Food

High Velocity Ketchup

I think the mother was doing a great job!! She had her 3 children following her and the tray of Happy Meals to their seat. The twin girls and brother (they could have been triplets….they were all that close in age) sat at the circular table waiting for their specific Happy Meals to be placed in front of their smiling, happy faces. The first delivery hit a snag when a cheeseburger appeared where a plain hamburger was expected.

With the rest of the Happy Meals being passed out without any problems, “mom” prepared the kids to sit still while she went and exchanged the faulty hamburger. (I was prepared to jump in, but people with kids are wary of strangers volunteering to help them with their precious kids…) Before mom got to far into her “be good for just a minute” speech, the male member of the party decided to go for some attention.

Twin#1: Waaaa!

Mom: What is it? What happened?

Twin#1: He got ketchup in my eye.

Mom: Looking at son, “You don’t even like ketchup. What were you doing playing with the ketchup? Gimme that ketchup.” Looking at daughter, “It was just ketchup. It is not worth getting that upset about.”

After she returned with the hamburger defrocked of its cheese, my fellow Mickey D-ites pretty much kept to themselves….almost. As I was preparing to put my laptop back in its case, I noticed a ketchup looking substance on the top of the case. And, the table top by my case had a few splotches of ketchup as well. They were easily dabbed up with a napkin. But, their presence set me to wondering…

The table with the triplets (or twins plus one) was probably 8-10 feet from me. For the little ketchup packet to spit out its contents with enough velocity to reach my table, it would likely have stung someone pretty well if it hit them in the face with the rest of the “spit” heading to my table. Obviously, I felt a little more sympathy for the ketchup-welted daughter. And, mom gets some sympathy, too. A son doesn’t stand a chance when he has two sisters right near his age. He likely made a habit of dispensing some creative justice as he attempted to get some attention–any type of attention. Likely, one or both of the girls were also very good at making sure he got away with little—aren’t family dynamics fun?

Cantaloupe Goes Airborne

I have been doing this trick with balls of all sizes for sometime….a few decades. To try and put more pressure on myself, I allow myself to propel the occasional fruit into the air. It may not seem like pressure to anyone else, but my wife’s “encouragement” in the background should I have to clean up anything resembling exploded fruit does give me a mini-rush. Apples are only a small rush because any errors only results in bruising. It is the cantaloupes, tomatoes, and maybe someday the watermelons that will give me the assurance my heart is still in tip-top shape.

Kimchi Suicide

As we enjoyed another meal from our exchange students (it has been awhile between family visits and Thanksgiving and overall busyness), we had a healthy discussion around the table. My youngest daughter was overnighting with a friend (she would appreciate us saving her some of the curry chicken w/ carrots and potatoes and the soup with squash, tofu and a few baby shrimps in the soy based broth.), so she missed the fun.

Since this meal was made by our Chinese student (our other student volunteered to help as well as myself), it did take a little time to pull together after school. Maybe it was hunger that loosened our lips more than usual. Whatever it was, we had a laugh (for our Korean student) and a tear (for our Chinese student) before the meal was over.

Our Chinese student had worked so hard to prepare Chinese pancakes for the International food day at school a couple of weeks ago. The night before, she spent over 2 hours in the kitchen preparing and cooking the egg/flour batter. She attempted to fry them into near perfect, untorn pancakes for people at school to try. Because of her desire for perfection and her need to make sure there was ample pancakes for all, she made nearly 20 of them–each done individually in our small, cast iron frying pan. I was a little concerned about the texture of the pancakes when they arrived at school the next day. When the sampling began at school, this was the one story she told….

