Canadians and Americans (again)

It was announced yesterday that Canada is kicking the penny to the curb.  Production of their one-cent copper coin (which is actually 94% steel) will cease in April because, as one official put it, their penny is "currency without currency."

(G)O Canada!

The United States needs to follow suit.  Our penny costs more to make than it's worth. 

The dollar coin never went anywhere because merchants complained there was no room for it in their cash registers.  Well, get rid of the penny, and there's a slot for it.  If we quit printing one-dollar bills, which need to be replaced every 15 to 18 months, we'll save even more money.  (The life expectancy of a coin is 30 years.)

Canada replaced both its one- and two-dollar bills with coins, and it didn't kill anybody.

But then, they're Canadians.
  

Juice Gone

When I was young, which I freely admit was a very long time ago, when you ordered a meal in a nice restaurant, you were asked if you wanted soup or juice.  The question followed as night follows day. 

"I'd like the Veal Parmesan."
"Soup or juice?"

These were appetizers of a sort, one of which came with the meal, its cost included in the price of the entree.  For an extra quarter, you could probably have had both.

I always went with the juice.  Usually it was tomato, but if there was a choice, the server popped the follow-up question.

"I'd like the Veal Parmesan."
"Soup or juice?"
"Juice."
"Tomato or grapefruit?"

I always went with tomato.  It came in a small, clear glass that held six fluid ounces and sat on a small saucer or in a little shallow bowl.  There was a lemon wedge too, usually next to it but occasionally stuck on the rim of the glass.

By the mid-1960's, however, the soup-or-juice thing somehow fell out of favor and the standard antipasto was a mix of iceberg lettuce and sundry little extras like a tomato slice, a ring of red onion, and a couple of croutons.  The question got changed.

"I'd like the Veal Parmesan."
"What kind of dressing on your salad?"

There are now plenty of restaurants in which you get a choice of soup or salad, but I cannot recall any restaurant in which I have dined in the last several decades where a starter of tomato juice was an option.  But I'm going to keep my eyes open.

Why bother when you can buy a bag?

Well, last Friday I got around to trying that recipe I mentioned that was in the New York Times, the one that required the cornmeal.  It was for home-made Fritos.  It was simple enough -- cornmeal and water, a little salt and a little oil, roll between two pieces of parchment, score, bake, break apart.

They were dreadful.

Some of it was my fault.  I had trouble getting the dough rolled to an even thickness.  The parts I got too thin burned, the parts I left too thick were gummy, and there really were no parts that were just right, I guess, because none of it got crispy enough to satisfy me.  They tasted all right, if you like the taste of cornmeal, water, salt, and oil.  They might have been improved by frying instead of baking, but I don't plan to try it again.

I am on the lookout for recipes that call for cornmeal, though. 

Diagnosis: KGR

There was an article in the New York Times this week about Kitchen Gadget Regret. This occurs when you acquire cooking or baking equipment that you are sure you can't live without but then never use.  The chefs they interviewed cited things like a salmon poacher, a polenta maker, and a device for cutting a one-pound block of butter into small pieces.  They've got nothing on me.

The only thing I like better than kitchen gadgets is more kitchen gadgets, but I've had my share of white elephants, starting with the potato ricer I used once. The reason that box of discarded items in the trunk of my car hasn't been dropped off at Goodwill yet is that it contains the blender we recently decided we didn't use or need.  But I am reconsidering. What if I need to blend something that the food processor or the immersion blender can't handle?

And speaking of immersion blenders, my Secret Santa came through this Christmas with the exact one I wanted. Haven't used it yet, but it's only March.

Some of my problem is having to go through various types, makes, and models before obtaining exactly the right thing. I recently put the old mandoline in the Goodwill box after doing some serious research and splurging big bucks on the one of my dreams -- and not any old ordinary mandoline either, but a Japanese benriner. Works like a charm. I have already used it. Once.

A good way to avoid Kitchen Gadget Regret is to avoid Pampered Chef parties. It looks so easy when the demonstrator does it, but I've been disappointed at home. I will say in their defense that theirs is the best garlic press I've ever had. And I've had plenty.

And then there is the ridiculous Pasta Boat.*  My partner freely admits she gave me this As-Seen-On-TV plastic thing as a gag. I should be embarrassed to own it, much less use it, but use it I do. It makes perfect pasta.

My partner tells me we need to own a food mill. I believe she got the idea from her Hero-Chef Anne Burrell, who says it's her favorite piece of kitchen equipment. The only thing I've seen Chef Anne do with it is mash vegetables.

