Who ya gonna call?

Home from work. Find myself phoneless. Panic kicks in, narrowing the sidewalk for reason.

Not in the car, under the seat, down in the crevice.

Not in the trunk, but glad my "new" car has a light in the trunk.

Not in my purse.  Dump everything out.  Try again. Still not in my purse, or the car, or the trunk.

Would anyone still be at work? Would they check email before leaving?

That's the trouble with living alone with just a cellphone.  No way to call myself!

Where did I go today? Rode in Janie's car. She lives way out in the country, and I won't see her for five days. Went to Fadi's for lunch, and sat in that goofy booth. Too tall cushion, too close to the pillar. Easy place for a phone to fall out, but be sure to get the cauliflower*.

Loaded stuff into the trunk--a big bag of pinecones.  Phone on the street where I parked?

Not hyperventilating, but getting close.  Go check the mail kiosk and near the recycling cart. It is NOT yet time for dumpster diving!

Did I flush it? Is it on vibrate? Is it out of juice? We're talking a disaster of Biblical proportions.

The last paranormal removal specialists at work received the email, and called my number. They wandered the library listening, listening.

How do I spell relief? G-H-O-S-T-B-U-S-T-E-R-S! Deep down behind a cushion in the back office a little blue phone was playing that song. The phone was found, and even brought to my condo.





I just wanna thank Egon, Ray, Venkman, and Zeddemore, plus Sharon and Pam. And since I can't figure out how to change it, my ringtone will probably remain the Ghostbusters theme song forever. And yes, I still miss those old card catalogs. Also the funny little Ghostbusters who lived in my house.

*Cauliflower--Stewed in its own juices with lemon juice and spices, then fried with zero trans fat oil. 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Popeye feeds a family of five

There's nothing like a block of frozen spinach to make you feel bad about your family dinner.

     Dr. Oz in the Time Magazine 12/3/2012 issue

My mom, Fritzi, never heard of pesto.  The only way we ever ate spinach was dumped out of the can, heated, and seasoned with vinegar or lemon juice.  I had learned to like this at Camp Kiwanis where Camp Fire Girl food whiners were never tolerated. A week at camp and I was dang happy just to get some stewed whole tomatoes.

Seems like lately we are trying to feed ourselves and our families farmers market foodie-style at considerable time and expense. Yes, it is fresh, nutritious, and aesthetically pleasing.  But wait. Are we wearing ourselves out and busting our budgets?

My sons will surely tell the judge that I served them horrible meals and they were lucky to survive.  I would tell the same judge the same sad story about my mom's cooking.  We lived and thrived, though, without fresh kale, pomegranate juice, or that tiny $4.99 bag of pine nuts.

A friend was feeling  guilty because she fed her 87-year-old father canned soup and toast for supper when she had a killer sinus infection.  Soup and toast reminds me of a desperation meal my mom used to make.  She heated a can of salmon in a double boiler with a can of cream of mushroom soup, and Tabasco Sauce to season.  She diluted it with milk to stretch servings, then ladled over saltines.  Fritzi would open a can of pear halves or splurge with a can of Royal Anne cherries, and we would fill up on carrot sticks and conversation.  Mind-blowing.  Three cans = supper for a family of five.

Canned and frozen foods are much lower in salt than when I was whining at camp in the Sixties.  At least Dr. Oz said so in the Time story.  And yes, I made pesto with some frozen spinach, garlic, faux parmesan cheese, walnut pieces, and "sadder but wiser" olive oil.  Gonna have the leftovers tonight without guilt.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Wasted Miata and the Olympic tomato bobsled team

Close your eyes. Take a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly like a roll of toilet paper smoothly  and gently unrolling out to infinity.

You are feeling relaxed and refreshed, and ready for your preschool Spanish lesson.

--"Ms. Nancy, I wasted the toilet paper."

Thank you, my child for being honest. Just don't use so much next time or you will clog the potty.

