by Christine | Cooking, Life
Yay! The bone doc showed me the white line across my fibula – the bone is healed! So after a five month relationship, I’ve said my goodbyes to the ortho office, and hello to my new best friend, Jane Fonda.
Some of us remember the 1980s, when she spearheaded the in-home aerobics fitness craze with VHS tapes of exercise classes. I confess, I didn’t buy any then because I had a gym through my place of work that I didn’t have to pay for, which included aerobics classes. (I took my first real aerobics class after a couple cocktails…but that’s another post.)
So the hubby and I were in some fitness store or other – he was looking for tennis tape to wrap his juggling pins with – and I stumbled upon this DVD by Jane called “Fit and Strong”. It came out in 2010; Jane was in her early 70s when she made it. I LOVE this video. It uses a chair, and easy weights, and a towel; it takes 20 minutes to do. It will make me strong enough (and already has in some ways) so that I can get back to more vigorous exercises, once I can do these without being sore the next day. So I guess it’s an old-person’s exercise program. No, wait – it’s an out-of-shape, creaky-person’s exercise program! Because there’s no way that I’m old. (LOOK at that photo! Doesn’t she look fabulous?!!)
Jane is extremely appealing in the video. She’s someone I would love to sit and have a cup of coffee with – or three or four. Someone I’d love to chat with. As it is, I pant and balance and grin along with her as she talks about getting strong in your seventies, and how she has a titanium and plastic knee and a titanium and ceramic hip. Jane is my new best friend. She’s going to help me get back to ME again.
Which will be good, as I deal with the Thanksgiving Leftovers. (This year, since we went down to my nephew’s home for the Holiday, I only made a turkey for the leftovers!!!) I usually make turkey stock with the carcass and skin, an onion cut in half, two carrots and two celery sticks and a whole bunch o’ water in a big soup pot, oh and a couple tablespoons of white vinegar to help leach out the marrow from the bones. Boil the hell out of the whole mess over two or three days, skimming as you go, until the liquid is reduced by about half. Then strain the whole thing, toss out the skin/bones/vegetables, strain again – and you’ve got healthy, fresh stock, which can be used in a million different ways.
The meat gets one of two different treatments (not, obviously, counting turkey sandwiches – that’s a whole ‘nother post!). When I gave the boys in my family a choice between yummy turkey enchiladas and turkey pot pie, my two sons both chose pot pie while my husband just grinned and nodded for both choices. This time around, though, I believe I have enough turkey meat to handle the pot pie AND the enchiladas, so that’s kind of exciting.
TURKEY ENCHILADAS based on a recipe by Ron Stell (I don’t have the recipe in front of me, so…) These are NOT your red-sauce enchiladas!
Ingredients: 1 can cream of chicken soup; 1 small can chopped mild green chilies; 8 ounces sour cream; 12 ounces pepper jack cheese, shredded/divided; 3/4 cup chicken or turkey stock; six scallions (green onions), chopped; 8 – 12 medium sized flour tortillas and 2 – 3 cups shredded turkey (or chicken).
Directions: Preheat oven to 325 f. In a 9×12 pan, spray with cooking spray; set aside. In a large bowl, add cream of chicken soup, green chilis, sour cream, 8 ounces of the pepper jack, the stock, and the green onions; mix well to combine. SET ASIDE 1/3 OF THIS MIXTURE FOR THE TOP. (Can you tell I always forget this part?) Add the chopped chicken/turkey to the mixture.
Take a tortilla, put a couple tablespoons of filling in, and roll up. Place in prepared pan. This will make about 10 enchiladas, unless you’re generous, in which you’ll make 8. Once all the tortillas are nestled in the pan, spread the reserved sauce over the top and sprinkle with the reserved cheese. Bake at 325 for 20 – 30 minutes, or until bubbly and just turning light brown.
This recipe doubles or even triples easily, so you can feed a crowd. It also freezes beautifully (especially if you have a freezer big enough to accommodate the pan). If you want to spice it up, feel free; but my Ohio boy likes the spice kick in this just fine.
Turkey Pot Pie
Use whatever crust recipe that you have that you love. Or buy those lovely pre-made pie
crusts in a box. For a real easy pot pie topper, use a sheet of puff pastry – and forego the bottom crust (which I do all the time). For this recipe, we’re using the puff pastry.
