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Fear and loathing at the Fairway
Courtesy curbed.com
Dear Fairway,
I’m writing today to clarify certain events leading up to the recent unfortunate situation in your Red Hook store involving myself, the assistant manager, six grocery carts, some allegedly stolen beer and my car. First, I’d like to assure you that my personal liability umbrella policy is up-to-date and all damage to your property and medical expenses incurred by your staff will be covered. This is, however, in no way an admission of guilt. I maintain I was provoked, even driven to despair, in the hours leading up to the “incident” in the parking lot, and in the interest of avoiding further such problems would like to explain. I know I am not alone in my feelings about your store.
Let me begin by saying that the converted warehouse by the water is a lovely location, and at first glance a beautiful, inviting store. Your merchandising scheme, however, appears to have been hatched by a bunch of fun house planners in collaboration with inmates of a state mental hospital who have been off their meds for some little time. For example, there are spices in at least four locations, and I can only assume there may be more. By the time I get to display number three on any given trip I’ve forgotten whether I need cumin or coriander, not to mention where I am and the correct spelling of my own name.
Spice Up Your Hump Day
Turkey vegetable chili: One bowl fits all.
Even vegetarians!
Feeding my household is challenging at best. I am the only mammal eater, so there’s no upside to making beef or pork. In fact it’s come to the point where I have to take my steak or burger into another room to spare my loved ones the traumatizing smell of charred, formerly sentient flesh. Salt and cheese are off the menu owing to Mr. Slattern’s health concerns, the apple of my eye dislikes potatoes, I’m trying to avoid pasta and bread, and serving beans more than once a week would be, gastrically speaking, unfortunate on an Old Testament scale. Let’s just leave it at that.
So it’s fish or chicken or turkey or fish most nights, except on omelette night, or in the event of a sit down strike, which in my house is shorthand for I’m sick of cooking, out of ideas and borrowing patience, so unless you’re prepared to have cereal (and in my case, vodka) for dinner — yes, again — we’d best go out.
Biscuits 101
courtesy LizMarie_AK on Flickr
To my way of thinking there’s not much that compares to the smell and taste of homemade biscuits hot from the oven. A simpler bread there never was, nor a more adaptable one. You can fill them or roll them up with sugar and cinnamon. You can serve them at any meal of the day, accompanied by butter, jam, honey or just bear naked; they never fail to please.
If you’ve got a big Kitchen Aid mixer or the like, it does the work for you, and if you’ve followed my advice and bought yourself a pastry mat, clean up is a breeze. So this is why it surprises me that those nasty baking mixes continue to line the supermarket shelves and can readily be found in homes across America. No one would make ’em if they didn’t sell.
And don’t even get me started on this abomination. He has creeped me out ever since I learned to spin the dial on the big Motorola floor model in Grammie Sue’s living room. That giggle, the fetal dough face, the neck scarf with no pants. Gives me a shudder just thinking about it. Always has. And if you’ve never taken a squint at the nutritional content (and I’m slinging the term nutritional around here with what can only be called reckless abandon) of Bisquick or the dough boy’s demon offspring, you really should. Nasty fats and sodium levels at least double what you find in scratch made biscuits.
Recipe follows
The short end of the stick
Not as comfortable as they look. Courtesy http://www.squidoo.com.
Generally speaking (and I mean very generally) I confine my ramblings to food and drink or the mundane world of household chores, but I do have other interests and feel compelled from time to time to express an opinion or hazard a conjecture on that which falls outside the domestic realm. Such was the case last week when my virtual pal, the Freshly Pressed Cristy Carrington, penned a post entitled 5 Reasons Why God Loves Short People Best. As I am somewhat lacking in stature I begged to differ, and the good folks at More magazine have seen fit to include my little rant among their member blogs.
I hope you’ll have a look. Here’s the link just in case:
http://www.more.com/member-voices/your-stories/short-people-problems
Finger Rolls: The Superbowl Party MUST
Triumph in my search for the most elusive of rolls
Certainly a finger roll, but not the one I mean. Via celticsgreen.blogspot.com.
Some of you may recall that in an earlier post I expounded on the many merits of the finger roll, not the least of which is it’s ability to absorb vast quantities of alcohol. It’s real rumble food, folks. And now that the Superbowl and all it’s bone crushing, Belichick-genius-or-madman glory is nearly here, I’ve once again taken up the quest to find finger rolls in the metropolis, where the munchkin of the bread world is about as easy to locate as a native New Yorker in Times Square.
Gold Medal Bakery's finest
And so I am thrilled to report that the good folks at the Gold Medal Bakery are still fighting the good fight and putting out these little gems. They assure me you can reliably find them at Stop & Shop grocery stores, and lo and behold there’s one a mere three miles from my house! So I called them and arranged to pick up two dozen TOMORROW which will give me plenty of time to whip up the requisite batches of ham salad and egg salad to accompany the baked beans and cole slaw for my Patriots party menu. And beer of course. I’ve been saving up my carb allocation for three weeks, my friends, and on Sunday at last beer and bread will be back on the menu. I am beside myself.
We are SO ready. Courtesy AP
Kitchen Slattern 