Couldn't you do the same thing with a blender?

_____________________
*See posting  of January 19, 2011.

Who could it be?

When I was in high school, my girlfriends and I sometimes hung out in the public library after school.  We studied and used reference materials, but we also did a lot of teenaged-girl things, like whisper and giggle and pretend to pay no attention to the boys.

One day I noticed a telephone number written in pencil on the back of my library card.  It was my writing, and it didn't look fresh.  I didn't recognize the number, and I wracked my brain trying to remember the occasion of having written it.  I started speculating, coming up with possibilities that ranged from the mundane (a classmate about an assignment) to the romantic (a cute boy wanting me to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance) to the spectacular (a Hollywood talent scout). 

It drove me nuts for a day or two, but in the end, I knew the only thing to do was to call the number and find out who it was.  I rehearsed what I would say, then screwed up my courage and dialed.  I was all nervous and excited, wondering who would answer.  It was the library.

Vernal, Vern

In northern climates like the one I've always lived in, it sometimes snows on the first day of spring.  The first time I witnessed such an event I was about eight years old.  My mother called to me to come look outside and see that it was snowing, even though it was officially spring.  I got it.  Even at that tender age, I apparently had an adequate sense of irony.

Now I am forced to do a complete about-face and deal with it being 85 degrees on the first day of spring, and not an isolated occurrence, either.  It was 85 yesterday and will be again tomorrow too.  The windows are open and the ceiling fans are twirling.  After checking the forecast for the immediate future, I have decided it is not worth engaging the air conditioning, since temperatures will be back down in the 50s and 60s by Thursday.

I can ride it out.  I'm thinking a tall, cold drink of something special will help.
 

Did you want rice and beans with that?

There is a woman named Melissa D'Arabian who has a cooking show on which she demonstrates how to make meals for four people that cost $10 or less.  Except that she seems to be overly fond of zucchini, her recipe ideas are not bad.

What is bad is her lipstick, which is actually lip gloss.  It's not the color, which is usually muted and pinkish; it's the wet shine on them that bothers me.  This woman is doing a cooking show, here and there tasting as she goes along, and it looks for all the world like her lips are wet from chicken grease or zucchini juice, or whatever she's just put into her mouth, maybe even just plain spit.  It is not an appetizing look for a cook.

I would have thought shiny lips were more appropriate for evening (especially a date with somebody you hope will kiss you on the mouth), but not for daytime wear.  I tried to look online for information about this by Googling "shiny lip gloss."  I never found anything like an intelligent discussion about making your lips look wet -- the first three pages were all about specific products -- so I gave up.  What was really intriguing, however, was this item that Google returned:

Here you go, Melissa -- forget all that expensive makeup and just get yourself a can of Old El Paso Enchilada Sauce instead.
 

This is sad

The other day our local NPR station was playing one of my all-time favorite Beethoven symphonies.  I was enjoying it tremendously, but I was having a senior moment and couldn't settle on the number of this symphony -- was it the second, or the fourth, or which?  I consulted the station's playlist on their website and discovered that it was the Symphony Number 5 by Franz Schubert. 

I was horrified.  How can somebody with a master's degree in music (and a dissertation shy of a Ph.D.) not know Schubert's Fifth when she hears it?  I know I have forgotten a lot about music -- more and more as time goes on -- since I gave up the study some 25 years ago, but I didn't think I'd lost it all.

I suppose I can find some solace in that I was confusing Schubert with Beethoven.  If the day comes when I can't distinguish between Bach and Mahler, I'll know it's all over.

Nope, you're wrong

I saw Mr. Obama on television yesterday sharing with the nation his picks for the NCAA men's basketball tournament.  This March Madness is gonna make the POTUS mad all right, because he's got Michigan State losing to Missouri in the Elite Eight.  That's gonna mess his bracket up the rest of the way, because Michigan State is not only going to the Final Four, they're going to be the Final One.  At least that's how my bracket looks.

There has been a lot of talk comparing the current MSU-Draymond Green team with the MSU-Mateen Cleaves team which won the title in 2000, and I think this year's team is better; ergo, they're going to win.

Sorry, Pres.  Better luck next year.

Whoop it up for Hoops

Has it really been a week since I posted something here?  What have I been doing?  Well, not much.

Let's see.  The last posting was on Wednesday.  On Thursday I spent a lot of the day watching basketball games, since the men's Big Ten tournament was on.  I watched plenty of games on Friday and Saturday too, and then on Sunday, Michigan State won it.