In the background I hear the beginning wail of a kiddie stuck on the toilet seat with no t.p. This is not the best moment for a vocabulary correction. That moment would be after the poop Sherpa replaces the t.p. and guides the stranded mountain-climber off the porcelain peak.   

"Wasted" is not quite the same as "used the last of the roll".

--"Wasted" has a big load of guilt attached. You/I have wasted talents, time, effort, resources and abilities. You/I are not "wasted" in the sense of intoxicated.  Well, maybe you.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Just don't kick the gravel on the playground...

--Getting out to the playground is like moving a caravan of cats.  The children must locate their partners and hold hands.  Then they must walk in a line out of the classroom, down the hall, and into the school lobby.  The first pair of students, unless they have gotten a whole lotta nose goobies on their fingers during this trek, get to hold the door open.  The children thank them for holding the door open.  They respond with, "You're welcome," unless someone decides to go rogue espanol.  

--Thank you is "gracias".  You're welcome is "de nada".  The preschoolers are vague on which is which and the pronunciation of both.  That leads to long lines of polite kiddies saying:

Granada

Miata

Granada

Miata

Granada

Miata

In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
Lived twelve little girls in two straight lines
In two straight lines they broke their bread
And brushed their teeth and went to bed.
They left the house at half past nine
In two straight lines in rain or shine-
The smallest one was Madeline.

--Which leads to the mystery of the tomato bobsled team. These perfectly spaced and sized cherry tomatoes were somehow grown in one long vine that folded over to make a double layer. 

It's like the dwarfs are in the glass coffin instead of Snow White. She's on the outside singing "Someday my Miata will come".

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

All Gaul is divided by corn pokies

In the summer Julius Caesar used to fire up his Weber gas grill and remark to his third wife, Calpurnia, who was above suspicion and had a secret marinade recipe, "All Gaul is divided by corn pokies."

Gaul, it seemed, was divided into folks who had the good sense and manners to eat corn-on-the-cob using corn pokies, and into the rest of the folks sans corn pokies known as "barbarians". Although the ancient Greeks may have first had an idiom πας μη Ελλην βαρβαρος meaning "whoever is not Greek is a Barbarian", by Caesar's time the idiom had evolved.

At a recent family gathering my sister was astounded that my part of the clan still used corn pokies. I was equally astounded that her part of the clan did not. Ew. Greasy fingers! Each group felt the other was undignified. We agreed to let each person follow their preferred practice. Fortunately, my sister still had some corn pokies way back in a kitchen drawer. Maybe she will come around to the Right Way yet.

So our family dinner did not turn into a Gore Vidal/William F. Buckley debate. We did ponder just what the real names are for those little ear attachments. We reminisced about the fun of twirling corn-on-the-cob in those little plastic husks for perfect butter coating.

Various pokie names found online:

• corn cob nobs
• cob knobs
• corn skewers
• corn handles
• corn pokers
• corn picks
• Hold Rs

and

• fingers

Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.  Julius Caesar, De Bello Gallico, bk. 1, sect. 1
Caesar's second wife, Pompeia, was the one he divorced.  Caesar's wife must be above suspicion.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Weird world of insects

Oh, no, not another bug post. Yes another bug post, and with no pronunciation. But first a bit of culture. I always love seeing the Bruce Wood Dance Project perform. His choreography is so fresh and different from anything else.  And inspirational.*

My volunteer watermelon is hanging from a tomato cage, but now it has support hose.

The same watermelon plant was the scene of nature in action, straight out of Marlin Perkins and Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.  This teeny predator stunned a fly and dragged it across the leaf and  to the underside to get away from the camera lady. 

This gorgeous visitor to the school zucchini plant has fuzzy pantaloons AND iridescent wings. He even wears a black cape sometimes. Naturally, he is a bad boy, but wouldn't that be a fabulous dance costume?

Squash vine borer

And two moths had me searching for the "belief in things unseen" quote.

