Category Archives: Good to know
Dirty Little Secrets: Campbell’s Tomato Soup
In the not-too-distant past, I have railed against Campbell’s condensed soups, in particular the cream of mushroom and cream of celery varieties that are commonly substituted for béchamel sauce in casserole recipes across this vast and blessed land. On several occasions I’ve also remarked on the puzzling consumption of Velveeta cheese, for which I inevitably receive a handful of responses extolling its virtues, but let’s leave that for the nonce. People like what they like and the palate is a mysterious organ. How else to explain the existence of head cheese? Witness the recipe:
I assure you, that is NOT cheese. Via Cheese Dip blog.
To make head cheese, clean the hog’s head by removing the snout, eyes, ears, brains and all the skin. Trim away all the fat from the head and cut it into four pieces. Place in a crock or enamel container. Cover with a solution of 1/2-cup canning salt to 1-gallon water. Make sure the pieces are completely covered. Let it soak for 5-hours to draw out all the blood…
There’s more, but I can’t bear to go into it. At least they remove the snout, though it’s unclear to me whether it gets tossed out or thrown in the crock. Anyways, you get the idea. Different streaks for different freaks, as they say.
Slattern in the city
There’s fun to be had in SOME kitchens, Sweetie. Courtesy montrealsimon.blogspot.com
I don’t claim to have cornered the market on slattern-dom, and I certainly didn’t invent it. I have, however, done my level best to elevate the art form over the past twenty years or so, and as I look back on the cluttered landscape of middling meals, drunken dinner parties and neglected housekeeping that has been my life, it occurs to me that none of this could have been so easily accomplished outside the urban jungle. Let me explain.
First of all, the urban environment is easy on the domestic tippler. Let’s say it’s five o’clock and you and a couple of pals have been having a friendly chat over a bottle of vodka for the past few hours. You realize you were supposed to pick up your kids from soccer practice, but getting behind the wheel is no longer an option. No need to endanger the driving public, disturb your better half or give up your parking space — just call a livery service and send a car to pick them up. After three or four instances of this, most city teens will learn to take a twenty from your purse before leaving the house, store the car service number in their phones and call the ride themselves after waiting around for an hour or so. Kids these days!
Roast Your Own
Recipe: Roasted peppers
Courtesy anolobb @ Flickr
If you don’t like the way they make ’em in the city
Cause they taste all wrong and the dang pepper ain’t pretty
Roast your own, roast your own.
˜ With apologies to Hoyt Axton
Freshly roasted peppers are a staple in my kitchen. You can throw ’em in a salad, eat ’em with pasta or grind ’em up for soup. They’re also delicious on sandwiches or with fresh mozzarella for lunch. Sure you can buy them in jars at the market, but they always seem to have vinegar in them and they never taste good. And anyway why would you buy something nasty that’s so easy to make and tastes infinitely better when you do?
Talk dirty to me
Really, what CAN’T you do with Spam? Courtesy Wikipedia.
To my great surprise, there has been widespread misunderstanding as to my stance on the Secret Treasure Loaf featured in a recent post. For the record, I discovered that particular gem in a search for a truly repulsive recipe (to pair with the most revolting of vegetable dishes, green bean casserole) that would not only turn a foodie’s stomach, but leave deep emotional scars. I believe I succeeded.
Still, the whole experience has left me wondering. If there are people out there who find this appealing, what must they have ingested previously? Is it possible there are worse things than Secret Treasure Loaf, things so vile and stomach-turning that a meatloaf made from Spam and Velveeta APPEALS? The mind reels, the spirit quails, the sphincter puckers. Nonetheless, I’m going there, folks. I am asking the question and as God is my witness, I will address each and every response. Ready?
What is the worst food you have ever been served?
Velveeta fudge squares. Courtesy foodbeast.com
Perhaps it was in your mother’s kitchen during the Atomic Fifties? Or maybe you’re a world traveler who encountered a particularly exotic culinary abomination on the road to wherever. It may be that a recipe mishap was involved, or you simply thought it would be interesting to try tripe. No matter, the more lurid and nauseating, the better.