In the next three weeks, there will be plenty of basketball for me to see amid the March Madness.  Both the men's and women's NCAA tournaments will be going on at the same time, and MSU is in both.  I think the men have a better shot than the women, but I'll cheer them all on.  Go green.

But I must have done something else besides watch basketball games.  Oh, yes.  On Friday I cleaned the bathroom.  One day I baked peanut butter cookies.  And twice I went to the grocery store.

Life after retirement can be hectic.  But I'm adjusting.

Isn't this just fine...

There is a recipe in the New York Times today that I'd like to try which calls for "stone-ground or other fine cornmeal (do not use whole grain)." 

Plain cornmeal is foreign to me.  The closest I've ever come is cornmuffin mix, so in order to have a better idea of what to look for when I get to the store, I did some Googling.  As far as I can tell, if it doesn't say "whole grain" on the label, it will be the degerminated kind, which is what I am to use.

But then I learned that cornmeal comes in fine, medium and coarse grinds.  So what does the "fine" mean in "other fine cornmeal"?  Do they mean other finely-ground cornmeal, or do they mean other excellent cornmeal?  This ambiguity arises because (a) stone-ground cornmeal is said to be coarser than steel-ground and (b) the New York Times always calls for quality ingredients.

I'm going to depend on my expectations for the finished product and go with a fine grind.  I'll let you know.

A clothes horse I ain't

I went some place today where jeans and a T-shirt would not have been appropriate, so for the first time since I retired a year ago, I dug around in my closet among my old work clothes to see what I could find to wear.  There was a decent pair of black slacks, and my black shoes were okay too, after some work with a Swifter dust cloth.

But the shirts -- OMG!  Each and every shirt hanging in the closet has hanger-poochies in the shoulders.

I ended up wearing the least offensive one I could find, but I have decided I will prevent this from happening in the future by giving most of the clothes in that closet to Goodwill.  The few items that I retain will be cycled through the laundry every few months whether I wear them or not. 

Or, I just won't go any place where I can't wear jeans and a T-shirt.

A Bohemian Folk Tale (my version, anyway)

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a very nasty, greedy, selfish king. He was hated by his subjects, but he kept them in such poverty by the taxes he levied and in such fear of his henchmen that they did not have the wherewithal to rise up against him. They were resigned to wait for the day when he would finally grow old and die. The people pinned their hopes on the king's only heir, his daughter, the Princess Otilia. She grew up to be a very beautiful young woman who was also intelligent and kind.

One day while out riding, the Princess fell from her horse and hurt her ankle. A shepherd tending his flock nearby witnessed the accident and ran to her aid. His name was Plavachek, and he was a very handsome young man, tall and slender, strong and brave, and kind. He lifted the princess back into the saddle and then gently led the horse safely back to the palace.

Princess Otilia was very impressed and invited the shepherd to return to the palace the next day to receive a reward for his kindness. He did come back the next day, but he refused a reward, which impressed the princess even more. He also came back the day after that, and the day after that, and soon young Plavachek was seen at the palace so often that the people expected an announcement any minute.

Indeed, before too long, the princess went to the king and said, "Father, I am going to marry Plavachek, the shepherd."

The king said, "No, I don't think so."

"But he is my one true love," she said, "and if you do not give us your blessing, we will run away together, and you will never see me again."

The king was not about to let his daughter marry a common shepherd, and he was sure he would be rid of the problem if he could be rid of Plavachek. He had the shepherd brought before him, and he said, "Young man, I understand you intend to marry my daughter. Before I can allow that, you must prove that you are worthy of her. I'm going to send you on a mission. You are to go to Grandfather Wisdom in the Golden City and return here with proof that you have seen him and that he approves of this marriage. Do you know how to get to the Golden City?"

"Yes, Sire," said the young shepherd. "It is a perilous journey. I would have to cross Bitter River, and then go over Glass Mountain, and then find my way through the Black Woods where the witches live."

"That's right," said the King. "If you accomplish this mission, you may have my daughter's hand. But if you fail, you might as well not bother to return."

Resolved to win the hand of his true love, Plavachek bid Princess Otilia a hasty farewell and departed upon his adventure.

Two days later, Plavachek was back. He went immediately to the king, who, when he saw him, shouted, "Young man, I told you not to return if you failed!"

"But I have not failed, Sire," said Plavachek. "Look!" And he drew from a velvet purse a gold medal bearing the inscription, "Grandfather Wisdom blesses the union of Otilia and Plavachek."