Catocala moths at Oak Point Nature Preserve

Hebrews 11:1 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

*Martha Graham, not Bruce Wood.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The United States of Tomatoes

At last, something we might all be able to agree on! Pulled these treasures out of a sack from a gardening friend and had a moment of unity and harmony, gratitude and optimism.

Maybe we could all just agree to agree about one thing.  In our divisive, polarized, obstructionist, toxic political climate could we all just get together behind homegrown tomatoes? I know you know deep in your core that there is nothing finer than a homegrown tomato.

An opportunity to savor the freshness and tangy juiciness, not to mention the glorious color, is just too good to waste with bombastic rhetoric, mud-slinging, or filibusters.  Nobody would hurl that gorgeous fruit at an opponent across the aisle if they could eat those lovely slices instead. Let's pass the globes gently with open hands.


We don't need to agree if the tomato is a vegetable or a fruit*.  The debate would keep us from the moment of bliss. We don't need to agree about bacon for a BLT.  How we each enjoy the homegrown tomato in the privacy of our own home is okay.  I'm just hoping for one simple point of agreement across the extremes. From that one tiny intersection, maybe a new spirit of compromise and constructive collaboration might spark.  


Maybe we could blur the lines a bit between the divisions in our country so that we could move on to cooperative efforts like pasta sauce and tomato/basil bisque. We could be less shrill and more savory.  And when we sit down together for a meal we might be able to agree to be grateful and polite, and then enjoy.


*So, the answer to the question is that a tomato is technically the fruit of the tomato plant, but it's used as a vegetable in cooking.


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

When bass use the crosswalk and the candidate washes his shirt

Why didn't Mitt just put his shirt on the car roof with the dog and drive through the carwash? Why didn't he do the sniff test and just squirt Febreez on the least worst shirt like any teenage guy?  The man makes me miss McCain, for heaven's sake!


I admit to once washing out my kids' Ghostbusters underpants and drying them overnight atop the a/c in a Wichita motel.  The vacation ran long because of car repairs and a broken arm.  BUT GEEZ! THIS MAN IS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT and he can't look long range enough to send some local volunteer to the mall! He wants to play chess on the big board???  

So my sympathies go out to all the comparatively normal Illinois bloggers.  There were more fisherman than presidential candidates out at Oak Point Nature Preserve after our 4+ inches of rain in twenty-four hours.  


This father and son were fishing on the dam while water drained across the walk into a runoff stream.  It looked like a golden memory moment.  Suddenly there was a whoop and holler.  I was afraid the dad had lost the lad in the overflow rush.  Nope, the dad was whooping because a "fourteen inch bass just swam across the sidewalk."  Taking traditional fisherman measurement exaggerations into account, that was still a good surprise and a golden moment.

And yes, that is kale.  Scanned it because the camera was behaving badly.  Even if your old dog is on the car roof, it can still learn new tricks.  Never had kale before in my whole live-long life, but the minestrone recipe called for kale.  And it was good.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Ghostwriters in the sky

Having achieved a measure of success with my No More Beets campaign, I'm wondering if a similar approach might work to reach the condo recycling offenders.  I seriously don't want to have to walk door-to-door around the complex delivering my spiel about recycling as I did in 2005 when we started the program.  


There's nothing in the condominium covenants that requires residents to be whacko.  I've read it over with a magnifying glass.  Still, many are, and the possibility has been suggested that the complex was built on an ancient burial ground offending the spirits of the deceased.  Many residents don't seem to distinguish between true garbage, recyclables, and Salvation Army donations.  


I would not could not on a train or on a boat or in the rain dumpster dive. I do so do so feel a responsibility to the City of Plano to have our eleven carts filled with actual uncontaminated recyclable materials every Thursday morning.  Lately, my whacko neighbors have been putting way too many furnace filters, welcome mats, rotting carpet, chicken bones, Atkins diet chocolate shake boxes, denim jeans, and ugly lighting fixtures in the recycling carts.  Plus several bushels of family photos with scary Sixties hairdos in Kresge's frames.  


