Travels with The Rayman

Yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday.  We played golf in the a.m. with friends and then we gathered for the game.  Much wine and whining ensued.  Rayman had the Niners written off before the half and then after the Raven’s ran back the kickoff for a TD, I was convinced.

But I digress.

We returned home with too much wine in our tanks.  Rayman said he would load my clubs into the other car.  He did.  Then he summoned me.  I immediately knew something was wrong.  It was “that” tone of voice.  Well…I forgot to zip up my bag and golf balls fell from my bag and started down the drive way into the street.  It was after 8:30 p.m.  The night was the dark and the moon was yellow…isn’t that a song?  I threw on my jacket and hat and trudged outside.  Couldn’t see s#%t.  Jumped in the car.

Monday is garbage day here in the hood.  As luck would have it, four of the balls came to rest pinched between the wheel of the neighbor’s garbage can and the curb…four of them.  Too funny.  One was still unaccounted for yet if you had heard Rayman’s pronouncement (YOU DIDN’T ZIP UP YOUR BAG AND NOW ALL YOUR BALLS ARE PROBABLY IN THE OCEAN NOW) you would think like I did that 20 balls were on the loose.  Well, there were only 5 and now I had 4 of them.  I drove down to the bay.  No ball.  On the way back, I noticed a golf ball sitting in the front yard of the neighbor two houses down and across the street.  Holy mackerel.

This morning I had a starting time.  I arrived at the course (Dairy Creek) about 15 minutes before tee off time.  I opened the trunk of the car.  The cart was there, the clubs were there.  Where were my shoes?  No shoes.  OMG.  I ran to the clubhouse.  They had about 5 pairs of shoes, none my size.  Judy, one of our members, asked what size I wore.  9s.  She wore 8 1/2.  I borrowed her sandal golf shoes.  Then I went to get my tees and markers out.  I keep them in a pink mesh zippered “purse”.  NO TEES.  NO MARKERS.  OMG.  The pink “purse” was not in my bag.

Couldn’t go home.  Had a match scheduled.  So, I borrowed some tees and markers and headed up to the 18th hole as it was a shotgun start (that where all players start on various holes at the same time).  I stretched once or twice and teed off.  I almost got a hole in one.  However, I didn’t.  And I didn’t make the ridiculously easy putt either.  And that’s how I missed my birdie.

I am constantly amazing myself.

It started off as such a beautiful day.  The sun was shining.  We walked the dog and saw the seals frolicking in the bay.  Oh, how lucky we were.  And I had a good feeling about the flan that I was assigned to make for a dinner party tonight.

Admittedly, in the past I’ve had nothing but problems with flans.  This time it was going to be different.  Really.  Flan.  Why does this dessert allude me?  It’s the caramel.  And specifically it is the transfer of the caramel into the pan.  It is easy to screw up.  First, the writer of recipes really can’t be there to say, “Now.  Take that sugar water than is about 1400 degrees hot off the burner and pour it into said pan and then roll the pan around so the caramel coats the pan everywhere, even up the sides of the pan.”  No.  The writer of the recipe cannot be with you to tell you exactly when.  And that seems to be the crux of the problem for me.

Now, knowing this in advance should aid me in the search of the proper flan.  So, what did I do?  Well, I picked out a recipe that really couldn’t be much more difficult.  In fact, it maybe the most difficult flan recipe ever.  In my own defense, it just looked so interesting.

But I digress.

So, I made the custard.  No big deal although the non-cook may not appreciate the finer points of custard making.  The most important thing to know is that you cannot add eggs into hot milk.  The heat will cook the eggs and you’ll end up with clumps of eggs.  Ugh.  You must whisk the eggs to “heat-proof” them.  I did this and thus avoided the only mistake one can make with custard.  Oh, except that I didn’t have any vanilla beans and the recipe called for vanilla bean.  So I substituted vanilla paste.  It was then time to make the caramel.

