though.  First it was pennies off of the sidewalk. Now I'm claiming someone else's trash.  What is next? Pulling recycling out of the bins? Stealing newspapers from boxes? Someone should stop me before I need an intervention and end up on a reality T.V. show called "Compulsive Collecting". 


But for now I'll rub my new lamp clean and see what good luck it might bring me.

"Labels are meant to be read"

So, I'm sitting around watching a show on my computer and I see an add for an allergy medicine. They are yammering on about not drinking fruit juice with some type of medicine and the chic says, "labels are meant to be read." Really?  Is that their message? Are they trying to sell a product or just point out how stupid the general public is?


I have to confess something right here and now.  I am not a label reader.  Yes, if I get a prescription, I do read all of the special tags that the pharmacist sticks to the vial: "Take with Food", "May cause drowsiness", "Do not use orally", "Do not climb inside this bag and zip it up", and the like. But do I read the two page diatribe that they stick in the bag regarding all of the debilitating trauma this pain-relieving medication is likely to inflict on my compromised immune system? No. I just want to pop the pills and get on with the healing.  Side-effects are for suckers.


Actually, this got me thinking about some of the common things I take for granted that I consume on a daily basis. Are there side-effects from them? This is what I discovered:


Caffeine:  Severe allergic reactions (rash; hives; itching; difficulty breathing; tightness in the chest; swelling of the mouth, face, lips, or tongue); diarrhea; shakiness; trouble sleeping; vomiting.


Granola: Intestinal gas and bloating. Poorly chewed oats can cause blockage of the intestine.


Orange juice:  Insomnia,  severe back pain, copper deficiency, jaundice infection, vitamin B12 depletion, dental cavities, an increased need for oxygen, leading to additional pressure on heart.


Tomorrow I'm skipping breakfast.  I'm skipping all the way to a Snickers bar because I've looked and there are no side effects listed on the package. They are perfectly safe...

Lessons from the pantry

I left my realm of comfort today and dove into a wheat-free experience.  It wasn't exactly by choice. After eating a delicious, but unsatisfying, fish dinner, I was rummaging around in my cupboards and emerged with GLUTINO! A gluten-free, "multi-grain" cracker.  Ok, yes, I was desperate. And all right, yes, it did have an expiration date of June 29, 2010. But I thought, "what the heck" and gave it a go.


How did this gem end up on the back of my top shelf? A friend of mine moved away to the mainland and she bequeathed upon me some fine-dining accouterments: artichoke hearts, a huge jar of sun-dried tomatoes, cans of black beans, vinaigrette salad spray, and yes, boxes of various types of specialty crackers; it was obvious that she not only had good taste but that we did NOT shop at the same stores.


I opened the first box. Some sort of melba sesame cracker. I ate the entire cracker before I realized that I had discovered a brand new meaning for "stale".  It had the unique combination of not only being stale but rancid.  I couldn't find a best-by date on the package but needless to say that the coupon I peeled off the box expired on 9/30/09. 


Undaunted, I foraged on.  Ever hopeful that the sealed plastic bags really did seal in freshness. This delectable treat boasted its origins from the vicinity of Mt. Ararat.  But, made conveniently in California.  It lived up to its name: ak mak.  Yes, this was the sound I made as I spit it out into my hand.  I looked at the box a little closer.  In case I forgot how to discern meaning from words, they thoughtfully underlined (in red) important phrases like "whole wheat product", "nutritional value", "wheat", "important part of the diet", "high-protein wheat", "highest quality wheat", "complete whole wheat flour", "nothing added, nothing removed", "full circle", "present pyramid program", "cereal grains", "ancient peoples", "and still counting". I kid you not.  Needless to say I couldn't find an expiration date on this package as I think it was sealed up before the USDA decided to require them.


Lastly, GLUTINO! Feeling like a challenge, I opened the last box (ignoring the expiration date clearly stamped on the bottom).  Let me describe to you as best I can what my mouth experienced: imagine multi-grain to mean corn starch, white rice flour, fennel and poppy seeds.  Now imagine cardboard craftily ground so fine as to make it a powder. Mix all of the ingredients together, held together with guar gum (Guar gum is economical because it has almost 8 times the water-thickening potency of cornstarch - thank you Wikipedia). Yum. 


Lessons learned? Those plastic pouches are not only necessary to prevent critters from chewing their way through your food stores, but they also serve to keep the product from contaminating perfectly tasty food next to it on the shelf.