Ingredients: 1 sheet puff pastry, thawed; 2 cups chopped or shredded turkey; 1 Tlb olive oil; 1 small chopped onion; 2 sliced carrots; 1 sliced parsnip; 2 sliced celery sticks; 1 cup frozen green peas, thawed; 3 Tablespoons butter; 3 Tablespoons flour; 1 cup chicken or turkey stock; 1 cup 2% milk (or lower); 1-2 Tablespoons dry Sherry thyme, salt and pepper to taste
Directions: Preheat oven to 325 f. Heat a saute pan over medium heat; add olive oil. When oil is hot, add in onions, carrots, parsnip, and celery; saute until softened. Sprinkle with a bit of dried thyme about half way through. Once the vegetables are done, add in the green peas and one tablespoon of the sherry. Saute until the liquid is gone, remove from heat and add the turkey to the vegetables; mix well.
To make the sauce: in a medium saucepan, heat the butter until melted but not burning. Add in the flour to make a roux; stir until the mixture has a golden color, then add the one cup chicken stock, stirring rapidly until combined. Add in the milk and stir until thickened. Taste the sauce; add up to one teaspoon each of salt and pepper. Add in one to two tablespoons sherry to the sauce; feel free to sprinkle some more thyme. Once you are satisfied at the taste, mix the sauce in with the turkey and vegetables. Pour into a deep dish pie plate. If you only have a shallow pie plate, keep the rest for a yummy open turkey melt sandwich.
Now to the puff pastry. Working quickly, roll out the puff pastry until just big enough to cover the top of the pie pan. Drape the pastry over the top; use a knife and cut around the edges. Tuck any excess inside the pie pan. One more thing to do: cut a small round hole in the middle of the pie, to allow steam to escape.
Put in oven. Bake 20-30 minutes, or until the pastry becomes puffed and golden. Let sit for 5 to 10 minutes to cool before serving.
Well, there you go – my tried-and-true answer to turkey leftovers. (It works GREAT with a pre-cooked chicken, too!) I don’t do the candied yams; this year, I didn’t make cranberry sauce, as I’m usually the only one who eats it. I’ll probably do a quick casserole with leftover stuffing, chopped turkey, and leftover gravy all mixed together and topped with biscuits (an easier pot pie, I guess…). If I have any turkey left over, that is!
As always, sending lots of love from my kitchen to yours. Now…who wants to go for a nice slow jog around the block?
Thanks for joining me – and remember, drink responsibly!
by Christine | Life, Observations
It’s begun. The rush to the holiday season is upon us. Madness in the form of turkey recipes, shopping lines, or the perfect gift for the frenemy in the office is descending upon everyone who has enough money in their pockets to be concerned about such things.
Holiday decorations. Pies. Uncle Jack’s drinking problem and Aunt Sally’s really bad wig. Underdone turkey and burned dinner rolls. One half of the family not talking to the other half, but both halves coming to YOUR house. Working too hard at work. Not having a job to go to. Battling your own sense of entitlement while trying to curb your kids’ “gimme” attitude. Battling your sense of despair while wondering how to provide a special, memorable time for your kids when the cash isn’t there. There’s a reason the holiday season accounts for more cases of depression than any other time of year, and strangely enough a lot of it seems to revolve around the having, or the lack, of money.
I’ve got the beginning of a solution. It doesn’t matter how much money you have in your pocket; it’s not a complete solution, either, and I’m pretty sure I’ve stolen this from someone else. But it’s a start. Ready?
Breathe. Take a few deep breaths. Stop your kitchen/shopping/bill-worrying madness. Go outside, spread your arms wide, breathe deeply. Feel the sun (or, if it’s night, the chill) on your face, and give thanks for being able to breathe. If you can, get your hands into the dirt. Plant something, or pull weeds. If there’s snow where you are, burn some frustrations off by building a snowman of any size (NOT as easy as it seems). Remember, you are not your bank balance. Remember to laugh!
