The Cleaner Plate Club

We are in a long stretch right now. School over, camp not yet begun. Very little break from children.

Very. Little. Break.

(Overheard in my house this morning: “PLEASE. PLEASE just leave me alone when I’m in the bathroom. Please. I’m begging you. Just a few minutes. Please. I NEED PRIVACY JUST FIVE MINUTES OF PRIVACY RIGHT NOW!!!!!!”)

Actually, what I need is a drink. A stiff one. Which brings me to my new boyfriend, Mark Bittman. Continue reading ‘I need a drink’

It’s been a whirlwind week; we returned home from our (fabulous, thank you) trip to Maine only to get swept up in a dizzying array of last-week-of-school activities and adventures. School is officially finished in our household. Summer’s here.

This week, we also jumped into another ritual of summer; it was the first distribution at Caretaker Farm, our beloved CSA.

A brief moment to explain the CSA model, because I like to hear myself talk, I’m overly pedantic, I’m a crazy zealot, I just can’t help myself. With CSA (community supported agriculture) farms, community members like myself purchase annual “shares” of the farm. Then, throughout the growing season, we share in the farm’s bounty (and risks). This model reduces farmers’ financial risk, as they have both capital to invest and a guaranteed market. At the same time, members gain access to a stunning array of high quality, fresh, just-from-the-earth, seasonal produce.

What’s the best part of Caretaker for me? It’s hard to say. It might be visiting the farm each week, which always feels like such a welcome, grounding respite from day-to-day stress. It might be seeing the kids romp around in the stream that meanders through the farm property, or pick their own, smearing their faces with red juice. It might be the sense of community I find at the farm, the way I see fellow-members week after week, all of us toting our nerdy canvas bags, and saying things that would sound absurd to the rest of the world, like “ooh, did you SEE that arugula?” or “Wow! These carrots are better than candy!” It might be that while the rest of the nation frets about the latest food recall — like, say, salmonella-tainted tomatoes of mysterious origins — I can see exactly how and where my own produce is grown. It might just be that we eat waaaaaay more fruits and vegetables than we ever would otherwise.*

(I’ve heard other people say, “oh, I can’t do a CSA. I just don’t eat that many vegetables,” and I want to chase them, all Hare Krishna-like, shaking my tambourine in their face, saying, “but you WILL! If you join a CSA you WILL eat vegetables! Great ones! And isn’t that a good thing???” But it’s hard to trust a person with a tambourine, so I try to hold my tongue).

Continue reading ‘A love post of sorts (this time, for my CSA)’

Ten years ago, I slipped on a long white dress, and long white gloves, and the most expensive pair of shoes I have ever owned. Ten years ago, I drank “a little” champagne, just to take the edge off. It took three or four glasses to do so, and I got a little dizzy as I dressed.

Ten years ago from this moment, I was still single. For a few remaining hours.

Then came the ceremony, with golden sunlight breaking through church windows, and Blair standing there in his blue blazer and white linen pants. After that came the outdoor tent, the mismatched Goodwill-salvaged plates, the bluegrass band, the lazy Alaskan malamute that wandered over from the neighbor’s yard to hang out with us. Had it been a movie, that day would have been shown during the closing credits. The end. Happily ever after.

In real life, though, the wedding day is a blip, only the very beginning.

Blair and I are in Maine right now, celebrating the last ten years, years that have slipped by just like that, just as people said they would. We’re sitting on the front porch of a Victorian bed and breakfast. It’s chilly and raining. Blair is wearing a wool sweater. I’m not, and I wish I were.

Marriage is such a funny thing, really. The truth is that day-to-day marriage is less romance, more laundry, than I expected. It’s piles and piles of laundry. It’s logistics, like what do we need from the grocery store, and who will pick up the kids, and when do we fit in mowing the lawn, and uh oh, we’re running low on toilet paper, and the check engine light is on again, and whoops they’ve outgrown their sneakers, and who peed on the carpet?, and when was the last time we scrubbed this filthy sink?

You picture it one way. It’s always another. Ten years ago, I’m not sure I could have articulated what I expected at this point in our lives. I’m pretty sure I expected that we’d have more money than we do. I’m quite certain I expected that our children would be closer to perfect than they actually are. I definitely thought I’d have better clothes. Continue reading ‘Ten years and counting’

About a hundred years ago, I started blogging about food prices, and how we can save our hard-earned cash without resorting to creating gourmet meals from Dollar Store ingredients. Let’s return to that theme, the one of eating on the cheap, shall we?