I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to brush away the reside still stuck to the back of my tongue, but I've learned another very valuable lesson: I love you, Ritz Crackers. I can't wait to start on the canned goods...

Spring and all that it brings

Ahhh, spring. Birds chirping, grass growing, flowers blooming, nose streaming, eyes itching, face sneezing, and all around misery.  Actually, it isn't as bad here in Hawaii as on the mainland, but spring does usually bring a new pollen into the mix to shake up any normally healthy immune system.


Allergic rhinitis: hay fever.  When I was younger, growing up in Oregon, springtime meant living a life of lethargy and fatigue.  This, of course, was a direct result of having to dose myself with a prescription antihistamine tablet the size of a pinhead that resulted with me in a groggy stupor, unfit to drive vehicles or use heavy machinery.  One day my doctor suggested that I should be tested to see what exactly was causing my malaise.


I'm not sure if they do this now, but back then what this meant was to go to a specialist (I can't even remember what kind, only that they had a lot of needles), and undergo sharp pricks with various types of pollen. They injected this liquid mixture just under the skin all across my back.  I felt like a pin-cushion and looked like a patch-work quilt as each injection site reacted with varying degrees to these sub-lethal doses of venomous spores.


Conclusion: I am most allergic to pollens from grasses and trees.  Okay, that is like saying I am allergic to something everywhere I go in the world except Antarctica. I am pretty sure that whoever thought up the Spiderman comics also went through these tests, because the next course of action was to actually go to my doctor once a week and have these pollens injected into me to "build up my resistance". But, instead of taking on super-human properties like being able to stand tall during hurricanes or able to attract and control swarms of bees, these pollen-injections were supposed to make me immune to their irritating consequences.


Every time, after the poke at the doctor's office, they required me to wait out in the waiting room for 30 minutes to "make sure there was no reaction".  I did not inquire in depth about what type of response they were expecting, assuming they were talking about a puffy, hot, and sore arm (which was the norm).


One day, jacked up on antihistamines and fresh from a "treatment", I wearily sat waiting with the other patients trying to read a two-year-old Highlights magazine.  Soon I nodded my way into a "hidden picture" slumber, legs splayed and most likely drooling.  Sensing that I was not in my bed, and as foreign mutters and sounds came drifting into my subconscious, I jerked awake to find two nurses gathered around me; their faces pressed close to mine with one of them taking my pulse. 


"What is going on?" I asked trying to remain calm.


"Oh. Ahem. We were just checking to see if you'd had a reaction to the injection," they prattled, trying to act nonchalant.  I knew better. You NEVER saw nurses in the waiting room.


"What type of reaction is possible?" I mustered the courage to ask after they had removed me from the gawking crowd and back into an exam room.  


"Coma, seizure, anaphylactic shock," the nurse replied with detached emotion.


Somehow, even at 15 years of age, I determined right there and then that the risk was not worth the reward. I never went back. They never asked why.


I'm much better now.  Newer and better antihistamines have been invented; some that don't even cause drowsiness. I can drive and operate heavy machinery to my heart's content. I even look forward to the nuances of spring and all that it brings.

A revelation of the spiritual kind

The weirdest thing happened at my house the other day.  I explained the whole experience to my daughter.  "I think I have a ghost or something in my house," I told her.

I went on to relay that on Sunday I found a giant dead cockroach on the kitchen floor. I left it there and when I got home from some errands, it had moved into the cupboard next to the garbage can. That was strange.  Did someone stop by my house and intend to put it in the garbage but missed? Did the dogs move it there while sniffing around the open cabinet? It was too gross to touch so I pretended it wasn't there.

The next day....it was GONE! "The only explanation has to be spirits," I concluded with superior intellect and uncanny reasoning. 

"Um, mom," she patiently said, "ants probably took it." She is most likely right. I've seen ants move dead insects before, but I guess I hadn't considered it because I haven't been seeing any ants hanging out at my house lately. And usually their load isn't a big honking 3" cockroach!

This has me pondering all of the wonderful applications of this newly realized phenomenon.  I've been thinking about moving my ginormous sectional sofa out of the house but every time I even think of it I give myself a mental hernia. So, by my calculations, if an ant can carry up to 50 times their own weight, all I'd need to do is smother my sofa in Nutella or peanut butter or something and fly open the sliding door. It will be out in no time! 

Unless they try taking it through the kitchen cabinetry.  That could be a problem.