Next, understand your place in the world – not in “bank account” terms, but in geologic terms. The mountain you can see outside your window (or the ocean, the plain, the forest, the desert) doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your Aunt Fanny’s tendency to blurt out uncomfortable truths at the dinner table. In fifty years, will anyone still be alive to remember the upside-down pumpkin pie on the kitchen floor, or that your child dumped hot gravy down your mom’s silk dress? Um, probably not. In the grand scheme of things, and whether you’re religious or not, as the decades pass the stuff that has your guts tied up in knots today won’t matter. They just won’t.
Does that mean that what you do doesn’t matter? Of course not. Kindness wins over selfishness. Happy memories win over mere things. Love – shared, expressed, and heartfelt, wins over all the pettiness that this time of year can call out in people.
I worry. Don’t for a minute think I’m immune. I worry about what to give my family this Christmas – my boys are grown, so the toys of previous years aren’t appropriate. My hubby and I have everything we need, really. How to make this year special? I don’t know, but I’m determined to figure it out. I will never say I’m not a worrier.
But… the old adage “you can’t change the things that happen – you can only change your attitude toward them” is true. So I worry, then I put it away. Nothing I can do about it, so I look to the bright side of things. I know “the papers will show up in the mail”. I know “you’ll get the job”. I know, deep in my heart, that what I TRULY desire, as long as I focus on having it, will come about. It may not be in the package I think it should be, but it’ll be there. All I have to do is accept it.
So what it comes down to is, you have a choice. You can handle the holidays the way you’ve always handled them – spend too much, eat too much, bicker too much, worry too much, get pulled in a dozen different directions and battered by everyone else’s opinion on how you should live your life – OR…
You can Breathe. Resolve to put worry away, even if it’s just for a few hours at a time. Share your love. Let your family, friends, heck even your boss (if it’s appropriate) know how much you appreciate them. Change your attitude about things that normally get you tense or upset (in 100 years, will this matter?!). Let loose your inner Pollyanna. If ever there’s a time to play the Glad Game, it’s now. Go around the dinner table. What are you Glad about this year? If (or when) it degenerates into a bitter-fest, sit back and laugh, because heck – why not?
Wishing you love, and joy, and peace. Wishing you the perfect memories of the upcoming, imperfect, holidays. Wishing for you the gift of laughter, good health, and good friends. Sending hugs out into the world to all my friends, old, new, and not-yet-met.
by Christine | Life, Observations
Thanks to David Hood for the photo - http://www.hourglasses.com/
I will not lie. I LOVE the time changes. I hope the government never gets rid of “Spring ahead, fall back”. There is something so urgent and hopeful about spring, moving the clock ahead, seeing daylight after getting home from the day job. Having the soft spring light in the early evening to wander in the garden, or to plant, weed, hover, dream in the half-light that happens (for me) between getting home from work and having to start dinner.
In fall, it’s even better. By November I’m tired of the heat, the unrelenting sun, the dry winds. Give me rains, and chilly weather. Give me a reason to wear sweaters here in southern California. I’m ready for it to be light at 5am. Let me enjoy the rare night fire, the family gathered around, mulled wine and hot cider available for everyone. (Trader Joe’s has a WONDERFUL spiced apple cider that is FABULOUS when heated.)
This year, I was doubly blessed on the night of the time change. Hubby and I went to an L.A. Kings game last night (hockey – we lost to the Penguins, waddle waddle) and due to overtime and a shootout, plus some nasty traffic on the 5 northbound (a big truck overturned and leaking oil/fuel/something flammable anyway, closed ALL lanes), we didn’t get home until 12:30am. Hubby had to leave home again at 4am, due to working on a USC grad student’s film in the Angeles Forest.
Luckily, because of the day, we just set the clock back. Which gave us time – him to figure out where he was going and to play his new Taylor GS Mini (which he ADORES), and me to make a quick breakfast for him to eat on the road (peanut butter and honey sandwich, apple, banana, and two tangerines). An hour (and a couple glasses of wine – oh, and some fresh popcorn) later, we were in bed. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
When I woke, Hubby was long gone. I looked outside – it had rained in the night. The clouds were still thick in the sky – I went back to bed for another hour, because I could. For me, “winter” had arrived. It stayed in the 50’s at my house today; the sky was dark by 5pm. Tomorrow morning, when I leave for work, I’ll have to re-learn how to drive when the sun is barely on the horizon and then SLAMS me in the face unexpectedly. When I come home, I’ll have to deal with driving in thick traffic at night along with everyone else, who has forgotten how. In a month, we’ll all have adjusted.