EX (Chinese exchange student): I am so happy you like the meal I made tonight. The last time I cooked they did not like it.
US: What are you talking about?
EX: (Her English is very good, but my retelling is certainly not exact.) When I took the Chinese pancakes to school, not everyone liked them. I was okay they did not like them, but one person really hurt my feelings! She tried my pancakes and told me she liked them. When I saw her a little later, I heard her tell someone, “I will never eat Chinese pancakes again. They tasted awful.” She (since it is a small school, my daughter could not help but guess which person at the school was rude enough to say something like this) saw me and knew I heard her. She lowered her head, and she walked away embarrassed.
Daughter: I am sorry about that. That person is not a very nice person. I would not worry about it.
EX: Again, I am so happy you liked the food I made for dinner. When she said that, it really hurt my confidence. (Her smile is covering her whole face.)

After a meal cooked by our Chinese student, we had a little discussion about what our Korean student might next cook. Since kimchi is a such an important part of a Korean meal, we do have half of a jar sitting in the refrigerator. In Korea, they have refrigerators for ONLY their kimchi. Not having that luxury, the kimchi has to share its surroundings with our other “American” items. The first jar of kimchi was able to participate in two meals while the remainder of the jars contents met an untimely end….

Me: What is [our Korean student] going to cook for us next? The last jar of kimchi decided to commit suicide rather than let [Korean student] make another meal with it! (Our Chinese student gets quite a laugh out of this comment. She seems to really appreciate my wit–or whatever it is called.)
EX (this time our Korean student): Yes, I do not know what happened to it. It turned green and even for kimchi, it did not smell good.
Me: Maybe we need to go back to the classic Korean Barbecue.
EX: Yes, we could make our own barbecue sauce with pears and other fruits.
Daughter: I really liked what we got out of the store bought jar.
EX: We would include the same things in our sauce they include in the bottled sauce…

And, so it went. We will likely have Korean cooking again with either kimchi or barbecue or both. We will likely have more Chinese variations on some already cooked meals. And, we will likely look back at many moments during this school year with our exchange students and realize how much we miss them, and the year we shared our lives together. Maybe the food around the table was not always our favorite, but if the food is shared with some of your favorite people, then you are blessed–no matter what country you are in!

Would You Like A Paper With That?

Happy Thanksgiving to all! Do you have your ads yet?

As my wife and I got up this morning, she made the coffee while I wondered out to Walmart to get the paper. (I do feel badly they are working today. However, due to a dispute with the “Fort Worth Star Telegram” over their vacation policy when subscribers “hold” their paper, we are not getting a paper over the past few weeks. It is my hope my wife and I will come to a resolution before Thanksgiving arrives next year.) As I drove the mile or so to acquire our paper, I found I was not the only one on a similar trek. As I walked through the doors, I quickly looked to the right where the papers are usually stacked. With the “paper” area completely clear, I quickly glanced to the left. Fortunately, a space on the left was full of papers! I grabbed one, used the self checkout to pay when I found the bar code, and after a couple of “Happy Thanksgivings”, I was out the door and heading home.

As I pulled into the garage, I noticed a small problem with the paper–it was “The Dallas Morning News”. The shrunk wrap bag of ads was still prominent, so I was pretty sure the presentation of the paper would be well received.

Me (to my wife): Do you want the good news or the bad news?
Wife: They were out of papers with ads?
Me: No problem with the ads; I just grabbed the wrong paper. I just hope you like their puzzles, too!

After looking over the ads, eating our crockpot pumpkin oatmeal w/ coffee, and doing some initial shopping strategizing, the food prep continued.

Our little re-purposed, brightly wrapped tissue box is waiting to gather all of the Thanksgiving notes (What are you thankful for? Write it down and stick it in the box.) today’s attendees deem worthy of the effort. As we set down at our meal, we pass around the contents so they are equally distributed to all who share our table. You may or may not get your written contributions to read from the box, but you will hear your “thanks” read to those you are sharing the table with.

Regardless of how you express “thanks” in your home, please make a special effort to be thankful for the abundance of blessings – both appreciated and under-appreciated. May all of our lives be richer for this “holiday pause”. May we look across our lives and find some area where we struggle to be thankful and commit to trying a little harder. May we look across the table and commit to be nicer or more patient with someone with whom we are sharing this meal. And, since we are Americans, may we forget what we don’t like about our country for a few hours. May all of our eyes be open to see the blessings that are daily all around us!