I’ll go first, and I am really throwing down the gauntlet here. Witness: Velveeta fudge squares by none other than the fabulous Paula Deen. And no, I don’t know what she was smoking.
Talk to me, people. Unburden yourselves. Believe me, you’ll feel better once you get it off your chests. Plus it’ll help me kickstart that New Year’s diet plan I’ve been putting off. Win win!
My other kitchen is a hotel
My other kitchen. Courtesy Flickr aeminphilly
As the six-month anniversary of my little experiment in self-expression draws near, I note that there seems to be a bit of confusion among my readers as to my feelings about the domestic arts in general and cooking in particular. Frankly, this surprises me since my opinion on the subject appears, at least to me, to have been made abundantly clear in this, my little corner of the web. But in the interest of enlightenment and with an eye toward full disclosure, let me be clear.
I would be completely happy if I never cooked another damned meal*, set foot in a fully functional kitchen, or laid eyes on a vacuum cleaner again for the rest of my life.
Oh yes, I would be perfectly content to order in or dine out every night for the remainder of my time in this earthly paradise, and if someone wanted to meet me for lunch most days, that would be fine too. In fact, I’d be willing to forego the midday meal altogether just to avoid having to provision, prepare and clear it. If you’d ever had a squint at me, you’d understand the enormity of that statement. Let’s just say you could count the number of meals I have missed in the past year on one hand without stressing the pinky or thumb unduly and leave it at that.
I would miss housekeeping even less than cooking, and so I am flummoxed when I hear my friends (to clarify, my older friends) talking about downsizing plans that involve offloading houses and acquiring condominiums. Yes, it’s less square footage, and not so much hassle, but you still own the damned thing. When the toilet backs up it’s you wielding the plunger. If the Baked Alaska suddenly becomes the Towering Inferno, you’d best know where the fire extinguisher is and how to use it (not to mention being able to convince the firefighters you were in full possession of your faculties when the “incident” occurred, but that’s a story for another day). And when the refrigerator gives up the ghost, you’ve got to source and buy another, only to start the whole ugly business of meal prep over again. Ditto the stove. And who in his right mind would want to do that, for pity’s sake?
Now I do have friends who have very cleverly repurposed their kitchen appliances as storage, and if I owned furs (I don’t, I just can’t), I would certainly keep them in the fridge. I used to keep my film there, but digital photography has eliminated the need. As it is, my nail polish collection is doing well on ice, but really, who has that much lacquer? So it’s either unplug the damned thing or fill it up. And once it’s filled, you’ve got to cook. Really it’s that simple. And that sad.
So, imagine how thrilled I was recently to hear a fresh solution to the downsizing question from none other than my brilliant cousin, Rebecca! Ready? Here it is: Skip the condo, bypass the rental apartment and go straight to a hotel.
Become a PERMANENT GUEST!
Consider — there’s no kitchen, save for a coffee maker and a minibar (what else do you really need?). You get room service, daily maid service (provided by someone other than yourself), laundry service, porters, and your bed turned down every night with a little mint on the pillow. And the bar is right downstairs! It would be just like assisted living, but without the colostomy bags, institutional food and restraints. In fact, come to think of it, it would be very like Betty Ford, sans Betty or any of the other killjoys who infest her establishment.
Why was this woman smiling? Because she still had cocktail hour to look forward to after a hard day at the ballpark. Many people don’t realize what a baseball fan Mrs Ford was or how critical her support for clearer stats and the Earned Run Average movement was. Courtesy Wikipedia.
Just thinking about the possibilities of permanent guest status nearly makes me drop to the floor and rock in a frenzy of overstimulated bliss. My path is clear, now if I could just get my head to follow.
* NOTE: Exceptions would of course be made for the odd dinner party, provided it was limited to no more than eight guests and someone else cleaned up.
Kitchen Slattern 