But my day today was an enchanted one, filled with the dripping eaves and a rainbow, the scent of fresh rain and rosemary and a woodfire in someone else’s hearth. It was a day for dawdling and indulging. I dawdled over the newspaper, reading every section of the Los Angeles Times (thin though it is nowadays). I made breakfast for my even later-rising son. I indulged in watching a video, and then did some writing/editing. I made plans for dinner, thanks to romance writer Christina Dodd’s post about macaroni and cheese. I took my son driving, and then went on a long walk (and I even did some very slow jogging – the legbone is feeling strong now).
The hubby came home, having spent the day being snowed on, rained on, sleeted on, then
thanks to http://www.bigfoto.com/themes/nature/winter/
more snow, all while they were filming. He had a big grin on his face though, and the merrily crackling fire in the fireplace just about made his night. Until I handed him some hot spiced wine. Then he fell in love with me all over again.
So, yes, I LOVE the time change. Yes my body takes awhile to adjust – it’s not even nine pm where I am and I was ready for sleep 30 minutes ago. But you know what? I don’t care. It’s a definite shift of the seasons for me, and in a world of perpetual sunshine, the fall’s “fall back” is a lovely signpost to slow down. A breather, if you will, between school starting, and the full swing of the holiday season.
~ Until the next time, cheers – and remember to drink responsibly! ~
My first novel, Demon Soul, is available for the Kindle and the Nook! It makes GREAT Holiday gifts!!! *hint hint* lol!
by Christine | Life, Wine Friday
While I was at Cypher a couple of weekends ago, the sexy ex-computer-geek-turned-tasting-room-guru T, let me in on the secret of Primitivo. Primitivo is a grape identical to Zinfandel and grown mostly in Italy, Argentina, and Chile.
Bells went off in my head. No WONDER I was drawn to Primitivo! I’d found it at Fresh & Easy, for $5.99 a bottle, and couldn’t understand how I could so love that wine. But it was hiding its true colors; and now that I know it’s a Zinfandel by another name, I’m SO on board. (Of course, the last time I went to Fresh & Easy, they didn’t have Primitivo any longer. Sigh.)
Tuesday night at Casa Ashworth, the Santa Ana winds blew. Hard. They blew hard enough to force our double front doors open wide; they blew hard enough to take lots of white picket fencing off my front fence, leaving an already-worn fence looking like an old woman’s mouth with teeth missing. The winds blew so hard, that it toppled – and split – a 30+ year old tree, narrowly missing landing on the corner of my bedroom. The power went out. I was late to work, disoriented by the winds I could hear in my sleep, and grumpy from lack of coffee.
Landscape with Windblown Trees, by Vincent Van Gogh
That afternoon, with the power still out, I found true parafin lamp oil (the other stuff is crap, don’t buy it unless it says PARAFIN lamp oil) and some new wicks for our many oil lamps. My boss, sensing my uneasiness, let me go while it was still light out, so the hubby and I could get our act together before darkness descended.
Yes, we have battery lanterns. But which would you rather gather around – the mellow yellow light of an oil lamp, or the harsh, blue light of a flourescent camping light? Yeah, us too.
By the time darkness descended, I was happily puttering about in the kitchen with three lamps burning so I could see what I was chopping, what was going into the pot on the stove, and what I needed out of the fridge. (Thank goodness for gas stoves!) I made soup from leftover veggies in the fridge, plus the rest of a Costco chicken. For those who want to know, I sipped on the last of a bottle of La Gioiosia Pinot Grigio ($7.99 a bottle at Fresh & Easy, tiny bubbles but it’s NOT a prosecco), and we opened a bottle of Rose from Adelaida to go with the soup – and that was yummy!
But there was the sense of primitivo about our night. Every room I went into, I flipped on the light – only to remember, too late. We made sure we had flashlights with fresh batteries easily available (our family’s prediliction lately is for headlamps – keeps your hands free), we charged our phones in our cars as we drove during the day, and used them as our morning alarms. It was nice, if slightly surreal. It wasn’t cold and we had water and gas; we weren’t that disabled by lack of electricity (except the hubby and the youngest didn’t get their NaNo words in, and grumped about it all night).