Meatloaf Fingers

As we made a recent trip to Sam’s and bought a “tube” of hamburger, the hunk of meats fate had already been decided. One-third of the meat was for a meatloaf, and the rest of it was going to be browned and frozen to make a rapid appearance in some other meal. (A “rapid” meal might be tacos, Hamburger Helper, or a meat-enriched spaghetti sauce.) Since I am the one who prepares the meat “best” and has the time (Best is generally in reference to browning the meat–I don’t like the chunks very big. My wife’s tolerance are not quite as stringent.), I spent part of my morning dividing and conquering the meat.

It is my contention that meatloaf cannot be made by using a spoon to mix the ingredients. (Simple ingredients of meat [80/20 is best – 90/10 is to dry], onion soup mix, a couple of eggs, and a couple handfuls of quick oats) I suppose a glass cooking dish could also be used to do the mixing, but I really need to have the sides of the bowl to allow the meat and ingredients to be more successfully mixed. If you insist on mixing your meat while using a spoon, I suppose it may taste okay, but your fingers will never achieve the nirvana that is “meatloaf fingers”. When mixing the meat with your fingers, a chill starts in the fingers and work its way almost to the elbows. As frostbite nears and the fingers are approaching unresponsiveness, the fingers are allowed a couple of brief breaks from the meatloaf. After two such breaks, the eyes and fingers typically agree-the meatloaf can now be handed off to the oven.

Prior to sticking the meatloaf into the over and after it was chilled for a few hours (the chilling may or may not be necessary, but making it ahead always seems to be a good idea.), the loaf is divided into thirds-1/3 is plain, 1/3 gets covered in ketchup, and 1/3 gets deluged in barbecue sauce. About an hour an a half later at 350, we are eating.

I am proud that we make the effort to eat meals together frequently. I feel so very blessed my kids have their favorite meals and make special effort to make sure they are home for those meals (and sometimes making an effort when it is not their favorite meals). As my wife and I watched a “family-ish” commercial the other day, I commented, “We may not be perfect parents, but we have tried really hard to eat meals together.” If we had it all to do over again, the only thing I might change is finding some way to put a little more love in each meal we sat down and ate together.

Fun Parents

As I sat down at McDonald’s today to tap into their internet and slurp on an slightly sweetened iced tea, I was greeted by a family sitting two tables in front of me.

The dad in his early 20’s had droopy jeans, a knitted hat pulled over his head with a bit of hair sticking out, an unshaven face, and a couple of tattoos above his elbow peaking out from under his t-shirt. The mother had her back to me. She had shoulder length black hair with a black t-shirt. The youngest child (under 2) was in a highchair with his hair combed into a rooster type style. The older brother (no older than 4) was facing me, but blocked by his mother. He looked to be his younger brother PLUS 2 or 3 years.

As I notice the youngest brother begging pancakes off of his father’s plate, I see the smile on dad’s face as he continues to fill the nearly perpetually gaping mouth. I see little brother reach for dad as he goes to refill his Dr. Pepper (Don’t leave me dad.) . I see mom haul little brother to the bathroom to change a diaper. I see big brother watching everything going on while keeping the hand moving from plate to mouth. I see how both boys are wearing clothes that could easily be described as pajamas. I decide I will say something to the parents (see Blessed Eggs), but as they get up from their table, they go into the play area.

When they emerged from the play area, I couldn’t help but make a comment. I am not sure it was the best comment, but it was the one I had:

"You must be fun parents.  Not every parent would let their kids wear pajamas on a     drizzly day."
"Thank you. The boys insisted.  They just got their new pajamas yesterday.", she       replied.
"You guys enjoy the rest of your day.", I said with a smile.
"You, too.", the dad said with a bigger smile

It isn’t your appearance or my standards that make you a fun parent. It is how your kids see you. I have no idea what this family’s home looks like, but I know this family knows how to love their kids. I am not so arrogant to think my words made any difference in their day, but saying the words did in mine.