The Kresge's store at Gateway Mall predated the dollar stores of today, and smelled better.  It had a popcorn machine, a photo booth, flat-fold fabrics, parakeets, Halloween costumes and Valentine cards, toys in the right price range for most birthday parties, and document frames for your diplomas and ninth grade photos.


Still obsessing about my mismatched ankles, I am peering at photos for heredity hints.  On the left is my Aunt Shirley, the only woman I knew with painted toenails in my childhood.  Next to her, is my mom, looking an awful lot like me forty-five years later, but with symmetrical ankles. Yikes, myself in the fall of '69.  Then a bizarre, slightly tipsy-looking photo of that Christmas Day just minutes before I El-Kabonged my little brother over the head with the plastic guitar. My mom has bubble hair, but still nice ankles.  My grandmother had terrific ankles into her late eighties, although they were hidden under mauve doubleknit polyester pantsuits.


The chef at Dad's place is my new best friend.  He is working with the dietitian and the hospice nurse to provide Dad meals that are easy to swallow and easy to self-feed.  Some meals Dad is anxious to feed himself.  Other meals definitely not.  Dad's faculties have become crosswired.  He tries to feed himself with both hands at the same time.


Yippy I ay.  Yippy I Oh.  Don't even think about putting that stuff in the recycling cart!




© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Fiddling around for two evenings

There's a wonderful sound of thunder this morning!

Seeing beets on Dad's supper tray again set me off on a rather pointless Photoshopping binge.  If it's not sliced beets, it's boiled red cabbage.  I wanted to send a message to the chef and dietician, but couldn't afford to hire a skywriter.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Aerial Zucchini Circus

Of course he won't mind
When he finds that he has
A big circus behind.*

Ms. Sneelock reporting in on my big circus behind.

Okay, not that big of a behind, and a pig is not really a circus performer. The circus out back is more of a high wire act with leaping lizards and dueling hummingbirds. It's a Barnum and Bailey backyard.

Thank heaven for the three ring diversion.  This circus puts on a show every evening when I get home after work and spoon-feeding my father's supper.  Dad's decline is slow, variable,  insistent.

Life in the patio circus is speeding-bullet fast.  I transition from letting go at a snail's pace to grabbing on like lightning.

A single zucchini seed sprouted in an old Rubbermaid tub filled with good dirt.  With amazing speed the vine climbed the tomato cage nearby and began its aerial feats.

Moving past the tomato cage, it climbed a pepper plant, but kept reaching further.  I plunked a garden stake in a pot of basil.  The zucchini tendrils grabbed on.  Another stake in the marigold pot, and more tendrils grabbed for the glory.  Nearly every day, I move a pot into position, add a stake or two, and before I can say, "Ringling Brothers," the tendrils have twined around the stakes.  One of these evenings I'll surely spot a trapeze act between the stakes and vines.

In the meantime, there's a cute little insect who thinks he's a mountain goat yodeling around the zucchini blossoms. AND, the lizards are leaping! There may even be a baby zucchini in the future.

 

*If I Ran the Circus, by Dr. Seuss.








© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Tomatoes busting out all over

Not my kitchen, of course.  This photo is a painting in one of the diplomatic reception rooms at the U.S. State Department taken without a flash.  It is reminding me to eat more fruit.

"Fruit" is such a confusing term.  At least once a year I look up the distinction between fruits and vegetables, but I never get it clear. Thankfully, tomatoes are in the overlapping area between "biological fruits" and "culinary vegetables".

In the good old Sixties, we had the Basic Four Food Groups--dairy, meat, bread, and fruits and vegetables.  We didn't have to sort fruits from vegetables, we just had to eat them.  The Food Pyramid made things too complex in both the horizontal and vertical versions.  Michelle Obama is the only person in Washington who has uncomplicated my life in a long time, and I applaud the new My Plate.  Now if we could just reunite the fruits and veggies, I'd be thrilled.

