Live to Eat

Wait--that's wrong? Whatever, don't judge me. I like to eat. I understand the consequences of that. But this week really has been a week of good food.

On Monday, there was a chocolate stout cake, which was moist like a brownie. I used Valrhona cocoa, thinking that I should try out a finer cocoa once, even if it is expensive. I have to be honest--I'm not even sure that it's related to the Hershey stuff. They could be cousins. By marriage. Second marriage. It's like cocoa's stepgrandkid. Hershey has been welcomed into the family, but everyone knows there's no resemblance.

In any case, I made this cake, and then I made a ganache with bittersweet chocolate and instant espresso, and covered the whole with your mom's best "butter cream" that's really just royal icing with some butter.  This cake defined the word "decadence" and the office loved it. It also happened to be the kind of dessert that makes you wish you had eaten rice cakes or puffed air for dinner.

Then, on Wednesday, after a Zumba session that could have been another three hours long, I made macaroni and cheese. And not the kind that comes from a box, even though it is a fact universally acknowledged that Kraft is the only true macaroni and cheese, with its clumpy powdered sauce and gummy noodles that needs a minute to cool and congeal before it reaches its peak. True macaroni and cheese is a heaping helping of nostalgia in a box. This other thing I made, though--that's a heaping helping of delicious in a gratin dish and six single-serving ramekins. It was cheesy with cheddar. It was nutty and sharp with Swiss and the whole-grain goodness of toasted Ezekiel's sprouted grain bread (which I thought was much tastier than the suggested white bread, and an almost imperceptible not to health). Accompaniment? Some salad greens haphazardly tossed on a plate and dashed with ranch.

Thursday was Jeremiah's birthday, and dinner at Pepe's Turnagain House. Toasted brie and almond with apples and grapes. Delicious Caesar salad. Seafood paella. Bread pudding.

Friday was the day of the macaroni sandwich. I thought, "we should have something simple, like sandwiches." Leftover 'roni was supposed to be the side to the roast beef sandwich. At least, until Jeremiah took his and put it between the roast beef and sliced cheese on his sandwich. Jealousy is now spelled K-A-T-I-E.

And yesterday--yesterday. Yesterday the house smelled of hickory smoke and smoked paprika; pork fat and melting brown sugar; allspice and the stench of loss to Michigan. You'd think the last would turn me off the food, but you'd only think that if you'd never met me. Anyway, the whole house smelled like a barbecue potato chip. I iced the apple cake that I made on Friday, a gooey mess of pink lady apples, butter, ginger, and brown sugar, in a true Swiss butter cream made with brown instead of white sugar so that it makes you think of the best syrup you ever had. I turned farmer's marked carrots and beets into a sweet dill slaw with corn, and riffed on the traditional baked beans by toasting some cumin and garlic powder with farmer's market scallions and some of the pork bits, and tossing garbanzo and black beans in to finish. The pork was shredded and served on Hawai'ian rolls with farmer's market white cheddar, horseradish cheddar, or smoked Oregon blue cheese, accompanied by bread and butter pickles. Delish.

Unfortunately, even small amounts of the foods prepared this week are enough to kill the daily points. I don't do small amounts, so I was screwed. In the past four months I have been putting on and taking off the same 7 lbs, and I'm on the upswing. Looking at the meals I've made this week makes it kind of a "duh" moment. I have never been the kind of person who could have a small amount of a good food. It's the difference between being a recreational eater and a food addict.

I will never be able to just enjoy any food, because I will always have to be on guard that a bit remains a bite. That the slick slide of a bite of ice cream doesn't become a pint before I'm conscious of what I'm doing. One trip to Wendy's doesn't become a fast food lunch every day this week, and one coffee doesn't become three mochas. I enjoy good food. I crave large amounts of food, and it doesn't even matter whether I like it. I have found myself eating a meal while my brain is telling me it's flavorless, or poorly made, or not woth the points, and I still can't put the fork down. It's not laziness. It's not stupidity. It's knowing that you have to eat--you can't just not eat, like you can cold turkey stop smoking--but that every bite has the potential to drag you into another thousand calorie meal , or thinking about the next meal while this one is still cooking. It's knowing that everyone around you is watching what you eat (or thinking that they do) and that whatever judgement they're passing, it's not as harsh as how your judging yourself, and still not being able to stop. It's having to be so tightly controlled about what goes into your mouth that, if you were of normal weight, you'd be considered anorexic, but still feeling like a complete failure every. Time. Something extra makes its way into your face, or every time you oversleep the workout or every time you order dessert in public.

Hmmm. That wasn't supposed to be the focus of the entry today, and it certainly brought down the mood. But I think it makes a little more understandable that there will be more sorbets made with stevia, and more mostly-veg and butter spray meals in the coming weeks. Because I just can't do it. I can't have full fat, full flavor in the house. I just don't have the willpower to eat it responsibly.

It's Raining, It's Pouring

You know, I remember that once, there was a period of time between snow and snow when the Earth warmed up, the clouds departed for a bit, and the ground dried up a bit. It began with an S...

I saw summer briefly in July, when we went to Walla Walla for my brother's wedding. It was too hot, but otherwise glorious, and then we returned to discover that Anchorage had gone 32 days with precipitation every day. You read right: a solid month of rain at least once a day. Since then we've had some spotty sun, but it's mostly been dismal, and it's just pouring buckets outside at the moment. Buck. Ets. Big drops, too. It's raining so hard the DishNetwork has lost its signal.

I kind of wish I had something to bake, actually--it always takes my mind off the weather. Right now, though, I'm hanging out at the folks' house, revelling in the 23-13 victory that ND just had over Purdue. It's definitely a good start.

So, let's see--where to begin? We last spoke in June, and there is sadly little to share since then. Life as usual, really. Work. Sleep. Hang out. Work. Sleep. Hang out. Toss cat in the dryer. Steam. Work. Sleep. Hang out.

Oh. You caught that, huh? Well, I was hoping you wouldn't but since you have, it was totally Jeremiah's fault in a way that makes it more my fault than his but easier to blame on him. You see, it all started with the dryer door.

The door on the dryer does not generally stay open, specifically because cats have a genetic attraction to all spaces warm and dark. They're like bats or bad politicians. The last thing we want to happen is for the cat to discover the lovely cave in the laundry room, so we're pretty good about closing the door. We also tend to close the door to the laundry room, because no one wants to look at the water heater or the old Rubbermaid pitcher catching the slow leak from the outlet pipe.

All that changed on Monday. On Monday, Jeremiah was in a hurry and pulled his shirt out of the dryer, forgetting to close the dryer. I was also in a hurry, though rather later in the morning, and didn't have time to iron, so I thought I'd steam my sweater. I left the cat on the bed, and went to wet a washcloth, tossing the cloth and my sweater into the dryer. I didn't even notice that the door was open.

Thump. Whir whir whir. Thump. I thought it must be shoes, though I couldn't remember either of us having a pair of shoes that wasn't leather or some imitation thereof. After about the fifth thump, though, something just wasn't right, so I stopped the cycle and opened up the door. One of the towels started moving, and I heard the most pitiful little yowl coming out of the cave. My heart stopped--my poor kitten! She stumbled out of the dryer onto the offending door, wobbly and whimpering. I just stood there for a second, tearing up and feeling awful and petting her to see if she was OK. I was late to work because we snuggled for a bit, just so I could watch and see if she was okay.

Thankfully, she was fine, and the rest of the week went much better than it started out. But suffice it to say that this blog entry is a) really just a chance to out myself before certain other people do it for me, and b) certainly enough to restart the blogging. I'll hit you up again on Monday, hopefully with more news and less trauma.