The recipe I chose included annatto seeds.   OH, and the recipe also called for 12 ramekins as each was to hold 4 oz. of custard.  So this meant I had to not only know when the caramel was ready, but I had to pour the caramel into 12 separate dishes.  WHAT WAS I THINKING?

What happened was that the annatto seeds turned the sugar water reddish thereby making the decision of when to remove the caramel from the heat all the more difficult.  Then, the annatto seeds needed to be removed which meant straining the caramel through a strainer into each cup.  OMG.  I ended up with spots of varying shapes on the bottom of each cup.  They resembled Rorschach tests.   Elephant?  Rabbit?  Richard Parker?  And there were drips of caramel all over the stove, in the pan for the bain marie.  The kitchen looked like a cyclone came through.  Oh, the bain marie.  That’s a fancy french term for water bath.  You put the filled cups in a pan and then fill the pan with water about half way up the side of the cups.  And if that’s not difficult enough, you cover the whole affair with tin foil and bake.

But let me digress.

I could not leave each cup with it splotches of caramel so I put each cup over a flame on the stove until the heat caused the caramel to move.  And then I picked off the caramel that stuck to the inside of each cup.  It was at this point that I just knew my friend, Pat, really didn’t like me.  Why?  Because she is the one that asked me to make it!!

The recipe writer reported that this recipe would make 12 as noted earlier.  Fat chance.  It made 7.  So much for saving the extra custard for ice cream which the recipe writer suggested in the event of too much custard.

And I think I will send the recipe writer a bill for the tea kettle.  I emptied my tea kettle of water into the pan for the bain marie and then place it back on the stove.  It was daytime.  I could not see the flame and these new fangled appliances do not indicate if a gas burner is on or not.  So, it is not entirely my fault that when I noticed the tee kettle was hot to the touch…it was on the verge of incineration.   OMG.  What else could possible go wrong?

Well, the custard did not firm up like the recipe suggested.  They have been in the oven for about 45 minutes and counting.  And just as I typed the last sentence, water in the tee kettle boiled over onto the  burner which made that sound of water steaming as the water hit the  flame.  So I just returned from adding more hot, boiling water to the bain marie.  And when I put pushed the oven grate back in to the oven, the water in the bain marie spilled onto the oven floor and made that noise of…well you get the picture.  I just covered the pan up with tin foil, set the timer for another 5 minutes and resumed my thesis on why I am unable to make a good flan.

And when they are done, I then have to make more caramel because the recipe calls for caramel dipped bay leaves and star anise for the top of each custard, of which I have 7 which means that if these ever get done, the Rayman and I will need to split one because there will be 8 of us at dinner tonight.

OMG.  Pat really doesn’t like me.

 

 

 

 

 

Every year we host our Winers and Diners gourmet dinner group over to settle on the next year’s schedule.  Let me back up.  I used to pound my head against the wall trying to figure out how to do the impossible by which I mean devise a dinner rotation while keeping everyone happy with the end product.  This was pure folly.  There are 12 women in our group and the task was impossible.  OH, I kid my women friends…but let’s be frank, 12 women gathered together to agree on anything is surely an impossibility.  !2 men would be, like, whatever.  They don’t give a whit about the whose house they are being dragged to for dinner.  All they require is that we inform them and remind who will be there by listing their names so they won’t forget their names when, alas, they meet again.

Women want to go each other’s homes at least once a year.  And they don’t want to host more than once a year which, given a schedule that included three hostesses every two months made that quite impossible.  And they didn’t mind mentioning it.

Oh, I kid the ladies.  They actually came up with a great idea.  Why not have one dinner party a quarter.  There are four quarter in a year.  Four times three hostesses equals twelve.  Bingo.  Everyone hosts just once.  One problem solved.  The other problem was delegated to chance.  When everyone showed up this year, I asked which quarter they wanted.  Three volunteers for first quarter were secured.  Etc. for the other quarters.  Then we drew names for the participants for each hostess.  Who could possibly object?  Problem solved.

But I digress.