My fruit and veggie parings go into my worm bin.  The red wigglers do the ultimate combining.  One of the best parts of vermicomposting is the mystery garden that sprouts in the rich worm dirt.  Our school garden gets volunteer cantaloupe each year.  Those will take over the garden and a good section of the playground if we allow it.  At home I've got tomatoes growing everywhere.  This morning I dug up four from the front flowers that were big enough to attract attention. Now they each have a big pot on the patio.  Hope they produce my favorite fruit soon.

As soon as I got inside, Stubby II appeared on the fence to make sure I hadn't goofed up his realm.  The original Stubby ruled my patio in 2009, a fearless, tailless anole if ever there was one. I don't think the anole with the partially regrown tail I spotted Sunday is really the same lizard, although some sources say anoles can live up to four years in the wild.

2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Songs of the shrinking blind lady

Help me get up in the air

right away

right away

Dad endured the long visit from the hospice chaplain today.  The minister did not try to play hymns or jazz for Dad.  That was good.  Good, too, that the visit kept Dad up in his wheelchair all afternoon.  When he naps he is crabby... more crabby.

I want something substantial

right now

Help me

I can't get up

Wednesday I was worn out from extreme hot glueing and staff dramas at school.  I had no chitchat in me.  Dad's crabbiness was the last straw in the day.  I was worried, also, to hear from Dad's nurse that his retirement wristwatch had gone missing.

Please get me something to eat

right away

Come and help me

Those of you with wings

Like coffee, a wristwatch is a lifelong habit.  We feel out of kilter without either one.  When I went for a month without a watch, I continued to push up my sleeve and peer at my wrist several times per hour.  Dad's obsession with clocks and time over the past couple years increased as his dementia grew and his ability to make sense of numbers faded. 

I want some bell pepper salad

right now

right away

The nursing home literature suggests the decision-maker family member take away valuables like rings and watches when the resident is admitted.  Dad's watch and wedding ring are most valuable by giving him a sense of normalcy, so I left them with him. 

Bell pepper

right away 

With wrists so skinny, the watch probably slid off when Dad's shirt was changed.  It could be in his bedding, or in the laundry.  Sometimes Dad was angry it was gone.  Other times he forgot it was missing.  We skirted the possibility of theft.  "A watch like that is never lost," Dad proclaimed.  "It is always mislaid."  Hmmm?

all cut into little squares

The hospice bath aide knew what to do when I called her this morning.  She would go down to the laundry and talk to them.  She had assumed I took the watch to my house.  By noon the watch was back on the wrist under the sleeve of Dad's heavy sweater in the eighty-two degree room.

not mushed

I don't have wings and I can't get up

Dad was not crabby this afternoon.  He endured my prattle about peculiar preschoolers as he had endured the chaplain.  Once upon a time he might have called himself "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," a phrase that originated in 1585 or 1933 depending on your source.  He was alert and not annoyed when I wrote my grocery list.

right now

Help me get up in the air

Melva, the blind lady, arrived at the skilled care facility about the same time as my father.  They were also admitted to hospice care the same week.  Since New Year's I've watched her shrink and withdraw.  She pulls her head down into collar and folds her arms across her torso.  It is sad to find her sitting in her wheelchair in the hall in her nice blue cardigan waiting for her attentive son, pleading or praying incessantly like Salinger's Franny.  She may not know her son on any given day, just as Dad my not know me.

I don't eat mush

right away

The blind lady has two voices.  Most of the time she pleads and demands in a loud, raspy monotone.  On days when the hospice chaplain visits, she sings her own hymn.  As I cannot find the lyrics anywhere, I suspect it is Melva's creation from her deep longing.

I won't eat mush

right away

We try to put our affairs in order, neatly in good kilter, but then we sit out in the hall pleading for square-cut peppers and wings with nothing but time to kill.   Dad doesn't wear a kilt.  He does not wear wings.  Most of the time he wears a hospital gown.  He gets out of that when he is going to leave his room in the wheelchair.