To revel in the winds and the darkness, at about ten I went outside. The winds had died to mere puffs of air; the stars were half-obscured by the bright quarter-moon. And the silence I’d been expecting?
Filled with the hum of generators. I much preferred my lamps.
Next week I promise I’ll get a wine blog together – this week, life’s been kinda crazy!
~ Cheers – and remember to Drink Responsibly! ~
by Christine | Life, Observations
It skulked in a high cupboard for decades, in a cream and black-striped box that used to hold a nice women’s coat, from back in the day when women’s coats used to come in nice big boxes. Mom had first brought it out to show me when I was six or seven, then reverently packed it away again. I forgot about it – marriage was in the far mists of my future.
I saw it again after I got engaged, and Mom and I talked about my wedding dress. I tried hers on, to make her feel useful (I was such a brat). It was pretty, but at the time a bit too old fashioned for me – stiff satin with a square neck and 3/4 length sleeves. In my defense, I was a very young bride-to-be – only 19, and with no concept of fashion outside of my pointe shoes and tights. In retrospect, I’d have looked killer in that dress after a fitting or two.
Time marched on. I had my wedding (during that awkward year, 1980 – slap between the hippy beach weddings of the 70’s and just prior to the huge, lavish, DYNASTY-type affairs of the mid-80’s) and a lovely brief honeymoon, but I didn’t wear Mom’s dress. Instead, it languished in its cupboard. The delicate headdress for the veil slowly turned yellow with age, and the heavy linen underskirt grew just a tiny bit brittle. They were in their own box, one that used to hold a blanket. The dress, like the boxes, was from the early 1950’s.
Decades passed. I had two children and many different careers, and only thought of Mom’s wedding dress when I saw my parents’ wedding picture. Then Mom died in 2007. After some time, we boxed up her clothes, divided up her jewelry, tossed out her makeup. But the wedding dress still waited in the high cupboard in the hallway, forgotten and much too high up for an old man and woman to worry about what was actually in that cupboard.
I didn’t think about my Mom’s dress again until one day this spring, when I visited my Dad. His roommate and caregiver had been doing an unusually thorough spring cleaning, and had found the boxes in their place in the hallway cupboard. Dad proudly gave them to me. I was at a loss. I had two young men at home, and not a daughter (or prospective daughter-in-law) in sight. But it was important for him to give them to me.
So I took the boxes home, thinking perhaps a successful costumer I know would like the dress. But somehow, the boxes stayed with me. First in the back of my car for weeks. Then they moved into the house, and in the heat of summer took up residence in front of my cold fireplace. Magazines and guitar picks and sheet music eventually got piled up on the boxes, and they were obscured – we became unsure about what was sitting there on the hearth.
Time passed and autumn approached. This past week, a fire was asked for, which meant the dress was unearthed from its resting place on the hearth – this time, to be moved to the end of the couch. As the hubby prepped the fireplace, I took the dress out, admired the length of the train, the stiffness of the satin, the cut of the neckline. I didn’t bother to hold it against me, as the waist was impossibly tiny for my now-middle-aged figure; and I knew finally a deep reluctance to part with it.
“Perhaps my niece Sara would appreciate it. She has two girls,” I offered. My husband gave a noncommittal grunt. Perhaps Sara would want it. It would at least stay in the family that way.
But I didn’t contact her. I know the dress deserves better. I know there are places that will clean and then preserve the dress in a vacuum-sealed bag (which is how my wedding dress is packed – it hides under my bed). I know some costumer would probably drool over this dress.
As the last bit of my mother’s youth, though, and as I look at my own long-gone youth in the rear-view mirror, my mother’s wedding dress has become a symbol of all her love, hopes, dreams, wishes and desires.
I am never sentimental about my mother; but I find I just can’t part with it. So for now, and my guess is until it becomes imperative at Christmas, the boxes containing my mother’s wedding dress, underskirt and veil will remain on the edge of my couch, making her once again a part of my life.
Love you, Mom. Always.
by Christine | Life, Uncategorized
No, it’s not a new reality TV show about illegal aliens trying to keep their job at a greasy spoon…(‘scuse me, now taking a call from the Kardashians…) where was I? Oh yeah.