Syrup on the pajamas? No problem. I am sure this loving mom will have them washed for bed tonight.

Blessed Eggs

As the “alarm clock” (My mother calling from a time zone to the east) went off this morning, the day began. With everyone needing to be out of the house by 10:00 (or so I thought), the coffee got going and the breakfast options were decided.

I had boring toast. Even though it was some special new flavor from the discount bakery, it worked well with peanut butter, so I was content. My wife pulled out the eggs to get her diet its necessary protein fix. I wrongly assumed the eggs were for her, when she had already decided they were for my son. As my son (the one heading to a day of food prep at Chick Fil A) watches my wife make his eggs for his breakfast this morning, I scold him for letting her do it.

He casually replies, "I am making the toast."
Unfazed, I reply, "I could make toast in a body cast."

My son and I laugh. My wife glares. My daughters look annoyed as they turn up the volume and continue watching the DVRed “Once Upon A Time.” As my sons scrambled eggs are plated with toast on the side, my wife finishes the carton with the eggs that will serve as her breakfast. Before putting the egg carton in the trash, she glances on the inside lid. She is rewarded with a bit of inspiration.

Psalms 118:24 This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.

Prior to realizing this message was inside the carton, I was just glad to get eggs at $0.79 a dozen from Aldi’s . (Below cost, but it certainly sucks me in the door.) Now that I know this message is there, I think I will smile a little bigger knowing somebody, somewhere cares enough about my eggs and my day to sneak in a bit of encouragement. If an egg carton can encourage, what can I do to encourage the people I interact with today?

The Scale Really Is Broken

My wife has been saying it for a number of weeks as she went on a very successful diet. I kept refusing to admit her critique of our scale had any merit. I tried to blame it on high humidity, low temperature or the scale just having a bad day. However, the facts can no longer be ignored, the scale is really broken.

After dreading the visit to the doctor where my physical would take place, I arrived and was quickly admitted to my own private room. Before making me aware of my accommodations, I did hop on the scale. Although my shoes were off, the weight did come in more than I expected – approximately the 6 pounds my wife had been telling me our home scale was off. While enjoying my excellent room and bed, I was prodded, pressured (as in blood), pulsed, and poked (in one of my most unfavorite ways). Considering my age, the quick evaluation made me look like a healthy old man. (This physical was far better than the Valentine’s Day physical of 2008. One particular “poking” seemed especially wrong on that day.) I did have an one odd finding…one ear was hoarding the ear wax and the other one was clean…???

Since there was nothing else serious to talk about, the doctor did have to mention the news provided by “their” broken scale. While my weight is less than 10% more than what it was when I graduated from High School, I still was sensitive about his comments. So, despite my near daily walking, almost daily vitamins, and attempts to get 7-8 hours of sleep every night, I can do better. (The fruits of Halloween do deserve some blame for the excessive weight spiking. Just because something whispers my name and won’t stop until I eat it is no excuse. I am an adult and should be immune to such childish contrivances.)

Going forward, a couple of possibilities exist:

I can crank the scale back so it “zeroes” below zero but still gives me the weight I want to see.
I can heed the advise of the doctor’s lying scale. I can add 6 lbs to my scales delivered weight until I am within the doctor’s recommendations.
I can move to a planet with a lesser gravity and greater accuracy in its weight providing equipment
I can cut off appendages until the necessary weight is achieved.

So, as tempting as these options are, I really am just going to have to make some goals. Whether it is “no noodle” November or “no sandwich” Sundays, I will have to have a plan and stick to it. Assuming all of the test come back within range and I don’t have to see the doctor again soon, I have a year to lose my weight or…move to Venus.

Chinese Banana Bread

If anyone who reads Chinese wants to make my banana bread, this should get you there! While our Chinese exchange student helped me make the bread, she told me about the “3 Cleans” that used to be expected of a Chinese woman when making dough….clean hands, clean bowl, and clean, shiny dough. She hasn’t achieved this herself, but she is convinced it is something to do with the water temperature….???