Noun

1.

kilter - in working order; "out of kilter"; "in good kilter" kelter orderliness, order - a condition of regular or proper arrangement; "he put his desk in order"; "the machine is now in working order" This link is to my neglected Mama Collages blog showing textile works as they progressed, including the sphinx moths/honeysuckle piece in Wednesday's post.  I wish I had more time for visual art. On the other hand, being employed is a good thing!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Sippy cup

Give the man coffee!!!

The hospice nurse and I were discussing ways to get more nutrition into Dad.  We hope his doctor will approve a change to thin liquids.  For many months now he's been receiving "nectar-thickened" liquids to reduce chances of aspiration and choking.  Drinking "nectar-thickened" liquids is a lot like treading water in gravy.

Apricot nectar is one of my favorite juices, and V8 is almost the right thickness.  Peach nectar is not bad, but pear nectar is like drinking diluted boogers.  Years spent working "Special Diets" in the Bryan Hospital kitchen as a teenager gave me some insight into the kitchen underbelly of care facilities. Then there were years trying to strengthen my fingernails with Knox gelatin or to combat prescription side-effects with Metamucil mixed into orange juice.

Just FYI, when I am dying please give me mugs of tomato basil soup daily.  Feed me baked potatoes with sour cream and cheddar.  Let me slurp guacamole through a straw.  When they chop up my food, just give me Sloppy Joes.  I could go for some baked squash with brown sugar about now, but no broccoli.  Amen.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Do not follow produce into that good night

I offer a motto on this 2011 New Years Day: 

Never follow a pick-up truck loaded with large fruits and/or veggies. 

This guiding principle for life's journey came to me a dozen years ago on an I-35 entrance ramp in Austin, TX.  My eldest son, Speech-Debate, had just spent a few days at the University of Texas attending an honors colloquium for high school seniors.  The other two guys and I drove down to collect him.  Heading home we pulled onto the Interstate behind a pick-up filled with cantaloupes.  Melons started bouncing out of the truck bed and onto the highway, all around our Buick.  Boing-guh, boing-guh, boing-guh!

During this week's long road trip bringing Dad to Texas, we were stuck behind a white pick-up truck carrying watermelons.  Nine hours into a twelve-hour drive Dad discovered the Jeep Commander's passenger side sun visor. He could reach it and maneuver it to the side window and back. The low sun blazed into my eyes, and out, leaving trails like Sixties Kodak flashbulbs. The Arbuckles added intermittent deep purple shadows between flashes. The pick-up's cargo added the threat of imminent watermelon attack. One hill I got ahead of the pick-up. The next I was back behind the danger.  Post Traumatic Cantaloupe Syndrome made it very scary.  Repeat.  Repeat.

My sister and I preferred to compare our four-state drive to Thelma and Louise, but Rodney Dangerfield and Chevy Chase popped to mind. In 1986's Back to School, Rodney Dangerfield's character is inspired by Sally Kellerman's reading of a Dylan Thomas poem .  Nobody will mistake this for a cinema classic, but it was my introduction to the poem:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And against following the watermelon!
 © 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

And now for something completely different

Last night during a big cooking attack, I looked at the acorn squash on the counter and it looked back.  Quick, to the internet! 

There are lots of squash soup recipes, and they call for butternut squash.  Ignore that.  Some had nutmeg.  One curry.  Ooh.  That would be a bold move.

So, my soup turned out quick, easy, mildly curry, very pretty.  It didn't make an enormous amount, which is good since I'm running out of freezer space.

2 T butter
1 stalk celery--chopped
2 cloves garlic--smashed & chopped
1 medium carrot--chopped
1 medium potato--peeled & cubed
1 acorn squash--peeled, seeded, and cubed
16 oz. container of broth (I used chicken, but veggie might be even better.)
16 oz. water
1/2 t Mexican saffron
1/4 t curry powder
1 sprinkle nutmeg
1 shake salt
1 sprinkle cayenne

Start with butter and celery in a big pot.  Add the garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, while chopping.  Add the potato and carrot.  Normal people would add a small onion.