When we get together each year as a full group, everyone brings an appetizer and a bottle of wine.  Instant party.  And then everyone digs in and helps themselves to whatever wine and food they wish.  Oh, so egalitarian.  And so it went this year.  Some of us stand, some of us sit.  We sit on chairs, ottomans, the couch and of course, and at the dining table.  To make room for all the food on the kitchen island, Wanda, our pet beta fish, we moved to the center of the dining room table and it was there that someone noticed she wasn’t moving.  And she had changed color.  And, OMG.  She was dead.

Yes, our fish called Wanda, succumbed at our annual party.  So, the Rayman gathered up her bowl, “fished” her our of the water and threw her down the garbage disposal.  What ever happened to the toilet?  No.  Wanda got the garbage disposal.  I don’t know.  It didn’t seem right.  But looking at it logically, all types of dead things meet their fate in the garbage disposal.  So, I guess Wanda really wasn’t any different from a purely logical point of view.  But wrap a few emotions around it, “My fish, Wanda, is dead?  She was the perfect pet.  And we had her for three years.”, and the garbage disposal solution seems, well, a bit heartless.

So, all my dear friends as well as those readers I don’t know, here’s to Wanda.  Put on your favorite dirge and drink a toast to Wanda.

 

 

 

 

It just hit me.  The train is analog, through and through.  And that is not a bad thing.  In fact, I love analog.  It is the world of knobs and I love knobs.  So, I’m happy as a clam right now sitting onboard the Amtrak train at Union Station in Los Angeles.

The old station looks good.  People of all nationalities inhabit with cameras that flash as they click away at the beautiful building.  One can make a case for losing the wrecking ball when you view the train station.  Not Penn Station, but still, it is a wonderful old station with plenty to offer the weary traveler.  Starbucks is here.  The ubiquitous Starbucks.  A small convenience store.  You can buy newspapers there which I did because I discovered that there is no wi-fi service on the Coastal Starlight train that connects San Diego with Seattle.  At first I was disappointed that I could not surf the web.  On further reflection, however, much better to watch the surfers as we head north to San Luis Obispo.  And for that, I requested and received a window seat.  And the windows appear to be clean (in the shade, where we are parked).  Yippee.

The bathroom is analog too.  Come to think of it, most bathrooms are analog, aren’t they?  Little opportunity to digitize that most private place…except for the new Toto toilet seat that we have purchased for our new home.  It has a handheld gizmo (a technical term) that you use to select various features of the seat which is heated and plumbed.  Jet spray anyone?  Perhaps a light mist?

But I digress.

When I checked in for seat assignment, the train employee had a piece of paper and she wrote the acronym SLO on seat 37 on her paper schematic.  OMG.  No staring at the screen, no clicking away on a keypad (like I’m doing right now).  Just a simple notation.  Pure, unadulterated analog.  Loved it.

The train just started rolling.  Nothing like air traffic.  No seat belts.  No jet engines roaring.  No beverage carts to get in your way to the bathroom.  No leaving terra firma.  Quite pleasant, really.

What it does have is LEGROOM.    Lots and lots of legroom.  And comfortable seats that recline.  And great big windows (that are clean in the sunlight).  And the ability to walk around as much as you like.  And quiet.  The train is incredibly well insulated.  And sitting here in the comfort of the train I am struck why the politicians rail (pardon the pun) against Amtrak.  Rail against the trains.   it is a most civilized way to travel.  And if we had high-speed trains, the trip would beat the planes hands down.  So, we know who the the lobbyists represent that oppose Amtrak and the trains.  The air travel industry.   Air carriers, automobile companies of all stripes , hotels.  But the citizenry needs to speak out and demand trains.  The best trains I have ever traveled on reside in Europe.  They are sleek, modern, and FAST.  200 MPH.  They have their own tracks so they don’t interfere with freight trains.  The U.S. should be embarrassed.  The rest of the industrialized world has left us in the dust on this one.