I recently toured my freezer and pantry and realized that I could, if I had to, serve at least a week of family dinners without plunking down a penny, and without even resorting to cereal. Perhaps some of you remember that I made my own pesto last summer? Still plenty of it left, in plastic bags. I’ve also got bags and bags of frozen fruit and vegetables. Plus a few cartons of silken tofu — the fruit + tofu made awesome smoothies. Frozen veggies are plenty healthful — sometimes even more so than the fresh stuff. I’ve got frozen chicken breasts, frozen cranberry-pear crumble, boxes of chicken broth, bags of rice. I’ve got potatoes growing eyes, cans of tomato paste, and plenty of dried fruit. I’ve got stale bread for breadcrumbs. I’ve got sauces. I’ve got oil.

So what am I saving this stuff for? Why don’t I just go ahead and eat it? Continue reading ‘Un-gourmet work-it canned salmon’

First: if there exists a gum that can enhance breast size by up to 80%, can you still call it a gum? And would you take it if you could? (oh, but you can).

Second: if the winner of the Pillsbury Bake-Off contest earns a cool million for a recipe that’s almost entirely based on slice-and-bake refrigerated rolls, have we reached a new point in the history of culinology?

Culinology: I made that word up. Okay, turns out I didn’t. But I did make up culisophical.

Third: if a vegetarian pride parade ends with a giant pink replica of a human colon, complete with polyps and a sullied colostomy bag, does it actually make you want to eat vegetables, or does it instead make you want to swear off food altogether? Or, let’s say a certain Subway vigilante — someone who shot four youths in 1984 when he feared they might rob him — is in attendance at the parade, lamenting people’s “distant, shallow and bad” attitudes toward animals. Might, then, the whole event be better called “ironic?”

(aah, don’t get me wrong: I’m a big believer in more veggies-less meat, and I would have enjoyed being there in a giant broccoli costume. I’m just thinkin’ that perhaps Bernie Goetz — who shot four (admittedly scary) dudes and admitted he wanted to “murder them, to hurt them, to make them suffer as much as possible” — might not be the most effective ambassador for the kinder, gentler lifestyle that is veganism).

Just thinkin’ here, friends. Just thinkin’ on a Monday afternoon.

So, I’m still recovering from our vacation. But before moving back to the subject at hand, I thought I’d share some of the many things I saw in Disney.

I saw a boy with glasses and shorts and black knee-high socks walking behind his father, also wearing glasses and shorts and black knee-high socks.

I saw a large woman with tattoos all over her body, holding the hand of a skinny untattooed man that looked half her age.

I saw an inexplicable number of AC/DC tee-shirts.

I’m pretty sure I saw the guy who wrote this beautiful and hilarious piece about his five days at Disney (thanks, Nanette). Anyone curious about what the place is like, or who is considering going, should read this piece. His trip there overlapped with mine, and he nailed the place. (Seth! Hey! Weren’t you the single, hipster-ish guy who was riding the Nemo ride all alone, looking bored and out-of-place, like you must be doing something obligatory? I was the one behind you, the tired mom trying to calm the impatient toddler, who then shouted “HI NEMO! HI NEMO! NEMO WHA AAAHHH YOOOO?” all the way through the ride in the adjacent clamshell).

I saw many children throwing temper tantrums, particularly around 5pm when they were flat-out exhausted. (okay, those were my kids.)

I saw a 20-something frat boy type wearing this shirt:

I was confused by the message. Is it as cynical as it seems?

I saw the dizzyingly optimistic Small World ride:

But fortunately I did not see anyone sink the Small World boats from their girth, as apparently has happened in the California version of the park.

I did, however, see person upon person upon person riding in those motorized scooter-wheelchair things. Most of these folks weren’t elderly, they were just extremely overweight. And it got me wondering when these motorized things became so mainstream? And how can so many people afford them? And once a person starts to rely on them, do they ever really start walking again? I felt worried for most of them, frankly.

I saw a couple strolling through the park in bride-and-groom mouse ears, looking as if they genuinely believed that they had stepped straight in to a fairy tale that would last them the rest of their lives.

I saw magnificently painted faces:

I saw many college spring breakers with their arms around each other, some with their hands dug deep in each other’s back pockets. One couple looked like they were getting ready to leave the Magic Kingdom for their Motel 6, so that real fun could begin begin.

Most troubling to me personally: I saw some shameless and unsolicited plugs for our broken agricultural system, one of which I wrote about on the Ethicurean (nah, I didn’t do it here. I figured you guys just want me to get on with it and post some recipes, and didn’t need my blahbity blah about policy). Part two of the same piece should appear on the Ethicurean soon.

But truth be told, I saw many people who were just flat-out enjoying themselves. People of all ages acted like kids. Dads wore pirates caps. Moms — other moms, mind you — wore Minnie Mouse bows in their hair. Girls who seemed waaay too old for the princess things walked around in Jasmine costumes, belly buttons showing. People waited for the rides without incident. They snapped photos and ate cotton candy and waved to Mickey Mouse in the parade. They were, for the most part, unfailingly polite.