So, my dishwasher finally died. After sixteen years and one appliance-repair call for $100 9 years ago, it just stopped cleaning the dishes. We therefore stopped using it, I raided my 401K plan, and prior to going to the stores to find my new dishwasher, I shopped online.
Found it almost immediately. A gorgeous, totally stainless-steel inside and out, whisper-quiet model with racks that adjust up and down, more silverware holders than you can shake a stick at, and the bottom has NO open heating elements. Which means, I won’t be burning plastic utensils at the bottom of the dishwasher any time soon (yay, me!).
I found this paragon of dishwashing online on a Tuesday; we couldn’t go shopping until Saturday. So I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves and washed dishes by hand as I hadn’t done in too many years. There’s a meditative quality to the hot soapy water, the rhythmic scrubbing, the rinsing. I have what my mother didn’t, a window over my sink, so I could look out at the neighborhood as I scrubbed and meditated.
Over the next few days, my Young Men washed the dishes in turn. But somehow, the dishes rarely came out clean. “No. Start with hot, SOAPY water. Do all the glassware first, while the water is still clean. Then move to utensils, then plates and bowls, and then at the very end, the pots and pans.”
Day after day, I found myself rewashing dishes. Saturday finally came though, and in high spirits, we went out to hunt for the wild and yet quite perfect dishwasher. Not only did we find it, but it was on sale – and for less than it had been online! I was such a happy girl. Until they told me it wasn’t in stock, and we’d have to wait. Mid-week, most likely. Oh, and we’d have to pay for the stuff the plumber would need. And of course, after the plumber installs the dishwasher, we have to have the city come out and make sure they did it right so our house doesn’t blow up.
Um. Okay…So I signed all the paperwork, and handed over my debit card, and walked out the proud possessor of – paperwork. And a promise of a phone call for when the dishwasher came into the warehouse – mid-week. Definitely.
The dishwasher did come in to the warehouse mid week, but the plumber couldn’t install it until ten days later at the earliest. Ooookay. So the incompetent dish washing – well, it does get better, but only because I’m carping at the boys – excuse me, Young Men – to use hot soapy water. All. The. Time.
By the time the dishwasher and the plumber finally arrive, there’s another problem. Apparently there’s a bubbler – some sort of air thingie – that has to be installed that the Big Box Store didn’t tell us about. So not only did the plumber take our dishwasher away, he wanted another $70 for the part – and couldn’t come back for another 5 days!
By this time, I’m beginning to believe that washing dishes by hand, something I grew up doing, is a guaranteed thing for the rest of my life. I cannot conceive of actually using a dishwasher again because it has been so long…I feel in the dark ages of my childhood…a side benefit, however, is everyone’s attention to really cleaning up the kitchen each night before we go to bed. (I know. This is a DUH. But somehow with the dishwasher we got lazy.)
Finally, however, the plumber came back, with the right part, and installed everything. Except – the bubbler took the place of our sprayer (we have a four-hole kitchen faucet). And the plumber couldn’t cap off the hot water line to the sprayer because he didn’t have the right widget to do it. He said if we bought a new faucet, he’d install it for $70 and take care of the extra line that way.
Now, no dissing the plumber – he was, according to my husband, a hard-working man and his sons were also in the business with him. We never got charged the extra $70 for the bubbler, either. But…that night, our first with the new dishwasher, hubby and I went faucet shopping.
Which caused another issue. We have short sinks – it took us TEN YEARS to find a simple, tall faucet. And when we went to Big Box Store and looked at all the faucets, the one our eyes kept going back to was the very one already installed in our kitchen – the one with the rogue sprayer. We needed a 3 hole faucet and we couldn’t find one that suited.
We decided, in our exhaustion, to let everything be. At some point we need to have the city come out; at some point we need to figure out the faucet situation. But for right now, everything that usually goes under the sink is in a laundry tub in front of the breakfast bar.
As for the new dishwasher; it’s complicated. I mean that, too. Not only is running it complicated (I had to read the directions three times – glasses helped), but loading it is complicated. My Younger Young Man complained about being the first person to load it. “I don’t know where anything goes,” he said.
The new dishwasher and the family are taking it slow. It seems to prefer a rinsing agent; I prefer not to spend the money, but hate spotty glasses. I see purchasing a rinsing agent in my future.
Welcome to my life. It’s…complicated.