To those that do’t want our tax money spent on this, I say phooey.  Our tax dollars build airports which include terminals, runways, air traffic control towers and all other infrastructure needed for those airlines.  Take some of that money and redirect it to trains.  And while you are at it, sell all old airports and landing strips that the rich use to help pay for the train expansion.  If the rich want to land their Gulf Streams, let them pay for the numerous landing strips that dot the landscape.  And don’t get me wrong.  I’m not anti-rich.  What I am is pro-middle class.  We, the people, that cannot afford private jet travel (99.9%) need trains.  The economy needs trains (think infrastructure building).  The train would compete with the airlines and isn’t that what capitalism is all about?  Competition?  I think it would be grand.

And may I congratulate the Los Angelinos?  They have build the Metro train line into quite an impressive system.

But I digress.

The Rayman and I drove to Los Angeles yesterday so that we could see Book of Mormon, the award-winning play that was being staged at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood.  We had booked a hotel at the Burbank airport because our original plan was to leave today and drive to Ojai to play golf on our way home.  That plan was scuttled when Rayman’s ex-wife’s mom died and the service was scheduled for tomorrow near Temecula.  And that how I ended up on the train.  He is going to the service and family reunion, such as it is on the occasion of a funeral.  I’m returning home to take care of some business.  So,we stayed at the Burbank airport (now known at the Bob Hope Airport) and drove to Hollywood to take in the play.  It took one hour for a 10 minute trip sans traffic.  Parking was expensive.  When we arrived we stumbled on the Metro subway entrance.  Lightbulbs lit up.  There was a Metro station at the Bob Hope Airport.  OMG.  Next time, we will ditch the car and take the train.

The picture at the beginning of this blog was taken in the theatre.  Absolutely fabulous architecture.  But the play.  OMG.  The play.  Run, don’t walk, to see this show.  It is leaving L.A. but going to S.F. the end of this month.  It was hysterical.  And right up my alley.  I’ve been fascinated by the Mormon religion because of my dear cousin, Marilyn, who married a Mormon.  And because of the Mittster who just lost the election.

But I digress.

The train is moving again.  We just left, you guessed it, the Bob Hope Airport Amtrak station.  OMG.  The Rayman and I braved the freeway into downtown L.A. so that I could catch the train.  For heavens sakes, I was three minutes away of train station.    You can’t make this stuff up.  Who knew?  But now that we know, we won’t make that mistake mistake again.  Think of it.  Leave Paso or SLO on the train.  Get off at Bob Hope.  Catch the Metro to Hollywood and see a play.  Take the Metro back to Bob Hope, spend the night at a hotel nearby, board the train home the next day.  NO CAR.  Love it.  And the train trip one way today today cost me $27.

The train is really barreling along now.  The view is ugly.  Lots of tagging.  Lots of apartments with carports.  Lot of industrial buildings.  But it will soon improve as we head for the ocean.

 

Last night as we were making our way to the Pantages, the phone rang.  Claudia the Uncle Ralph are keeping Beau.  It was Claudia.  The conversation went something like this.  “Hi.  Who’s your vet?”

Rayman:  “Our vet?  What’s wrong?”

Claudia:  “I think Beau ate Ralph’s hearing aid.”

Rayman:  “Coast Vet.  But, really, I don’t think Beau would eat the hearing aid.  He might chew it to bits, but swallow?  I don’t think so.”

Claudia:  “Well, it was sitting on the table and now’s it gone.”

Rayman:  “Well, it’s pretty small.  Maybe he’ll be okay if he did eat it.  Keep us posted.”

You can’t make this stuff either.  At 7:00 a.m. the next day Claudia called to report that the missing hearing aid had been located.  Beau had been falsely accused.  No vet was involved.  All is well.

Returning from this recent digression, I must stay that the scenery is getting better.  Oops.  In a tunnel now.  Dark and mysterious are those tunnels.  And fun except for the smell of diesel now detected in the air.   Leaving the tunnel the views just get better and better.