She was very meticulous in her notes. When she forgot how to write an uncommon Chinese character, she resorted to English. (She had one moment where it took her a couple of minutes to remember how to write the proper character. Eventually the Chinese Brain search engine kicked in, and she had it.)Also, as part of the recipe, the bananas need to be smashed into a paste. She said the Chinese word she chose for this would be the same word used if you were “making something bloody”. She also gave me a tutorial in how a character is used when writing proper Chinese so the right “adverb” is associated with the right “verb”. (I put them in quotes because I am not sure those words would accurately describe them from a Chinese perspective.) Apparently, the older Chinese think this character is still essential; our exchange student did not seem to share this opinion.

Her goal before she leaves our house next June is to make a batch of banana bread all by herself. When she gets home, she wants to make it for her family. She has mentioned the possible difficulty in finding sour cream, vanilla extract, and possibly cinnamon in China. She is a resourceful girl – I am certain she will find some way to get there. (Our Korean exchange student sent the recipe to her mother in Korea. Her mother made it in Korea without sour cream or cinnamon, and they still claimed it tasted good. I am not as convinced…)

With exchange students, you need to fully engage them in your lives! You never know what activity you are going to participate in when some interesting rabbit trail will result. Some days it is harder than others (my wife is on a business trip for 3 days), but the potential for mental cross pollinating certainly puts the “hardness” into perspective!

Deseeding The Jalapenos

We typically make our carnitas once a month or so. And, although the eating of the carnitas (tacos, fajitas, tex-mexey stuff) is quite popular, the prepping of them is not. While the use of the food processor helps greatly in mincing the jalapeno into many mini bite-sized pieces rather than many larger ones, it is the deseeding and the mere handling of these scovillian packages of mouth-granting pain (and eye and skin and nose and anywhere else where there is skin sensitivity) that causes near mutinous rebellion. (They also complain about onion prepping as well. Fortunately, they are still willing to cut zucchini, broccoli and egg plant.)

The techniques for cleaning the jalapenos have varied, but not by much. My personal technique and the technique I was prepared to use prior to the ambitious volunteer arising from the household of homework-focused young ladies was simply, “cutting off the ends; cutting them in half longwise; and using a spoon to scrape out the seeds”. Most of the techniques previously tested in our house were this technique or variants of it.

Our Chinese student (AKA The Volunteer) was not a newbie to the test of the jalapeno. (As the Chinese have some sort of torture which likely involves bamboo and being tickled by a panda, a person from Mexico may have a torture involving jalapeno [or hotter] peppers and being licked by a lizard.) She had not left her first contact with jalapenos unscarred. She was having to use some acupuncture and hypnosis strategies prior to again approaching the jalapeno task. Despite her initial reluctance, she committed herself to cleaning all of the 15-20 jalapenos she encountered on this visit. Her technique was largely the one I used with the exception of the plastic sandwich bag worn over her hand. As she worked her way through her pile of peppers, (Did Peter Piper pick a pile of pepper or was it a peck?) the pepper juices were seeping into her protective bag. To limit the seeping, she installed a paper towel to try to minimize the jalapeno/skin contact.

As the carnitas cooked all night and we awoke to our Friday morning routine, I did not hear any complaints from our “volunteer” For that, I was grateful. She didn’t complain about the odd skin tingling that follows soaking hands in jalapeno juices. She didn’t mention her eyes hurting from the introduction of juice into them. (Although the juice could get into the eyes by holding a pepper over your eye and squeezing, touching the eyes with tingling jalapeno hands [Odd “jalapeno hands” uses alliteration when it is two totally different letters of the alphabet.] is the most likely source of the pain.)

I love the interaction with our teenagers. Whether they are my bio-daughters or my exchange-daughters, they keep me guessing on how to relate to them. They can be moody; they can be curious, and they can sit back and stare in complete wonder why an adult is not acting how they believe an adult should act. I am good with all of that! It is my hope (and prayer) each one of them can keep their sense of wonder and ability to be slightly inappropriate a couple hours a week!

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy