It's kind of tradition every year in the Fall to do lots of things with pumpkins. Pumpkins run a plenty around us, and you can usually find a good-sized one for a decent price for carving purposes. The last several years, Mom and I have spent time with David and his girls/family while I carve a pumpkin. Mom never participates in the carving, but I think she really enjoys listening to us talk, laugh, joke, and encourage each other as we gut those Jack O'Lanterns and make them into something cool. This year is no exception. David has already invited us for our annual carving fest, and I hope to pick up my pumpkin in the next couple of weeks so I get my pick of the litter and don't have to take whatever is left.
Along with pumpkin carving, there are tons of pumpkin recipes that are so delicious. I could eat anything pumpkin year round. One of my favorite recipes of all time is one we used to make around Christmas every year. It's a pumpkin log with a cake-like pumpkin outside, cream cheese frosting inside, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. We use to freeze it and eat it over weeks during the holidays. Such fond memories of the pumpkin log. It's been years since we've done it because it's very messy and takes a lot of time and effort (and the entire kitchen to get it done). Maybe this year I can change that and keep a frozen stash. Mmmm mmmm mmmm.
Something else that has become a tradition more recently is making pumpkin stew. This is a hearty meal and very filling. It makes great leftovers and warms up well in the microwave or reheated in the oven. Even Dad, who doesn't like squash of any kind, liked this recipe and gobbled it up. It's great served with a side of garlic bread or dished up on its own. And usually there's not much room, if any, for dessert. I thought it would be fun to include the recipe here for future reference. Just keep in mind that the recipe doesn't contain any measurements. It takes adjusting depending on how many pumpkins of stew you plan to make. And you don't have to add everything listed here. You can pick and choose and cater to your own tastes (or your family's tastes). I guarantee that kids will love it, especially if you have them help you make it. They think it's pretty cool when you take a pumpkin out of the oven and have dinner baked inside of it. Yuuuuuuuuuumy!
Pumpkin Stew (the basics)
Small pumpkins (usually one per person, depending on size; some people call them sugar pumpkins, but they're not the really tiny ones used for decoration)
Rice or potatoes
Tomatoes (canned or fresh; used to help create moisture, so do not drain the juice)
Green beans
Corn
Carrots
Onion
Peppers (of any color, although yellow and orange give it sweet flavor, while red and green make it a little spicier)
If you're David, add jalapenos!
Hamburger (you could probably use chicken, turkey, or pork, but I like it with red meat)
Any other veggies you want (cabbage, zucchini, etc.)
Meat or veggie stock
Salt and pepper to taste
Cheese (my personal preference is a sharp cheddar)
Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
Gut the pumpkins (use the seeds for a treat later!) by cutting off the tops and leaving as much flesh as possible inside. Lather the outside of the pumpkins (to avoid burning and over-drying) with olive oil or vegetable oil. Place on a cookie sheet (or other heavy pan where they can sit flat).
Cook the hamburger (or other meat) and rice or potatoes (separately). Drain the hamburger for less fat intake if you want. It helps to keep a little bit of fat with the meat so the "stew" stays semi-wet. If using potatoes, cut them up into bite-sized pieces. Cut all the other veggies into bite-sized pieces. If you want the harder veggies (like carrots and peppers) to be fully cooked (soft to the bite) saute them in a bit of butter and/or olive oil before adding them to the stew combination.
Combine the meat, starch, and all the veggies together using the juice from the tomatoes and the meat or veggie stock until you get a thick, consistent stew-like mixture. Spoon the mixture into the pumpkins. Bake at 400 degrees for about an hour (sometimes less, sometimes more depending on the size of the pumpkins). You'll see the outside of the pumpkins start to "shrivel", and that's how you can tell it's done cooking.
Remove from the oven and let rest for a few minutes. It's best to eat a whole pumpkin in a bowl, but they can be cut into sections and eaten on a plate as well. Top with cheese, and eat the pumpkin out of the shell along with the rest of the stew.
There you have it! Pumpkin stew to feed the masses. You won't regret making it. In fact, it might become your new Fall family tradition. I'm not sure if we'll make it this year, but I do know that it's one of my favorites and well worth all the work.
And if you have a David around your house, persuade him into making homemade caramel ice cream to go along with it (or vanilla with caramel topping). It will be the perfect and complementary dessert for your pumpkin stew. Plus, ice cream kind of fills in all the little holes in your stomach that didn't get enough food, so there's ALWAYS room for ice cream.
I'm looking forward to Fall (and other holiday) traditions this year. Fall is my favorite season. I love everything about it. There's nothing better than the sounds of leaves falling to the ground and crunching under foot, the wind blowing, the air getting crisper and cooler, the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and spice and pumpkin wafting in the air, the vibrant colors of leaves, the sweaters and scarves that come out of hiding, and the taste of romance in the air (even when there's nobody to be romantic with). Fall is just an amazing season. Even 'The Bear' likes Fall. He perches himself on the porch and surveys his kingdom for longer amounts of time in the Fall. I think he knows what follows ... snow and freezing cold!
In the meantime, I'm going to savor every delicious, delightful moment of my favorite season. Please stay forever, Fall!
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Rice Ortega
I have NO idea where this recipe came from, but Mom makes a mean Rice Ortega. We almost always eat it with Mexican food (tacos, burritos, etc.) as a side dish, but it can easily be put with other things as well. Or, you know, eaten as a meal all by itself, which we often do. It's so tasty and filling, and it just hits the spot when you need something warm and comforting.
Here's the recipe (Off the cuff, so no measurements - sorry! It's how we roll....)
Cook some Minute Rice in a large pot, or plan to transfer the cooked rice to a large bowl in order to mix it with the other items (usually 3-4 cups will do for a 13x9 pan and a good-sized crowd)
One carton of sour cream
One carton of cottage cheese
Shredded cheese (the more, the better, in my opinion)
Two (or more!) cans of diced green chilies (you can also use jalapenos here for some extra kick, but personally I think that makes it too hot)
Salt and pepper (season it until it tastes good to you)
Spray a 13x9 pan with non-stick spray really well. Make sure to get the corners. (Dairy sticks.)
Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Once the rice is cooked, fluff it with a fork (transfer to a large bowl if necessary).
Add the sour cream, cottage cheese, diced chilies, salt and pepper, and a few handfuls of shredded cheese. Mix until well blended. You should be able to see flecks of the shredded cheese throughout the mixture. If you can't, I'd add more. (So I'm addicted to cheese ... you got a problem with that?!)
Spoon the mixture into the greased 13x9 pan and add more shredded cheese to the top.
Cover with tinfoil and place in the pre-heated oven; bake for 35-45 minutes until the cheese on top is melted. Uncover and bake for another five minutes.
Serve.
Eat.
LOVE!
Seriously though, this is so good. We just had some on Sunday for dinner, and it was some of the best Mom has ever made. It gets better and better the more you make it and fine tune it. I like it to be moist, so if you have to add more sour cream or cottage cheese don't be afraid to do it.
It's also fun to eat as a side with roast beef, chicken, or pork. Turkey not so much, but I'm weird about what I'll eat with turkey (mashed potatoes and gravy, duh). It adds a little extra bit of flavor to the meal without being overpowering or making a non-Mexican dinner suddenly turn into a Mexican meal.
Thanks to whoever taught Mom about this recipe. It's been a versatile part of our meals for as long as I can remember. Plus, it's cheap and feeds a crowd. You can't beat that when you're on a budget. And kids love it, too. Even with the green chilies, it's mild enough that kids will eat it and like it. Try it - I promise you'll like it, too!
Here's the recipe (Off the cuff, so no measurements - sorry! It's how we roll....)
Cook some Minute Rice in a large pot, or plan to transfer the cooked rice to a large bowl in order to mix it with the other items (usually 3-4 cups will do for a 13x9 pan and a good-sized crowd)
One carton of sour cream
One carton of cottage cheese
Shredded cheese (the more, the better, in my opinion)
Two (or more!) cans of diced green chilies (you can also use jalapenos here for some extra kick, but personally I think that makes it too hot)
Salt and pepper (season it until it tastes good to you)
Spray a 13x9 pan with non-stick spray really well. Make sure to get the corners. (Dairy sticks.)
Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Once the rice is cooked, fluff it with a fork (transfer to a large bowl if necessary).
Add the sour cream, cottage cheese, diced chilies, salt and pepper, and a few handfuls of shredded cheese. Mix until well blended. You should be able to see flecks of the shredded cheese throughout the mixture. If you can't, I'd add more. (So I'm addicted to cheese ... you got a problem with that?!)
Spoon the mixture into the greased 13x9 pan and add more shredded cheese to the top.
Cover with tinfoil and place in the pre-heated oven; bake for 35-45 minutes until the cheese on top is melted. Uncover and bake for another five minutes.
Serve.
Eat.
LOVE!
Seriously though, this is so good. We just had some on Sunday for dinner, and it was some of the best Mom has ever made. It gets better and better the more you make it and fine tune it. I like it to be moist, so if you have to add more sour cream or cottage cheese don't be afraid to do it.
It's also fun to eat as a side with roast beef, chicken, or pork. Turkey not so much, but I'm weird about what I'll eat with turkey (mashed potatoes and gravy, duh). It adds a little extra bit of flavor to the meal without being overpowering or making a non-Mexican dinner suddenly turn into a Mexican meal.
Thanks to whoever taught Mom about this recipe. It's been a versatile part of our meals for as long as I can remember. Plus, it's cheap and feeds a crowd. You can't beat that when you're on a budget. And kids love it, too. Even with the green chilies, it's mild enough that kids will eat it and like it. Try it - I promise you'll like it, too!
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Choking on Bacon
My mom graduated from college while she was still pregnant with me. She didn't start working full-time as a teacher until I was in Kindergarten. Prior to that, she held several jobs, but we were by no means wealthy. We never went without the things we needed, but if it was a want, you couldn't have it. My older siblings know and remember that fact a lot more than I do, but I do remember how far Mom could stretch a can of tuna fish to feed five kids and her and Dad. It was more Miracle Whip sandwich than it was tuna sandwich, but we didn't know the difference, and I don't think it mattered anyway. We were taught to be grateful for what we had.
Because of our monetary situation, it was rare that we ate things like bacon. It was too expensive, so the only time I remember eating it was when it was on super reduced sale or given to us by someone else (which I don't think ever happened). The same thing happened with hamburger and any kind of beef, pork products, and probably chicken as well, although chicken probably would have been cheaper and easier to come by. We ate a lot of rice and pasta dishes. And casseroles. And lots of vegetables and fruits because they were cheap at the time (unlike now where you can't eat healthy without giving up your firstborn and 12 batches of your own plasma) and because Grandpa Koyle's garden was full of them in the Fall. (Thinking of his fresh tomatoes still makes me salivate!)
There must have been a good sale on bacon during the summer that I was four. I remember I was four because I hadn't started school yet, and I was both excited and nervous to go to Kindergarten. I also remember that it was summer because my brother, Jon, was home that morning for some reason, and I was wearing shorts and a lightweight T-shirt. Mom had cooked bacon that day, and we were having bacon and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes (probably more than I knew) she would make lunch and take it to Dad at the dry cleaning shop. Other times, he would come home to eat, but more often than not he had a hard time getting away from that place (for lunch or anything else, including vacations).
I was standing in the kitchen as Mom finished cooking the bacon and started putting Dad's lunch together. I asked Mom what she was cooking and what we were having for lunch. With an excited smile on her face Mom replied, "We're having bacon! Bacon and tomato sandwiches."
My response (as always) was, "I don't like (fill in the blank here with any food item, and this time it was) bacon."
She assured me I would love bacon. It's not that I was necessarily a picky eater (was I?), but it was more that I was afraid of the things I didn't know. I wouldn't eat mushrooms because (I got words mixed up a lot as a kid) I thought they were mushworms, and by being mushworms it meant they were worm poop that had been "mushed" up into that shape. So you can see how new foods might have been problematic for me, right? Anyway, Mom assured me I would like bacon if I would just try it. And besides, she reminded me, it wasn't often we got to have bacon.
After a lot of coaxing and convincing (and probably some bargaining with something I wanted, like cheese), I decided to try the bacon. Mom handed me a piece that had been well-cooked (not burned, just not fatty) and said, "Now, be sure to chew it up really well. Just keep chewing and chewing and chewing until it's small enough to swallow, okay?" I stared at the bacon and nodded my head in the affirmative.
Who knows how long I stared at the piece of bacon before taking a bite? It could have been hours knowing me and my stubborn ways. Eventually, I took a bite.
It was kind of a big bite.
Mom noticed how much I bit off and reminded me again to chew it and chew it and chew it.
Yeah, uh huh, okay, sure Mom. I will chew this until the cows come home. I will chew it so well you won't even ...
... UH OH.
I had swallowed without chewing really well and there was a huge piece of bacon caught in my throat and I couldn't breathe and I was choking and the world was caving in on me and my eyes were going black and the room was getting small and ...
... then Jon reached around me and gave me the Heimlich maneuver. Where did he learn that?!
And then Mom was all over me. "Are you okay? Are you all right? Can you breathe?"
YES, thank you.
And on the floor was a balled up piece of bacon. Which Jon promptly picked up and threw away. Thank him! I couldn't have seen it for much longer without losing more than my bacon.
Things calmed down after that. There were no adverse effects. Jon sat down to eat his bacon and tomato sandwich, and I went with Mom to take lunch to Dad.
When we got home, I believe I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.
Or was it mostly Miracle Whip with a little tuna?
Either way, it tasted good to me and helped Mom keep her sanity. Win-win.
For the record, I really like bacon.
Because of our monetary situation, it was rare that we ate things like bacon. It was too expensive, so the only time I remember eating it was when it was on super reduced sale or given to us by someone else (which I don't think ever happened). The same thing happened with hamburger and any kind of beef, pork products, and probably chicken as well, although chicken probably would have been cheaper and easier to come by. We ate a lot of rice and pasta dishes. And casseroles. And lots of vegetables and fruits because they were cheap at the time (unlike now where you can't eat healthy without giving up your firstborn and 12 batches of your own plasma) and because Grandpa Koyle's garden was full of them in the Fall. (Thinking of his fresh tomatoes still makes me salivate!)
There must have been a good sale on bacon during the summer that I was four. I remember I was four because I hadn't started school yet, and I was both excited and nervous to go to Kindergarten. I also remember that it was summer because my brother, Jon, was home that morning for some reason, and I was wearing shorts and a lightweight T-shirt. Mom had cooked bacon that day, and we were having bacon and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes (probably more than I knew) she would make lunch and take it to Dad at the dry cleaning shop. Other times, he would come home to eat, but more often than not he had a hard time getting away from that place (for lunch or anything else, including vacations).
I was standing in the kitchen as Mom finished cooking the bacon and started putting Dad's lunch together. I asked Mom what she was cooking and what we were having for lunch. With an excited smile on her face Mom replied, "We're having bacon! Bacon and tomato sandwiches."
My response (as always) was, "I don't like (fill in the blank here with any food item, and this time it was) bacon."
She assured me I would love bacon. It's not that I was necessarily a picky eater (was I?), but it was more that I was afraid of the things I didn't know. I wouldn't eat mushrooms because (I got words mixed up a lot as a kid) I thought they were mushworms, and by being mushworms it meant they were worm poop that had been "mushed" up into that shape. So you can see how new foods might have been problematic for me, right? Anyway, Mom assured me I would like bacon if I would just try it. And besides, she reminded me, it wasn't often we got to have bacon.
After a lot of coaxing and convincing (and probably some bargaining with something I wanted, like cheese), I decided to try the bacon. Mom handed me a piece that had been well-cooked (not burned, just not fatty) and said, "Now, be sure to chew it up really well. Just keep chewing and chewing and chewing until it's small enough to swallow, okay?" I stared at the bacon and nodded my head in the affirmative.
Who knows how long I stared at the piece of bacon before taking a bite? It could have been hours knowing me and my stubborn ways. Eventually, I took a bite.
It was kind of a big bite.
Mom noticed how much I bit off and reminded me again to chew it and chew it and chew it.
Yeah, uh huh, okay, sure Mom. I will chew this until the cows come home. I will chew it so well you won't even ...
... UH OH.
I had swallowed without chewing really well and there was a huge piece of bacon caught in my throat and I couldn't breathe and I was choking and the world was caving in on me and my eyes were going black and the room was getting small and ...
... then Jon reached around me and gave me the Heimlich maneuver. Where did he learn that?!
And then Mom was all over me. "Are you okay? Are you all right? Can you breathe?"
YES, thank you.
And on the floor was a balled up piece of bacon. Which Jon promptly picked up and threw away. Thank him! I couldn't have seen it for much longer without losing more than my bacon.
Things calmed down after that. There were no adverse effects. Jon sat down to eat his bacon and tomato sandwich, and I went with Mom to take lunch to Dad.
When we got home, I believe I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.
Or was it mostly Miracle Whip with a little tuna?
Either way, it tasted good to me and helped Mom keep her sanity. Win-win.
For the record, I really like bacon.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
A Fly In My Mexican Food
At the tender, young, and impressionable age of 13, I traveled to Mexico with my mom and dad so my mom could attend a Spanish-speaking school. She was going to be teaching high school Spanish in the upcoming school year. Another teacher (German-speaking) had won the trip and didn't want to go, and Mom was smart and said, "Thank you!" for the opportunity. I think Dad was excited because he would get to be immersed in the Spanish language again. He picked up the language on his Spanish-speaking LDS mission to Chile at age 21, just as Mom had. (That's where they met, and that's another story for another day.) I think Mom was excited because, although it would be hard work, it would also be a fun "vacation" from our routine summers (where the kids constantly said, "I'm bored!"). Plus, it would give her the actual Spanish cultural experience as well as being immersed in the language.
I ... well, I was not as excited to go. For weeks (or was it months?) before we left, I was a nervous ball of energy. I had a) never flown, b) never been out of the country, and 3) always been a home body. It unnerved me to think we would live with an actual Mexican family, eat actual Mexican food 24/7, and I wouldn't have a clue what anyone was saying. (As if Mom and Dad would have just let me wander the city alone, duh.) It was intimidating, to say the least.
Dad had big plans. He was going to teach me Spanish while Mom was in her Spanish class. We'd see the country, eat the foods, and enjoy every minute of it. Dad would probably admit now that he was a leeeetle concerned about leaving his dry cleaning shop in the hands of my oldest brother and sister, but he always did like a good adventure. Bless his heart, he and Mom worked and worked and worked with me to get over my fears of flying and leaving the country. They assured me over and over that they would not leave me alone anywhere and that the people really would be nice.
The big day came, we got on the plane, Mom and Dad filled me full of dramamine, and the next thing I knew, we were in Mexico City. The fact that we'd made it there alive was still not enough to convince me we'd make it HOME alive, but it was a small consolation prize. We gathered our luggage and found our way out of the airport and into a taxi in order to get to the hotel.
The taxi ride - oh my! Dad always rode in front with the drivers and talked their ears off. Mom and I always rode in the back seat where it was safe from "accidental" hand placement on our female bodies. (I didn't realize that was why we sat in the back seat until way later or it probably would have freaked me out. Parents are smart like that. Great information withholders, they are.) Anyway, I guess Dad asked to be taken to the hotel and for a suggestion about where we could get something to eat near the main part of town. (Every taxi driver we rode with loved Dad because he spoke the language and did it without a Gringo accent.) We quickly learned that when the light was green the taxi went. The drivers didn't wait to see if intersections were clear or if people were out of the way. If the light was green, they pressed on the gas. If they didn't? Horns honking, gestures, people yelling, even having the car bumped by the one behind you. It was pure and utter chaos. I was afraid for my life, Mom seemed a little annoyed by the immaturity of it all, and Dad thought it was pure genius and laughed the entire time.
We eventually made it to the hotel to dump our luggage and found a town square in the middle of the city. There were Mariachi bands playing, it was a sunny and warm day, and people were gathered around and moving about. The atmosphere was very laid back and easy going. We spent some time listening to the Mariachi bands under some shade trees before we decided we really were hungry and ought to eat something. Dad asked around for some restaurant suggestions and we finally settled on one. Now, I'd always liked Mexican food. American Mexican food, that is. Mom and Dad both reminded me that the food here would probably not be anything close to what we considered Mexican food at home. In other words, the restaurant was not likely to have nachos. What?!
We sat down, reminded each other NOT to order water to drink (always order Coke), and looked over the menu. Well, Mom and Dad looked over the menu anyway, while I asked, "What's this? What's that?" until they're brains wanted to explode. But they were patient and explained what things were. I felt like ordering chicken was a safe bet. Who can screw up chicken, you know? Besides, chicken enchiladas were good, chicken taquitos were good, how could whatever chicken they were selling not be good? It was the safest bet.
The waiter came and took our order. He brought out our Cokes and we enjoyed the veranda we were sitting on outside while we waited for our food. It seemed to take forever, but I think it's because we were tired from the flight. (I was anyway. I'd had enough dramamine to bring down an elephant.) Finally, the waiter returned with our food. He placed in front of me some big chunks of chicken with a dark, red - almost maroon - sauce and some rice. We thanked him, and then Dad said he thought we ought to bless the food. Genius! We should thank Heavenly Father for food we're about to partake, especially when we had no idea where it was found or prepared or cooked. It's probably what saved us from dying on multiple occasions. Seriously.
I think Dad offered the prayer, we said, "Amen!", and opened our eyes. Just as we did so, a fly (there were LOTS of flies; flies everywhere) took a nose dive into my chicken dish with red sauce and immediately died. I looked at that fly, looked at Dad, looked at Mom, looked back at Dad, grabbed my spoon and removed the fly.
Silence.
And then I said, "Well, if that sauce killed the fly, I wonder what it will do to me."
It was at that very moment that Mom and Dad knew I would survive Mexico - and probably even enjoy it. And I did! We did! It was one of the greatest adventures of my life with two of my very best friends and favorite people.
I've always felt sad about that poor, dead fly though. He missed out on a good meal.
I ... well, I was not as excited to go. For weeks (or was it months?) before we left, I was a nervous ball of energy. I had a) never flown, b) never been out of the country, and 3) always been a home body. It unnerved me to think we would live with an actual Mexican family, eat actual Mexican food 24/7, and I wouldn't have a clue what anyone was saying. (As if Mom and Dad would have just let me wander the city alone, duh.) It was intimidating, to say the least.
Dad had big plans. He was going to teach me Spanish while Mom was in her Spanish class. We'd see the country, eat the foods, and enjoy every minute of it. Dad would probably admit now that he was a leeeetle concerned about leaving his dry cleaning shop in the hands of my oldest brother and sister, but he always did like a good adventure. Bless his heart, he and Mom worked and worked and worked with me to get over my fears of flying and leaving the country. They assured me over and over that they would not leave me alone anywhere and that the people really would be nice.
The big day came, we got on the plane, Mom and Dad filled me full of dramamine, and the next thing I knew, we were in Mexico City. The fact that we'd made it there alive was still not enough to convince me we'd make it HOME alive, but it was a small consolation prize. We gathered our luggage and found our way out of the airport and into a taxi in order to get to the hotel.
The taxi ride - oh my! Dad always rode in front with the drivers and talked their ears off. Mom and I always rode in the back seat where it was safe from "accidental" hand placement on our female bodies. (I didn't realize that was why we sat in the back seat until way later or it probably would have freaked me out. Parents are smart like that. Great information withholders, they are.) Anyway, I guess Dad asked to be taken to the hotel and for a suggestion about where we could get something to eat near the main part of town. (Every taxi driver we rode with loved Dad because he spoke the language and did it without a Gringo accent.) We quickly learned that when the light was green the taxi went. The drivers didn't wait to see if intersections were clear or if people were out of the way. If the light was green, they pressed on the gas. If they didn't? Horns honking, gestures, people yelling, even having the car bumped by the one behind you. It was pure and utter chaos. I was afraid for my life, Mom seemed a little annoyed by the immaturity of it all, and Dad thought it was pure genius and laughed the entire time.
We eventually made it to the hotel to dump our luggage and found a town square in the middle of the city. There were Mariachi bands playing, it was a sunny and warm day, and people were gathered around and moving about. The atmosphere was very laid back and easy going. We spent some time listening to the Mariachi bands under some shade trees before we decided we really were hungry and ought to eat something. Dad asked around for some restaurant suggestions and we finally settled on one. Now, I'd always liked Mexican food. American Mexican food, that is. Mom and Dad both reminded me that the food here would probably not be anything close to what we considered Mexican food at home. In other words, the restaurant was not likely to have nachos. What?!
We sat down, reminded each other NOT to order water to drink (always order Coke), and looked over the menu. Well, Mom and Dad looked over the menu anyway, while I asked, "What's this? What's that?" until they're brains wanted to explode. But they were patient and explained what things were. I felt like ordering chicken was a safe bet. Who can screw up chicken, you know? Besides, chicken enchiladas were good, chicken taquitos were good, how could whatever chicken they were selling not be good? It was the safest bet.
The waiter came and took our order. He brought out our Cokes and we enjoyed the veranda we were sitting on outside while we waited for our food. It seemed to take forever, but I think it's because we were tired from the flight. (I was anyway. I'd had enough dramamine to bring down an elephant.) Finally, the waiter returned with our food. He placed in front of me some big chunks of chicken with a dark, red - almost maroon - sauce and some rice. We thanked him, and then Dad said he thought we ought to bless the food. Genius! We should thank Heavenly Father for food we're about to partake, especially when we had no idea where it was found or prepared or cooked. It's probably what saved us from dying on multiple occasions. Seriously.
I think Dad offered the prayer, we said, "Amen!", and opened our eyes. Just as we did so, a fly (there were LOTS of flies; flies everywhere) took a nose dive into my chicken dish with red sauce and immediately died. I looked at that fly, looked at Dad, looked at Mom, looked back at Dad, grabbed my spoon and removed the fly.
Silence.
And then I said, "Well, if that sauce killed the fly, I wonder what it will do to me."
It was at that very moment that Mom and Dad knew I would survive Mexico - and probably even enjoy it. And I did! We did! It was one of the greatest adventures of my life with two of my very best friends and favorite people.
I've always felt sad about that poor, dead fly though. He missed out on a good meal.
Monday, April 27, 2015
I Can't Make Jello-O
I suppose the title is supposed to have a trademark or something attached, right? Isn't Jell-O trademarked? Should it be typed Jell-O (TM) or something like that? I don't want the Jell-O people getting after me for use of their brand.
Maybe if I could actually make Jell-O it would be okay without the trademark?
On a Sunday several years ago (after Mom and Dad had returned from their LDS mission to Texas Fort Worth), I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner. We're masters of the timed bake option at our house. It works perfectly for Sunday dinners so they're nice and hot (and cooked!) when you get out of Church and already feel like there's a gaping whole in the center of the universe that can only be filled by putting something yummy and delicious into your mouth and forcing it to pulse through your veins immediately. Whoa - hungry much?
Anyway, I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner, getting it prepped, putting on the time bake, etc. She asked if I would make some Jell-O to go along with dinner. I said (for the record), "I don't know how to make Jell-O." Mom probably laughed at me or something, but she said, "Just read the instructions on the package and you'll be fine." Okay. Sure. Right. Yeah.
Now, I'd watched Mom make Jell-O something like 100 times. Maybe more. Maybe a little less. But not much less. Because we ate a lot of Jell-O (it's a Mormon thing). Clarification: everyone else ate a lot of Jell-O. I'm not a huge fan because people tend to put weird things (e.g. carrots, pineapple, chunks of other fruits, marshmallows, etc.) in it, and I don't DO Jell-O with things in it. Plain, yes. With a little real whipped cream, yes. With canned whipped cream, no. With Cool Whip, no. That's just wrong. (No offense Cool Whip. You're not on my list of favorite food items.) With "other" things in it, NO. So, so wrong. Just ... it's wrong.
Mom is/was a Master Jell-O Maker. She had the process down. Boil the water, have ice water ready to go, put in the powder, etc. Well, Mom went off to Church, and I was left at home alone to make the Jell-O. I did what I'd seen Mom do so many times: put the powder in the pan, boil some water on the stove, stir in ice water until it melts. Voila! And off to Church I went.
As we're sitting in Relief Society waiting for the last Sunday meeting to start, something started to feel weird. I reviewed over and over in my mind what I did to make the Jell-O, and something felt strange about it. But I consoled myself by marking off the checklist of "to do" items on the back of the box. I mean, who can mess up the Jell-O, right?
Me.
I can mess up the Jell-O.
Because I can't make Jell-O.
And this story is proof.
We got home from Church, everyone was in the process of changing out of their Sunday clothes, Mom had already changed and was in the kitchen throwing dinner on the table (because she's like Wonder Woman speedy when it comes to changing clothes, a trait I have not inherited), and suddenly she yelled, "Katie!" At the time, I was living in the basement, so I probably didn't hear her the first time, which is probably the reason that by the time I did hear her she was hollering pretty loud. I threw on the rest of my clothes and walked upstairs to the sound of her mumbling something.
"Did you call me?" I asked.
"Yes. What is this?"
"It's the Jell-O," I responded.
Mom was silent as she looked at the Jell-O and back at me.
"Is something wrong with it?" I asked.
Some parts of the Jell-O were like red water. Other parts of the Jell-O were like lumpy balls of red goo. It was jiggling, but I'd never seen Jell-O move like that. Mom asked, "Did you even read the directions on the box?" I assured her I did. "Tell me the process you went through," she said. So I told her. I put in the powder, I boiled the water, I used ice water and stirred it around until it melted. "That's what it says to do on the package, right?" I asked.
"Did you happen to make sure all the powder was dissolved by hot water before you added the cold water?" asked Mom.
HUH???
"Um ...."
And then Mom started to laugh. She said, "You can come up with recipes in your head. You can bake the world's best cookies. You have a sense about the way flavors go together. You're not afraid to be creative in the kitchen. Practically everything you cook or bake tastes really good. But you can't make Jell-O?!"
Hey, in my defense, I told her that up front.
And that is why I'm asked to make main dishes, side dishes, desserts, rolls, baked goods, salads, and anything else you can eat - except the Jell-O.
That's perfectly fine by me!
Maybe if I could actually make Jell-O it would be okay without the trademark?
On a Sunday several years ago (after Mom and Dad had returned from their LDS mission to Texas Fort Worth), I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner. We're masters of the timed bake option at our house. It works perfectly for Sunday dinners so they're nice and hot (and cooked!) when you get out of Church and already feel like there's a gaping whole in the center of the universe that can only be filled by putting something yummy and delicious into your mouth and forcing it to pulse through your veins immediately. Whoa - hungry much?
Anyway, I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner, getting it prepped, putting on the time bake, etc. She asked if I would make some Jell-O to go along with dinner. I said (for the record), "I don't know how to make Jell-O." Mom probably laughed at me or something, but she said, "Just read the instructions on the package and you'll be fine." Okay. Sure. Right. Yeah.
Now, I'd watched Mom make Jell-O something like 100 times. Maybe more. Maybe a little less. But not much less. Because we ate a lot of Jell-O (it's a Mormon thing). Clarification: everyone else ate a lot of Jell-O. I'm not a huge fan because people tend to put weird things (e.g. carrots, pineapple, chunks of other fruits, marshmallows, etc.) in it, and I don't DO Jell-O with things in it. Plain, yes. With a little real whipped cream, yes. With canned whipped cream, no. With Cool Whip, no. That's just wrong. (No offense Cool Whip. You're not on my list of favorite food items.) With "other" things in it, NO. So, so wrong. Just ... it's wrong.
Mom is/was a Master Jell-O Maker. She had the process down. Boil the water, have ice water ready to go, put in the powder, etc. Well, Mom went off to Church, and I was left at home alone to make the Jell-O. I did what I'd seen Mom do so many times: put the powder in the pan, boil some water on the stove, stir in ice water until it melts. Voila! And off to Church I went.
As we're sitting in Relief Society waiting for the last Sunday meeting to start, something started to feel weird. I reviewed over and over in my mind what I did to make the Jell-O, and something felt strange about it. But I consoled myself by marking off the checklist of "to do" items on the back of the box. I mean, who can mess up the Jell-O, right?
Me.
I can mess up the Jell-O.
Because I can't make Jell-O.
And this story is proof.
We got home from Church, everyone was in the process of changing out of their Sunday clothes, Mom had already changed and was in the kitchen throwing dinner on the table (because she's like Wonder Woman speedy when it comes to changing clothes, a trait I have not inherited), and suddenly she yelled, "Katie!" At the time, I was living in the basement, so I probably didn't hear her the first time, which is probably the reason that by the time I did hear her she was hollering pretty loud. I threw on the rest of my clothes and walked upstairs to the sound of her mumbling something.
"Did you call me?" I asked.
"Yes. What is this?"
"It's the Jell-O," I responded.
Mom was silent as she looked at the Jell-O and back at me.
"Is something wrong with it?" I asked.
Some parts of the Jell-O were like red water. Other parts of the Jell-O were like lumpy balls of red goo. It was jiggling, but I'd never seen Jell-O move like that. Mom asked, "Did you even read the directions on the box?" I assured her I did. "Tell me the process you went through," she said. So I told her. I put in the powder, I boiled the water, I used ice water and stirred it around until it melted. "That's what it says to do on the package, right?" I asked.
"Did you happen to make sure all the powder was dissolved by hot water before you added the cold water?" asked Mom.
HUH???
"Um ...."
And then Mom started to laugh. She said, "You can come up with recipes in your head. You can bake the world's best cookies. You have a sense about the way flavors go together. You're not afraid to be creative in the kitchen. Practically everything you cook or bake tastes really good. But you can't make Jell-O?!"
Hey, in my defense, I told her that up front.
And that is why I'm asked to make main dishes, side dishes, desserts, rolls, baked goods, salads, and anything else you can eat - except the Jell-O.
That's perfectly fine by me!
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