Use a serrated grapefruit spoon to get seeds out of squash!  So glad I brought those grapefruit spoons back from Dad's house.  Add in and cook another 5 minutes.

Add stock or broth and water.  Stir in seasonings.  Bring to a boil.  Cover and reduce heat to low.  Simmer half hour or so, until veggies are tender. 

Lift veggies out of pot into blender using a slotted spoon.  Add a bit of the liquid.  Blend on low speed until the consistency of applesauce.  Put back into pot and stir.

Never mind that it was in the seventies here.  This was a very wintery soup.


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

What in the hey-ho should I do with the jicama?

  My class gave me a gift card for Sprouts, a natural foods grocery between school and my home.  It's fun to have time to shop for foods instead of dashing into Albertsons to grab tortillas, Miller High Life, a rotisserie chicken, and a can of Rotel!

Spent lots of time at Sprouts lately buying the ingredients for my homemade trail mix (more on that later).  Every visit I vow to buy a new food.

Wild and crazy, I invested $1.90 in a big, lumpy jicama.  The jicama was on display right between the turnips and the rootabagas. 

Nibbling on jicama slices tonight while I put together a salad.  Jicama is sweeter and lighter than radishes.  Not as dense as carrots.  Chopped into white strips, it lets other vegetables show their colors.  Read some recipes online, then started combining ingredients.  Tomorrow morning I'll taste test after the flavors combine:

• jicama slices
• honey crisp apple chunks
• diced red bell pepper
• orange, peeled and sliced
• celery stalks sliced
• carrots slivered
• caraway seeds
• 2 T orange juice
• 1  T raspberry balsamic vinaigrette

...Also called the yam bean root, jicama ranges in weight from a few ounces to 6 pounds. Its crispy white flesh is hidden under a fibrous dust-brown skin, which must be completely stripped off. Like potatoes, jicamas can be steamed, baked, boiled, mashed or fried. Unlike potatoes, however, they can also be eaten raw. Sliced into wide sticks, jicama makes a crunchy carrier for guacamole and highly seasoned dips. Cut up into squares, it enhances fresh fruit salad, absorbing and reflecting surrounding flavors. It is equally versatile as a cooked vegetable -- sauteed with carrots or green beans, stir-fried with chicken or shrimp, or simmered in savory stews. Low in starch and calories, jicama is satisfying, flavorful and nowhere near as strange as it looks.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

I Heart Celery

Celery was forty-nine cents a bunch at Aldi.  Guess I never paid much attention before when I chopped off the end of a bunch.  The pretty star seems to have embroidery blanket stitching around the edges.  Now I'm wondering if every bunch looks the same, or if they are fingerprints and snowflakes.

I didn't put a stake through this heart.  We speared it on the stainless steel skewer to be a treat hanging in the cage for our classroom pet rabbit.  The rabbit pulled at each section with impeccable manners, like he knew how to eat artichokes with lemon butter.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Consonant blends and homemade hummus

There are wonderful landmarks in life that don't necessarily get put on your big sticker chart in the sky. Passing each one makes you closer to being a responsible citizen of the world, and more fun to be around. I am out there in the galactic bleachers cheering for you when:

• You can blow your own nose
• You consistently remember to flush
• You learn to swallow pills (even if you are over twenty by then)
• You master tying shoes and zipping zippers
• You can rip a piece of Scotch tape from the dispenser without getting six inches and three fingers all stuck together
• You can read consonant blends

This week I am all about the initial consonant blends. Or as my students would say, "BUH-lah-EH-NUHhunn-dah-siss". How many syllables you got there, or is that a crouton stuck in your throat?