The king was completely flabbergasted. He knew the medal was genuine and that Plavachek had succeeded. "But how did you manage to do it?" the king asked.

"Well, Sire," Plavachek said, "I had a lot of help.

"When I approached Bitter River I met a man with a boat. He had been rowing that boat back and forth across the river for twenty years with no relief. He was so tired, his back was bent, and it looked like his legs would collapse under him. When I told him where I was trying to go, he said, 'If I help you, will you ask Grandfather Wisdom a question for me, and bring me his answer?' When I promised I would, he invited me into his boat and rowed me across the river.

"When I reached the foot of Glass Mountain, I stopped for water at a cottage in a clearing. A cobbler lived there with his family. His wife and all his children were very ill, and he was so worried and careworn that he could hardly hold up his head. When I told him where I was trying to go, he said, 'If I help you, will you ask Grandfather Wisdom a question for me, and bring me his answer?' When I promised I would, he gave a pair of special shoes he had made that allowed me to climb up and down Glass Mountain.

"Then I came to the edge of the Black Woods where the witches live. One of them was sitting at the edge of the woods, a wizened, withered old woman who was crying bitterly. 'Old grandmother,' I said, 'why do you weep so?' She told me that her sister witches were dying one by one and she was lonely and afraid. When I told her where I was trying to go, she said, 'If I help you, will you ask Grandfather Wisdom a question for me, and bring me his answer?' When I promised I would, she gave me a special light that helped me find my way through the Black Woods.

"On the other side was the Golden City. I was taken immediately to Grandfather Wisdom, who said, 'Come in, Plavachek. I've been expecting you. Oh, yes – don’t look so startled. I know who you are and where you come from and who sent you. I have already had this gold medal struck for you to give to your king. And I know that those who helped you along your treacherous journey have entrusted you with questions to ask of me. I have already prepared messages for you to give them.'

"That fulfilled my quest," Plavachek concluded, "so I thanked Grandfather Wisdom with all my heart and hurried back here as fast as I could."

"But what were these questions that the people wanted him to answer?" the king asked.

"Well, the man with the boat wanted to know if it was true that he would finally be relieved of his duties. Grandfather Wisdom told him it would be easy. The next time a person came wanting a ride across the river, the boatman was to thrust the oar into that person's hand and go ashore. Then that person would become the new oarsman.

"The cobbler wanted to know if it was true that there was a magic apple tree near Glass Mountain. He had heard that eating the apples of this magic tree would cure any disease, and he wanted it for his family. Grandfather Wisdom told him where to find it.

"And the old witch wanted to know if it was true that there was a magic spring with waters so healing that it could revive the dead. Grandfather Wisdom told her where to find this spring."

"What!" cried the king, jumping to his feet. "Do you mean to say that you could have returned with magic apples that would cure any disease and magic water that could bring the dead back to life, and instead you come back here with this stupid gold medal?"

"My first responsibility was to my beloved Princess Otilia," Plavachek said, "so that we can be wed.”

"I'll tell you what," shouted the king. "You go ahead and do that little thing – you marry my daughter. I really don't care what you do.

"What I am going to do is retrace your steps. I am going to find that cobbler and make him show me where the magic apple tree is, and then I'm going to find that old witch and make her show me where that magic spring is. When I have done that, I will be immortal! As long as I have those apples, no disease can take me! I can conquer all other kingdoms, for even if killed in battle, the magic water will revive me! I will be the richest, most powerful man in the world, and I will rule the world forever!"

And with that, the king leapt up upon his fastest horse and rode away.

Plavachek and Princess Otilia were married. In the absence of the king, they ruled the kingdom jointly. They ruled it wisely and well, and kindly. The people of the kingdom rejoiced, and they all lived happily ever after.

And as far as anybody knows, to this day the nasty, selfish king is still rowing that boat back and forth across Bitter River.
 

Maybe it will come to me

I was having lunch with some friends recently, and a topic came up in conversation that reminded me of something that had happened to me once.  I was about to tell the story, but then I thought it would make a good blog posting.  Since they are regular readers, I didn't want them to have to hear it twice, but I couldn't resist teasing them with, "I'm saving a good story about that for my blog."

By the time we left the restaurant, I had absolutely no clue what it was I was going to write about or even what we had been talking about that brought it up.

As he got older, approaching the age I am now, my father was often annoyed by his inability to remember things.  He complained of having "a two-minute memory."

Well, Dad, good for you.  I'm down to around 30 seconds.