Maybe I'm the flake

Every recipe for fish I've ever seen always wants me to cook it until the fish flakes easily.  I had always assumed that all fish flakes easily, because every fish I've ever eaten did.  Every fish I ever cooked certainly did.  At least until tonight.  I now know what a fish fillet looks and feels and tastes like when it isn't done enough to flake easily. 

These were thin-ish Tilapia fillets, baked in a bath of seasoned butter in the oven at 350° for 15 minutes, which is what the recipe called for.  But it was rubbery and couldn't be cut with a fork.  It didn't flake at all.  Three minutes in the nuker took care of that.  Then it flaked just fine.

And while I'm on the subject of food and flaking, I found a web site with recipes they claimed were from the early 1900's.  One woman bragged that her recipe for something called "Potato Puffs" was her great-grandmother's and was from 1910.  One of the ingredients was instant mashed potato flakes.  My research says potato flakes -- of the sort instant mash potatoes are made from -- were invented in 1962.

So is she stupid, or does she think I am? 

Bring on the over-processed American junk food. Please.

I love reading old recipes, and a little Googling led me to a cookbook from 1764, called English Housewifry Exemplified by one Elizabeth Moxon. There are over 450 recipes, which she calls “receipts,” for all manner of food and drink.

There are lots of homey little touches, as in the recipe for French Bread: “To half a peck of flour, put a full jill of new yeast, and a little salt, make it with new milk (warmer than from the cow)...”

By the way, a jill (also gill) is half a cup.

I think I may actually try this sometime:

157. To make RICE PANCAKES.
Take half a pound of rice, wash and pick it clean, cree it in fair
water till it be a jelly, when it is cold take a pint of cream and the
yolks of four eggs, beat them very well together, and put them into the
rice, with grated nutmeg and some salt, then put in half a pound of
butter, and as much flour as will make it thick enough to fry, with as
little butter as you can.

As soon as I figure out what creeing is.

And, of course, the other thing to marvel at is the absolute crap people used to eat 250 years ago. This book gives us such things as Fried Calf’s Feet in Eggs, Fricassy of Tripe, and Liver Pudding.

Also found here are answers to questions nobody will ever ask, such as how to collar a calf’s head to eat hot (or cold, your choice), how to “do chicken’s, or any fowl’s, feet,” how to pickle nasturtium buds, and how to dress ox lips.

Gag.

Say Cheese!

An article in this morning’s New York Times reviewed a new study on smiles, with emphasis on telling the difference between a real smile (when someone is happy, friendly, loving) and a fake smile (when someone is trying to sell you something).

That got me thinking about Julia Roberts smiling in the movie “Pretty Woman.” Now I like Julia Roberts movies well enough, although I’m not sure she’s really all that good an actor. Her smiling ability is the telling factor.

In the scene where she is apprehensive about being at the polo match, Edward tells Vivian to smile, and she does. And when she does, it is not a fake smile. It is not one of those smiles that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a real, happy, having-a-good-time smile, a beautiful smile that lights up her face. I’ve seen that movie 90 times (because somebody in my household loves it a lot), and I notice that happy, genuine smile every time.

You might think it takes a good actor to produce a genuine smile. But actually, in those circumstances, I think Vivian would have smiled a fake smile. If Julia were really good, that smile would not have reached her eyes.

Blah blah blog

OK, we are abandoning the poll.  It added nothing to this here blog thing.

And the most recent one was kind of scary.  If there actually are people out there who really would like Sarah Palin to be President of the United States, I don't want to know about it.  Just thinking about it gives me the willies.

There's an interesting expression.  According to dictionary.com, it's been around since about 1895, origin obscure.  Well, yes, I should think so.  No self-respecting person named Willie is going to admit that it referred to him, is he?

"Hi, my name is Willie.  I'm the village idiot and I creep people out."

Well, on second thought ...

Thanks for the warning

In downtown Lansing, Michigan, there is a building whose unusual facade makes it more prone than most buildings to collect winter precipitation which will, at random moments, become dislodged and fall to earth.

The safety-conscious occupants of the building, concerned for the well-being of passersby, have, therefore, placed orange cones along the sidewalk in front of the building which are topped by small signs that read:

      WATCH FOR SNOW AND ICE
        FALLING FROM ABOVE

Apparently there is no danger of snow or ice jumping up from below or slamming into people from the side, which in itself is a relief.

Did I also mention "eclectic"?

Today is the birthday of Johann Herrmann Schein (1586-1630), an early Baroque composer.

A number of years ago I was in Barnes & Noble looking for a recording of Schein's most famous work, a series of dance suites collectively called Banchetto Musicale (Musical Banquet). They didn't have one. They did not, in fact, have anything by Schein. I broadened my search to other composers from other countries and other periods, but I was disappointed again.

I was probably muttering, because a clerk approached wanting to know if he could help me, so I took the opportunity to complain that they didn't have anything by Johann Herrmann Schein -- which I was careful to pronounce Yo-hon Hair-mon Shine. I also aired my views of the entire classical music section in general.

I am sure the young man was duly impressed with my high-class musical tastes, especially when he rang up the one CD I decided to buy: Ricky Nelson's Greatest Hits.

As seen on TV

I have managed to live my whole life without a Memory Foam Pillow, a set of Ginsu knives, or a Veg-O-Matic.  And I admit, I do get a little smug about it.  But Santa got me this year.  Right there under the tree, it was:  a Pasta Boat.  Yes, this thing:

Like the world needed yet another useless Popeil product.

First of all, it takes twice as long to cook pasta in the Pasta Boat in the microwave than it does on the stove in a pot of water -- 2 cups of macaroni requires 23 minutes.  The box says 11 to 12.

It has handy round handles that double as spaghetti measurers.  Oh, puh-lease.

You leave the lid off so that the chances of it boiling over in the microwave are good, and nowhere in the instructions that deal with the amount of pasta and the amount of water and the amount of cooking time does it mention you might want to put some salt in it since, as every cook knows, the only time you get to season pasta is when it's boiling.

Well, just to prove that Ronco needn't bother, I gave it a try.  I figured half a box of macaroni was a small price to pay.  I grudgingly admitted that it was relatively easy to get the thing in and out of the microwave.  The handy straining lid let me pour off the water without the sorts of mishaps I have when I'm aiming a pot of pasta at a colander.  And then, the worst of all -- the macaroni was perfect.  Oh -- and it cleans up in the dishwasher beautifully.

I have since used it to cook spaghetti and more elbow macaroni.  Also perfect.

Damn it.