 

 

 

So, it’s been over a week since I got off the train.  The ride was spectacular, though overcast.  The stretch of track between Santa Barbara and Casmalia is not to be missed.  You cannot view this scenery without the train as it traverses Vandenberg AFB where they shoot off satellites and rockets.  But you can see it on the train.  Book your trip now.  You won’t regret it.

Just to finish up the trip, I was joined in Santa Barbara by a recent college graduate from UC Santa Cruz.  What a delight to talk with her.  She gives me hope about the future.  Of course it helped that we saw eye to eye on everything.  She was smart and well spoken and unemployed.  A degree in Environmental Studies and no job in sight.  It is so sad.  She moved back with her parents and babysits for a few days a week.  Being a person that doesn’t mind dispensing advice, I suggested New Zealand.  And Canada.  Two economies that aren’t as “under the weather” as ours.  But her big, tall redheaded boyfriend that greeted her with a long, lingering kiss on the platform when we disembarked the train may have a different idea.  And dare I say, more sway in the matter.

 

 

 

 

 

My, oh, my.  I’m really tired.  It’s been a very long day chocked full of fun, excitement, cooking, drinking, nibbling, imbibing, laughing, chopping, mixing, sauteing, boiling, roasting, carving, measuring, basting…and on and on.

This is the first time I have attempted a cooking cook-a-long since moving to our new nest.  Our old house had two ovens, this one has one.  The old house had two sinks both with garbage disposals while this one has one.  The refrigerator in the old place was mucho grande.  This one is more petite.  The old house had granite everywhere.  This one has an island with a butcher block top which I had yet to cut on.  So, suspense about how the new kitchen would work out was thick in the air.

Up around 6 a.m., I decided to roll out the pie dough which I made the night before.  This went swimmingly well.  Look at that dough dotted with butter above.  That is a perfect looking dough made possible by the rolling pin that my friend, Nancy, gave me because she didn’t want it any more.  Love it.  It’s heavy, cold, and slick.  The dough rolls out beautifully with little effort.  Less flour is needed to prevent dough sticking to the roller like it did with my old wooden roller.  Who knew?  I’ve had my wooden rolling pin since about 1965.  It’s been a trooper but it has never been easy to use like this marble marvel.

The idea I had was to get the pie finished early thereby freeing up the one oven for other things and to let the pie cool in the refrig just as the recipe suggested.  So, I preheated the oven and got to work on the pie filling after I popped the crust into the oven.  The thing with pie crust is that some need to be pre-baked as this one did.  To achieve the desired effect of drying out the crust, one must put parchment paper in the pie plate and then pour on something heavy to anchor the paper and prevent the crust from puffing up.  In stores such as Sur La Table or Williams-Sonoma they carry pie weights and that is what I use to secure the crust.  The cook without weights can always  buy some dried beans and use them in lieu of weights.  Only problem with that is that you must make certain that you earmark the beans only for this purpose.  I made the mistake one time of trying to cook beans that I had used for weights.  After about 4 hours of cooking in water, the beans were still as hard as rocks and that’s when I decided that the beans I was trying to cook until tender….were the beans I had baked.  Those beans were having none of it.  It is as if they had turned to stone, petrified.  I threw them away in the trash.  No garbage disposal for those rocks.  They would have destroyed the disposal, I just know it.

But I digress.

The pie crust was in the oven.  The recipe suggested that I check the crust after some time to see if it was dried out and “set”.  When I opened the oven, smoke came billowing out.  OMG.  Where did that smoke come from?  There was a bunch of black “stuff” on the bottom of the oven.  OMG.  My pie crust was going to taste like smoke.  After thinking this alarming situation over, I turned off the oven, removed the crust, took out the racks and went to work on cleaning out the bottom of the oven.  Whatever it was came up and so I reheated the oven and continued the baking of the crust.  This may turn out to be the first only rendition of twice-baked pie crust.  I feared the outcome.  But what was I to do?  The house was choking in smoke.  Windows and doors were opened with free abandon.  The fan above the stove top flew into action.  The guests were arriving in a few minutes and house was, well, hazy.  And it didn’t smell all that nice either…billowing smoke, smokey haze…it had that smokey smell.  Not good.