If you are five years old the process of reading is much like making hummus. You open and strain the can of chickpeas, and duh-UH-mmmmm-pup them into the BUH-lah-EH-NUHhunn-dah-cough-RRR. You ssahah-MMM-tongue depressor-Sisshuh a Cah-love-huh of garlic. Then Skuh-kw-kw-kw-EEEZ-uh the juice from a lemon. Wade through 1 1/2 tablespoons of tahini and some olive oil. Push the button. At first the chickpeas don't move, and you wonder if you should have used garbanzos instead. Finally one bean is Tetris-ed out of position, and the mashing begins. Somewhere inside the child's brain, consonant sounds are being pureed and linked together, falling into place to build a foundation. The seeing, hearing, and speaking for a consonant blend is becoming an easy, quick, and nutritious food-thought to be relied upon for the rest of a lifetime.

Get some chips or pitas. Let's enjoy this meal together. And, yes, put a sticker on my cosmic chart for:

• Learn to like hummus (even if you are over fifty by then)
• And feta

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Dip di-dip di-dip

Driving home from work I got a sudden severe case of "Grease" lyrics flashback [Med diagnosis code GLF]. One of the preschool students was working the puzzle of Things That Go Together. You know--bird/nest, rake/leaves, paintbrush/easel, paper/scissors, rock/lyrics stuck in my head!

We go together like
rama lama lama
ke ding a de dinga a dong

NO! NO! This can't happen right now! I've got to think of some easy valentine to make for each of my preschool students ASAP. I don't have time to get stuck in a 1973 warp.

We're one of a kind
Like dip di-dip di-dip
Doo-bop a doo-bee doo

What would the little kids understand about belonging together? Flash! Their idea of an inseparable match is a dip di-dip of carrot sticks in Ranch Dressing. It's a horse and carriage! You can't have one without the other.
Now I just have to do the paper cutting. Inspiration is weird. You know why Van Gogh cut off his ear? He had sockhop lyrics stuck in his head.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

MLK Day stuffed green peppers

Monday I really needed to make stuffed peppers. I have no idea what triggered this craving beyond the bag of beautiful peppers I bought at Braum's. The only recipe in my box was a vegetarian one from my newlywed days, combining brown rice and sesame seeds to make a complete protein. It mentions Diet for a Small Planet on the reverse side. I hauled out Joy of Cooking for more info, and then hit the internet.

Shifting between several recipes makes me dizzy, but the results were very satisfying:

4 beautiful, very large green bell peppers with tops, seeds, and membranes all removed. Rinse the seeds out. Have a big kettle boiling with enough water to submerge the peppers. Add a dash of salt. Push the peppers down into the boiling water and cook on MedHigh 6-7 minutes. Drain.

Cook 3/4 cup brown rice in 1 3/4 cups water according to pkg. directions. [Basically, bring them to boil, boil one minute, reduce heat and simmer covered 45-50 minutes.]

Brown ground meat (about the size of one patty) in a large, heavy skillet.* Drain grease or add oil to make about 1 T. Chop 3 stalks celery and mince 3 cloves garlic. Add to skillet with ground meat and stir 4-5 minutes. Add 1/4 cup sesame seeds. [That was the size of a bag for $1.29 in the Latino spices section at Albertsons. It was money well spent for flavor and texture. You could probably substitute sunflower kernels.] Stir the seeds and brown another 3-4 minutes. Add 3 chopped Roma tomatoes and 1/4 t basil, 1/4 t oregano, and 1 t parsley. Keep stirring. Add 1 T soy sauce or Worcestershire sauce, plus a dash of red pepper flakes. Add water just to keep from burning, or some liquid from the can if you substitute canned tomatoes. Simmer until the rice is done.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Stir the rice into the skillet, mixing well. Grease a 9x9 baking dish. Stand the peppers in it. Fill each pepper with the skillet mixture, and compress well. Cover the top of each pepper with grated cheese of your choice. Make a foil tent over the top. Bake 25-30 minutes. Let cool 5-10 minutes before serving. One pepper is enough per person, so serves 4. Reheats well in the microwave, although you might want to add more cheese.

*Obviously I'm not a vegetarian, but this was plenty of meat to give flavor to the stuffing. The rice and sesame provide the protein for the meal. You could brown chopped onion instead of ground meat.

It was so delicious that I'm trying stuffed eggplant tonight.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder