Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Bates Nut Farm
Monday, October 4, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Bruschetta
Next March Steven and I are headed to Italy for my dream vacation. 3 days in Rome, 3 days in Florence and 3 days in Venice. I am so excited for this trip, to see all the sights, explore history, and of course eat!
This is my version of bruschetta, can't wait for the real thing!
This is my version of bruschetta, can't wait for the real thing!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Happy Father's Day
Happy Father's Day to my amazing Dad. Love you so much.
Wrote this memoir for one of my classes last semester.
Snap! Crackle! Pop! Went crunch, crunch, crunch as Dad smashed the breakfast cereal with the rolling pin. The popped rice cereal became crumbs in the Ziploc bag. He took the seasoned salt and shook some into the bag, smashing the bag so all of the flavors mixed together. Standing on my step stool, I peered over the high kitchen counter to watch him carefully take each strip of raw chicken, dip it in the warm melted butter, and cover each piece with the crunchy mixture.
It was Tuesday night and Mom had just started to work again. She picked up two night shifts a week at the hospital. Tuesday nights, Dad was in charge. My mother made dinner almost every other night of the week, for the majority of my childhood, but as an adult looking back, Dad’s meals always stick out the most. Perhaps that is because there were only three different kinds that he would make. Dad was king when it came to kids food: pork chops, spaghetti, and my favorite, Rice Krispy chicken.
I had just started kindergarten and Max, my little brother, was only three. On those afternoons, like any other, Max and I would play around the house and in the yard, until we heard the roar of Dad’s half-ton truck coming up the hill to our house. We would run out to meet him and help him take off his work boots; it became a daily ritual. His heavy-duty overalls would be covered in chunks of concrete, “Just a part of the job,” Dad would always say. He put away all of his work gear then took a quick shower, just in time for Mom to be heading out the door. “Are you kiddos ready for the best dinner of your lives?” he would ask. Max and I smiled shyly and ran to the kitchen to help.
Dad pulled out all the ingredients and neatly set them out on the counter. Chicken, seasoned salt, butter, and Rice Krispy cereal, all ready to be prepared in his signature dish. He preheated the oven and began to work. Max and I were too little to reach the counter, but Dad would pull up a step stool and let us stand on it to see him at work. We were his “helpers”, entrusted with the important task of confirming, absolutely positively, that ALL of the Rice Krispy mixture was combined.
Dad tidily arranged the counter into an assembly line to dip the chicken, cover it with the perfectly combined Rice Krispy mixture, and then carefully place each piece of chicken on the baking sheet. When the oven was nice and hot, he put in the chicken. Max and I would jump down and scamper to the oven, pressing our faces against the glass, trying to see. Dad would turn on the oven light to let us inspect. Watching the chicken cook kept us amused for a while, and out of Dad’s way, so he could finish the rest of dinner.
Next came Dad’s special green beans. They weren’t just regular green beans, because they had the secret sauce. For years my father would never tell us what was really in his secret sauce. I know now it’s because he didn’t want us to tell Mom. She wouldn’t have approved.
Dad would take the can of green beans, drain and rinse them, then put them in a saucepot on the stove. He added a little seasoned salt (which was a staple in our house) and then a bit of his secret sauce: a scoop of bacon grease from the jar in the refrigerator. The taste was perfection; a combination of tangy sweetness from the seasoned salt and home-style bacon in every vegetable bite. Even now, knowing what the “secret sauce” is, and how nutrition wise it is awful for you, I can’t help but admit that green beans with secret sauce is absolutely delicious.
Thirty minutes later and the chicken was ready. He pulled the pieces off of the sheet with his bare hands, working quickly to avoid a burn. He strained the green beans and scooped them onto our plates. From the refrigerator he would pull out a jar of applesauce, pouring a little bit onto each of our plates, not forgetting to sprinkle cinnamon over top.
The three of us sat at the dinner table, Max and I giggling as we kicked each other underneath, enjoying another delicious Dad creation. The combination of food was perfect; the chicken was moist and juicy on the inside with a salty, crunchy outside. The tangy green beans and sweet dessert-like applesauce balanced each other out. One of my favorite things to do was take a piece of chicken and dip it into the applesauce. At that age, I thought everything was better with applesauce.
A tall glass of cold milk completed the wonderful midweek meal.
After dinner, Max and I helped Dad clean up, carrying our empty plates and cups into the kitchen. He worked quickly but meticulously, hand washing each pot, plate and pan, even though there was plenty of room in the dishwasher. Some things were better done by hand.
When Dad was cooking, there was always a dessert, sometimes ice cream or cookies, but usually Popsicles. I loved the purple ones. The sweet flavor of artificial grape was perfection to my five-year-old palette. Max was too little to eat them on his own, so we would share.
We climbed onto Dad’s lap in his comfy yellow reading chair; the chair was worn down around the edges, but its wear and tear made it all the more comfortable. He would break the Popsicle into bite-sized pieces and tell us stories about living in Hawaii. Wonderful, fun stories about eating sugar straight from the sugarcane. Other times the stories frightened us, scary stories about spiders as big and round as Dad’s monstrous hand. No matter what the story, Max and I sat in complete fascination, hanging on every detail. We were captivated by every element; our eyes would grow bigger as the story did.
On Tuesday nights Dad always had so much energy. No matter what his workday had been like, he never let anything show. Every other night he seemed just a little bit more tired, and with due reason. At work he spent the day in the hot Southern California sun, carrying heavy hoses filled with concrete and working against time so the concrete wouldn’t dry before it was in place. It was grueling work. But on Tuesday nights, Dad had plenty of energy.
Wrote this memoir for one of my classes last semester.
Snap! Crackle! Pop! Went crunch, crunch, crunch as Dad smashed the breakfast cereal with the rolling pin. The popped rice cereal became crumbs in the Ziploc bag. He took the seasoned salt and shook some into the bag, smashing the bag so all of the flavors mixed together. Standing on my step stool, I peered over the high kitchen counter to watch him carefully take each strip of raw chicken, dip it in the warm melted butter, and cover each piece with the crunchy mixture.
It was Tuesday night and Mom had just started to work again. She picked up two night shifts a week at the hospital. Tuesday nights, Dad was in charge. My mother made dinner almost every other night of the week, for the majority of my childhood, but as an adult looking back, Dad’s meals always stick out the most. Perhaps that is because there were only three different kinds that he would make. Dad was king when it came to kids food: pork chops, spaghetti, and my favorite, Rice Krispy chicken.
I had just started kindergarten and Max, my little brother, was only three. On those afternoons, like any other, Max and I would play around the house and in the yard, until we heard the roar of Dad’s half-ton truck coming up the hill to our house. We would run out to meet him and help him take off his work boots; it became a daily ritual. His heavy-duty overalls would be covered in chunks of concrete, “Just a part of the job,” Dad would always say. He put away all of his work gear then took a quick shower, just in time for Mom to be heading out the door. “Are you kiddos ready for the best dinner of your lives?” he would ask. Max and I smiled shyly and ran to the kitchen to help.
Dad pulled out all the ingredients and neatly set them out on the counter. Chicken, seasoned salt, butter, and Rice Krispy cereal, all ready to be prepared in his signature dish. He preheated the oven and began to work. Max and I were too little to reach the counter, but Dad would pull up a step stool and let us stand on it to see him at work. We were his “helpers”, entrusted with the important task of confirming, absolutely positively, that ALL of the Rice Krispy mixture was combined.
Dad tidily arranged the counter into an assembly line to dip the chicken, cover it with the perfectly combined Rice Krispy mixture, and then carefully place each piece of chicken on the baking sheet. When the oven was nice and hot, he put in the chicken. Max and I would jump down and scamper to the oven, pressing our faces against the glass, trying to see. Dad would turn on the oven light to let us inspect. Watching the chicken cook kept us amused for a while, and out of Dad’s way, so he could finish the rest of dinner.
Next came Dad’s special green beans. They weren’t just regular green beans, because they had the secret sauce. For years my father would never tell us what was really in his secret sauce. I know now it’s because he didn’t want us to tell Mom. She wouldn’t have approved.
Dad would take the can of green beans, drain and rinse them, then put them in a saucepot on the stove. He added a little seasoned salt (which was a staple in our house) and then a bit of his secret sauce: a scoop of bacon grease from the jar in the refrigerator. The taste was perfection; a combination of tangy sweetness from the seasoned salt and home-style bacon in every vegetable bite. Even now, knowing what the “secret sauce” is, and how nutrition wise it is awful for you, I can’t help but admit that green beans with secret sauce is absolutely delicious.
Thirty minutes later and the chicken was ready. He pulled the pieces off of the sheet with his bare hands, working quickly to avoid a burn. He strained the green beans and scooped them onto our plates. From the refrigerator he would pull out a jar of applesauce, pouring a little bit onto each of our plates, not forgetting to sprinkle cinnamon over top.
The three of us sat at the dinner table, Max and I giggling as we kicked each other underneath, enjoying another delicious Dad creation. The combination of food was perfect; the chicken was moist and juicy on the inside with a salty, crunchy outside. The tangy green beans and sweet dessert-like applesauce balanced each other out. One of my favorite things to do was take a piece of chicken and dip it into the applesauce. At that age, I thought everything was better with applesauce.
A tall glass of cold milk completed the wonderful midweek meal.
After dinner, Max and I helped Dad clean up, carrying our empty plates and cups into the kitchen. He worked quickly but meticulously, hand washing each pot, plate and pan, even though there was plenty of room in the dishwasher. Some things were better done by hand.
When Dad was cooking, there was always a dessert, sometimes ice cream or cookies, but usually Popsicles. I loved the purple ones. The sweet flavor of artificial grape was perfection to my five-year-old palette. Max was too little to eat them on his own, so we would share.
We climbed onto Dad’s lap in his comfy yellow reading chair; the chair was worn down around the edges, but its wear and tear made it all the more comfortable. He would break the Popsicle into bite-sized pieces and tell us stories about living in Hawaii. Wonderful, fun stories about eating sugar straight from the sugarcane. Other times the stories frightened us, scary stories about spiders as big and round as Dad’s monstrous hand. No matter what the story, Max and I sat in complete fascination, hanging on every detail. We were captivated by every element; our eyes would grow bigger as the story did.
On Tuesday nights Dad always had so much energy. No matter what his workday had been like, he never let anything show. Every other night he seemed just a little bit more tired, and with due reason. At work he spent the day in the hot Southern California sun, carrying heavy hoses filled with concrete and working against time so the concrete wouldn’t dry before it was in place. It was grueling work. But on Tuesday nights, Dad had plenty of energy.
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