While the twice-baked crust was baking, I was making the filling.  And that’s how I forgot to add sugar to the pumpkin pie filling.  Only I did not realize my mistake until the middle of the turkey dinner.  But more on that later.

As we have done for the past three years, we had a few of our friends over to cook, eat, drink.  And as we have done in the past, I pick the recipes, we buy the groceries and then we all come together and decide who will do what.  That decision is made over a mimosa and then it is “all hands on deck”.  This year we initiated my chopping block island by, well, chopping on the chopping block.  Many people warned me about doing this.  Even the Rayman didn’t want me to “ruin” the chopping top.  However, that is what it’s all about.  It’s a kitchen, the chopping block is available.  It should be used so I finally decided Thanksgiving was the time to initiate the block.  And that is what we did.  Quite the liberating feeling.  Of course, there are two schools of thought re: the chopping block.  Use it and don’t use it.  It reminds me of a couple that we once knew.  They had the most beautiful copper pans dangling from a pot rack.  “Oh”, I exclaimed upon viewing them, “your pots are beautiful.  How do you keep them looking so good?”  The good wife replied, “Silly girl.  We don’t use them.  They have been coated to “seal” in their copper so they rarely have to be touched.  I can’t be bothered with cleaning them but I like how they look!”.  Really.  A fortune in copper pots in the kitchen that were not being used.  So, that’s how I felt about the chopping block.  A huge expanse of wood to chop on was readily available.  So I am using it.

And my copper pans look like the dickens.  I don’t always polish them.  In fact, it is fair to say I almost never polish them.  But I use them and I love them.  They are a few of my work horses of the kitchen.

This year I found several recipes from the NY Times Dining section the a week and a day before turkey day.  And they were winners.

The turkey recipe was devised by Jacques Pepin.  It involved first steaming the bird and then roasting the bird.  “Steaming”, people scoffed.  Yes, steaming.  It is really an Asian technique used on duck for instance.  It promised to yield a moist and tender turkey.  Sounded good to me.  One of the most unusual actions it called for was cutting off the tops of the legs before cooking which then allowed for removal of the sinew in the legs which then allowed for easy carving.  What a fabulous idea.  So, when reviewing the menu together as a group, I described this action.  Rayman and Al volunteered for that duty.  Really, I should have asked the butcher but I completely forgot.  I highly recommend this action.  This will normal operating procedure for the all the birds I cook going forward.

 

 

 

 

But I digress.  So, they carted the turkey out to the front yard and proceeded to cut the tips off the legs.  Really, they were gone for so long, I finally went out to find them.  And this is what I found.  In the picture, not only do you see the leg tips but the sinew as well.  LOL.  The sinew was to be removed after the turkey was cooked, not before.  The Rayman indicated that it was tedious and took all his strength.  You think?  So, as a follow up to this, when the bird was done, a few pieces of sinew remained in the leg.  With a gentle tug, out them came.  So, when you do  this, remember that little trick…sinew removal after the bird is done.

 

One oven is a challenge since I did not pay any attention to how many dishes needed an oven.  The dressing required an oven for roasting the hazelnuts and roasting the completed dressing for an hour.  The sweet and sour onions required an hour of roasting.  The turkey required 2 hours of roasting.  The squash required 40 minutes of roasting.  My advice to the dear reader is to pick your dishes carefully if you have only one oven.  Luckily, I have an old stand alone convection oven in the garage.  We bought this oven when we lived in our other one oven home and used it a few times.  But it hadn’t been used in about 10 years.  So it was with some fear and trepidation that I fired it up (plugged it in).  Thankfully it worked and it saved us a lot of grief.

And what is it about gravy?  I find gravy to be overrated and unnecessary.  Having said that, I did make some gravy with Jaques’s help.  However, for all the time and energy, I will lobby for listing gravy on the endangered recipe list and opt instead for nude potatoes, meat etc.  Exceptions should be made for french sauces, of course.