People just really love Disney, I guess.

There were some things I did not see that confused me:

As far as I could tell, I did not see any gay couples.

I did not see any political sentiments. No Obama shirts, no “W: The President” pins, no Peace sign pins. Elsewhere in Florida, Blair did see a sign — not a bumper sticker, an actual wooden sign, mounted on the back of a pickup — that said “Despite what the stupid masses believe, Jesus is not coming.” But that was in the real world. Not Disney.

I did not see a stand where you could buy fresh-squeezed juice from Florida oranges and maybe even order a box of Florida citrus to be shipped to your home. I wish I had seen that, though; it would have been nice to see Disney buying local and supporting local farmers.

Strangest of all, I did not see any breastfeeding, which struck me as extremely odd in a park filled with young families. Sure there’s a Baby Care Center in each park. But why were no mamas feeding their kids on the park benches, I wonder? It made me wish I were still breastfeeding, just so I could do it myself, right smack in front of the Buzz Lightyear ride.

If you’re in the mood for some agricultural policy snark, click on over to the Ethicurean. And seriously, read Seth’s article, too. It’s a hoot, and it will make you want to both visit and stay away, all at once. Yeah, it’s a strange world there in Disney. A bizarre, highly-controlled little world.

I’m glad to be back, for sure — back to my messy kitchen, back to the Cleaner Plate Club, back to real life. How are you all doing?

You know there’s a primary election coming up when your co-op starts selling local cheese that looks this:

Washed? Sure. Obama seems very clean. But Stout is not a word that leaps to mind with Obama. But then again, the same dairy also sold a cheese called Tomme de Lay, a raw goat’s milk cheese that they describe as having equal pungency and hints of grass and mushrooms.

(in that case, “raw” works well, but “hints of grass and mushrooms?” Pretty sure you’ve got the wrong guy).

Urban Forager describes Barick Obama as “a bold cheese, ready to take on the world.” Like a hot political campaign, though, it ain’t cheap: $24/lb. Yowza.

Seven Days mentioned that Laini Fondiller, the gal who owns Lazy Lady Farm, also has a fondness for mixing the political and the…um…turophilic. She has a boar named Brownie, ’cause he “does a heck of a job.” She also had a goat named Harriet Miers, after Bush’s former White House counsel, but things didn’t work out. She got sold for meat.

Two pieces of news from the paying-more-isn’t-always-worth-more category:

1. Ashton’s Birthday Bash leads to shots (in the butt?): Surely you’ve read about this one somewhere already. I live under a rock, so if I know about it, well, it’s probably old news to you. But in case your rock is bigger and more media-proof than my own, get this: Ashton Kutcher, hunky dumpling of the celebrity circuit, recently had a 30th birthday party at hip downtown Socialista. The party was filled with the expected star guests — Madonna, Bruce Willis, Ivanka Trump — and possibly one uninvited guest, as well: Hepatitis A. One of Socialista’s employees had hepatitis A, and now it’s recommended that all those celebs get shots to protect themselves against the nasty bug.

At this point, I’m going to refrain from the obvious “A-list/Hepatitis-A-list” jokes, and tell you instead that I once caught hep A and it was no damned fun. I was sick as a dog, I hurled every time I moved, and all kinds of other things happened that — trust me — you’d really rather not know (note to my mother: please refrain. Please). This was back when Hepatitis A was apparently 500% more common than it is today. The worst part of it all was that my friends had to get shots in the buttocks, in the event that I had been less-than-vigilant about washing my hands after doing my business. (in my own defense, I tend to be very, very careful about that. But apparently many people aren’t. Which is why I am now a regular Howard Hughes in public restrooms, often going through crazy contortions to TOUCH NOTHING). Anyhow, these friends of mine — true friends, most of them, as we are STILL friends, even after this — had to pull down their knickers and get a fat needle injected into their tushies. That was a while ago, but apparently physicians still often administer the shot right there in the keister. Oh, those pretty, pretty celebrity booties!

All of which is a mighty long way of saying that sometimes places with $16 cocktails are no cleaner or more savory than McDonalds. Best to cook at home tonight.

2. The no-chrome blender wins: This second piece isn’t nearly as celebrity-studded, but it makes me happy. I mentioned my immersion blender in my recent soup post, noting that my cheap-o model had served me well for years. The folks at the Washington Post have clearly been paying close attention to the Cleaner Plate Club (who isn’t?), because they’ve since published an article, Toward Greater Whirled Peas, which reviews 11 hand blenders…and their favorite one was one of the least expensive in the bunch: the Hamilton-Beach hand blender, about $20. No brushed comb, no sleek styling there. Just a solid piece of equipment.

I do my darndest to avoid kitchen-gadget-envy. It is hard sometimes, like when the Williams Sonoma catalog arrives and I start to believe that my life would genuinely be better — simpler! better tasting! more heaven-bound! — if only I had a $150 salt/pepper mill set. But I do my best to refrain, and to this day, I do not own a single All-Clad pan. So when I read the review, I had to cheer for the unswanky little fella’.

Not quite as hard as I cheered for my sister, perhaps. But a little.

While you’re being penny-wise, you might want to stop by Cheap Healthy Good, which combines two big categories of the blogosphere — foodie blogging and personal-finance blogging —into one highly practical little corner of web 2.0. Bascially, she breaks the costs of recipes down better than I’ve seen elsewhere. And, oh, she is thrifty! She’s got a series of soup recipes, for example, whose total cost appears to top out at under $6/pot.

Now I’m gonna’ go be frugal and put a pot on the stove with some homemade chicken stock. I’ll be making it in my (unglamorous, but functional) Farberware soup pot. And I’ll wash my hands first.

(so Ashton? Cutie pie? You can celebrate your 31st birthday here. I promise, my hands are very, very clean).

Earlier this year, Marc of Mental Masala reported in the Ethicurean that if you added up all of the meat that was recalled since 1994, it would comprise a line of 7,500 trucks stretching 85 miles.

In a single day, that fleet grew to 11,000 trucks stretching 125 miles. The USDA finally recalled meat from Westland/Hallmark, the California meatpacker whose efforts to help downer cows pass inspection would seem almost valiant if they weren’t so perverse. The total meat recalled in this one recall? 143 million pounds — nearly half of the meat that has been recalled since 1994.

We’ve talked about this before, in rhyme no less, but the more this whole situation unfolds, the more it seems sort of …absurdly…funny. Funny? Yeah, in a better-laugh-so-you-don’t-cry sort of way. Here’s why:

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #1: the USDA had a full-time veterinary medical officer assigned to the facility AND a full-time official from the USDA’s Grading Service in the operation to ensure that Westland/Hallmark complied with the USDA commodity program contract — and, hey, those guys never noticed a problem!

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #2: The Westland/Hallmark facility had 17 third party audits, 12 internal audits and weekly humane handling audits? And, hmm. None of those audits managed to catch this?

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #3: the USDA announced the recall midday Sunday of a holiday weekend. What an odd, low-profile time to issue a recall. It’s almost like they were hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. Maybe so, since most of the recalled meat had already been eaten.

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #4: After the news broke, despite all evidence to the contrary, Steve Mendell, Westland/Hallmark President and CEO, issued a statement saying “I proudly assure our customers that we comply with all USDA requirements, including the requirement that only ambulatory livestock may enter the harvest facility to be processed for human food. I am confident that we have met this high regulatory standard.” Um, Steve? Pal? I suggest you watch the video.

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #5: It took the New York Times sixteen days to bother covering this story. The news just didn’t appear until they posted an editorial on February 15. Other papers, like the Cincinnati Enquirer, took even longer to cover the story. And the Denver Post? Why it summed up the controversy as mere “bickering” between the cattle industry and animal rights groups (hey, guys? It’s our food supply).

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #6: Westland/Hallmark was honored by the USDA as a “supplier of the year” to the school lunch programs in 2004-2005. Go, fellas! Keep up the good work!

Laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact #7: Why, it ain’t even news! KIRO-TV Seattle aired a report about downer cows entering the food supply as far back as 2002. And Elizabeth Weise at USA Today broke a similar story in 2004.

But the biggest laugh-so-you-don’t-cry fact? The Humane Society picked the Westland/Hallmark plant at random. Not based on any kind of identified risk assessment. Completely at random. Kinda’ makes you wonder how the other 6,200 facilities are doing.

In case all of that laughing — ha ha! HA FRICKIN’ HA HA HA! — makes your stomach hurt, consider buying beef from a local supplier, or making beef-free alternatives to your favorite meal. Like chili, for example. Vegetarian? Chicken? So many options. How about burgers? Try some homemade salmon burgers. And be sure to laugh while you cook! Laugh hard! Very hard!

Because otherwise you might just start sobbing and never stop.

I’ve got two posts up at the Ethicurean this week.

The first, How I Taught My Kid to Curse and Why I Blame Big Food, is all about a naughty word. And unlike many of the posts over there, that word is not Monsanto!

The second? Well, okay, in that post, the naughty word is Monsanto. That post, An Open Letter to Monsanto, sounds like it would be all official, right? And it is. If by official you mean referencing things like Mike and Ikes and Alice from the Brady Bunch. It’s all about how Monsanto — frustrated by the widespread rejection of milk produced with the help of rBGH, their artificial growth hormone — is moving state-by-state to make rBGH labeling illegal.

Wondering how America’s favorite housekeeper fits in to that discussion? Then what are you waiting for? Click on over! Let’s meet on the other side! The readin’ is over there today!