So where was I?   Who knows?  So here’s a picture of the table setting.

 

Cooking with friends is delightful and I highly recommend you all get yourselves a group of friends and try it.  While we were in the thick of cooking, I cranked up the Rolling Stones on Pandora to energize the crowd.  Not too loud or everyone will yell.  But loud enough that people will be unable or unwilling not to dance or at least do a dance move or two.  Gives new meaning to shaking your bootie (while shaking the salt shaker).   I must admit however, that we are getting older and the conversations are getting funnier and funnier.  “Where is a cookie sheet?” , she inquired.  “A cooking fleet?”, he asked.  Or, “Where’s your grater?”.  “My gator?”.  These type of hearing problems, alas, do present themselves.  Then there is the problem of remembering things.  “Oh, I just found those extra Brussel sprouts.”, I exclaimed.  “I thought I bought more but then I wasn’t sure.  Obviously I did.”   And then I was always confusing the ingredients that went in the Brussel sprouts with the ingredients that went in the Sweet and Sour onions.  And then there was the fact that the Rayman had to run to the store 3 times during the day.  Maple syrup.  Where was the maple syrup?  An exhaustive search was undertaken only to come up empty-handed.  So, off to the store.  We needed more apples because I decided to double the cranberry recipe.  (You really can’t make too much cranberry sauce). So, off to the store.   And I DO NOT remember the third thing.  Ha ha.

Here’s a picture of the squash dish (orange) and the dressing.   Simply squash, onion confit (fancy french for sauteed until brown and beautiful), and chopped fresh mint.   And check out the dressing.  Yummy dressing with hazelnuts, mushrooms, rustic bread.

 

 

 

A picture of the bird during the cooking process (above right).  I wonder.  Does it make all much difference to baste during the cooking of the bird?  It is such a pain.  Does it matter?  I dutifully followed the recipe and basted but had to remove the bird to do it.

Below are the sweet and sour onions and the Brussel sprouts dishes.

 

The mystery of the day was the smoking oven.  As I mentioned earlier, there was something on the bottom of the oven that smoked so much I had to take the pie crust out so that I could clean the oven by hand before completing the job of baking the crust.  So, the oven was clean.  We then place a few things in it but nothing, nothing was spilled.  And yet, when I took the turkey out of the oven, something was on the bottom of the oven?  How in the world did it get there?  No one had an answer.  We’ll never know.  But it was so mysterious and annoying simultaneously that I did a self-clean cycle the next day.  It is clean now.  Can’t wait to bake without spilling again to see if the oven stays clean.  Is it haunted?  I’m suspicious.

And to pick up the pie crust episode, I realized during the dinner that I did not add sugar to the pie.  It just hit me like a ton a bricks.  Rayman thought that I did add sugar and just forgot.  He had me believing it.  That is until he took a taste and pronounced the pie to be without sugar.  For heaven’s sake. What to do?  So, while finishing our dinner, we did a group problem solving session and ultimately decided to add sugar in a variety of ways.  So after dinner out came the agave syrup, the ginger syrup, Grand Manier, sweetened whipped cream and we all just put on top of the pie the “topping” of our choice.  Think of decorating an ice cream sundae.  Yep.  That’s what we did and it worked.  The pie was delicious.  Who knew?  And ultimately not as sweet and everyone loved it (or so they said!!)

So, there you have it.  What could have been a traumatic event turned out to be creative and fun.  Just goes to show you, life is what you make it!!  and so is the pumpkin pie!!

All but Rayman at the dinner table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So…we landed in Palm Desert this p.m. to spend a week at a Marriott property with our good friends, Ruth and Tom.  Weather was perfect.  A glorious day in the desert.

We met up with our buds in the parking lot of the resort because the room wasn’t ready yet.  There, it was decided that Ruth and I would venture out to the grocery store to stock up on provisions for the next 24 hours.  The next 24 hours included breakfast, lunch and a dinner party for 6.  Another couple was vacationing in the desert and our plan was to meet up and have them over for turkey burgers and all the trimmings.

So, Ruthie and I went together to the grocery store.  And it went something like this.  Ruthie wanted a list before she entered the store.  So we sat in the car and compiled a list.  I was visualizing a few things.  Good grief.  We ended up with a giant basket filled with all matters of food.  We had living butter lettuce(never mind that I had brought romaine from home), a head of cabbage, cilantro, onions, two bags of bells (I picked out the baby bells (my AT&T background was showing?)  Ruthie picked out 3 big bells.  Grapes, bananas, soda water, regular water, diet tonic water.  Do you have any idea how many kinds of water there are out on the market.  Cheese sticks, sliced cheese (never mind that I had brought brie), ground turkey, smoked turkey, bacon, vinegar (never mind that I brought red vinegar, the recipe required white vinegar!!).   Kaiser rolls and skinny bread.  On and on.

But I digress.

It was time to check out and so I wheeled the basket into the self-check area and proceeded to start the check out process.  First thing Ruth did was set her purse down on the “bagging area”.  That is when a voice announced, “Uknown item in the bagging area.”  A very loud and repeating announcement.  “Ruth, you need to move your purse off the scale.”  Ruth took the purse off the scale.  Then she started handing me items.  One of the items wouldn’t register.  So, the woman that was in charge of the bagging area as well as the machine that controlled the “self-checkout area”, came to my rescue.  Then I realized that Ruth had one bag of bells and so did I.  This required one purchase to be deleted.  So, the lady came over to assist us again.  Ruth placed her purse in the bagging area again.  “Unknown item in the bagging area”, the voice announced.  Her purse was once again removed.

Ruth then decided the she needed more room in the bagging area (the food was piling up) so she moved one of the bags from the bagging area into the cart.  Well.  This would not stand.  The machine rebelled.  “Please place bag in the bagging area.,” it commanded.  Okay, okay.  The bag went back on the scale.

Once we didn’t place the item we checked in a bag on the scale.  The  machine went bat-shit at this point.  “Please place item in the bag”, the machine implored.  It refused to go further until we got the item out of the basket and into the bag.  About this time, Ruth mentioned to me that she never did self-check for more than about THREE items.  Geeze.  Ray and I do it all the time.  And I mentioned this to the lady that was there to help customers.  “I never have this kind of trouble of home.”, I pleaded.  I heard her eyes roll.

A crowd had gathered.  The other check-out stations were being used by other customers.  They were not have the problems we were having.

At this point, a bag of grapes got scanned and the price came up on the screen.  $6.37.  OMG.  I was not going to buy those grapes at that price.  “I need help!”, I implored to the lady who by this time was wishing she had a hidden movie camera.  Really.  She probably never had two old ladies come in and create such a ruckus.  But she came over anyway to help us remove the grapes from the list.

We were at the bottom of the shopping cart, she could see that and so she stayed at our station and showed me how to check out…like I knew how to do that…how insulting.  But on the other hand, I was happy to accept the help offered.

As we waddled out of the store, Ruth said, “That took about 20 minutes.  I never do self check-out for more than about THREE items.”

And I said, “But look at all the fun we had.  Now we have a story.”

As we drove back to the timeshare, my phone rang.  “Where are you?”, I heard from the other end of the line.  “Oh, I got the bright idea to self check-out and it took a long time to check $120 worth of groceries.  We ran the woman in charge of helping people ragged.  We made every mistake in the book.”

It’s funny.  After an “event” like that, the story improves with age.  By the time we had one glass of wine and a little down time, Ruth got to giggling about how funny we must have looked to that lady.  “She is probably telling her friends about the two old ladies and their tribulations at the self check-out station. It was our Ethel and Lucy moment”, Ruth decided.  And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.

And the topic kept coming up all evening and the more we thought about it the funnier it became.

And did I mention, the store was practically empty and there were several checkers there with time on their hands.  And they probably had the ability to actually check the groceries.  But oh, no.  I had to do it my way.  What the hell was I thinking?