Paws Off

To cope with the last weeks of February, I planned a stellar back patio container garden. With the help of Steve and lots of library books, this weekend I moved one baby step toward home-grown tomatoes. I started some seeds inside, and sowed lettuce and kale outside in boxes I got for free (with the purchase of a bottle of beer - darn) at a local wine shop.

 

I was feeling really good about my methods of squirrel deterrent. Until I saw these guys on our back porch at the same time.

 

Hanging out in the sun. Mocking me.

I have the feeling that the sanctity of my stylish planters will not be respected.

It's on.

To Feed or Not To Feed

This morning as I was packing lunch, I heard it.

Meow!

Certainly my imagination, I thought. But then it become more persistent. Meow! Meow! I'm likely to be hungry! I'm likely to be cold! I'm almost positively adorable! Meow!  I inched toward the back door, peered out the window, and there it was. The stray cat I had seen wandering the neighborhood last night. I instantly went into cat-lover mode, apologized, said I would be right there, and fixed a saucer of milk for this hungry, cold, and certainly adorable white cat. I inched the back door open. The cat instantly ran inside the apartment.

My security alarm went off. It was so early I hadn't disarmed it yet.

I grabbed said cat, because I couldn't have it wandering my kitchen, ran to turn off the alarm, and paused for a moment as the cat settled into my arms. It was very clean, and friendly.  All signs pointed to this cat once having home. No collar though.  I put the cat back on the porch.  It had no idea what to do with the milk I set out for it. I decided to leave it, and tried really hard not to name it (Stravinsky).

I updated Steve, who had been showering during my adventure. He said, "Did you wash your hands?" I washed them.

I grew up around cats. My mom once let me keep an adorable stray that came up our driveway one afternoon. We christened him Pierre, and in our house he became healthy, happy, and a little shit. An adorable, fluffy, sometimes wonderful cat, but a little shit nonetheless. (Sorry, mom.) This memory kept me from instantly adopting Stravinsky. I planned on checking the neighborhood for "lost" posters and putting an ad out on craigslist. I thought of Bridgett, who is currently feeding a half-tailed cat that lives under her front porch.

Stravinsky meowed the rest of the time I was in the kitchen.  Steve saw my heartstrings being tugged and suggested I move to a different room when he left for work. Which I did.

But then I peeked out the window. A tarp covered patio table had become Stravinsky's Place.  The sunrise illuminated his outline.  He was completely white, save a triangle of brown on the head and an absolutely inappropriate puffy tail that channeled Davey Crockett's iconic headgear.   I toyed with changing Stravinsky's name to something less refined. 

And I wanted him less. Which really bothered me. 

I also started thinking about how I was ready to feed and save Stravinsky, a random cat that appeared on my back porch. But if a human had turned up on my back porch looking for food and love, I would have been terrified and called the police.  I don't grant strangers' requests for money because I worry about what I'm actually funding.  Mostly I just feel that in that moment I don't have the training or resources to help rehabilitate this person in need. In that moment I cannot give them back whatever it is they lost to put them in this situation.

I became overwhelmed by all the problems in the world that I cannot fix, and felt like a selfish, unhelpful human being. But then I remembered that when people ask me for money, I offer them any food I have with me.  Only one person has taken me up on it. She seemed genuinely appreciative. I started to feel a little better. It's not much, but it's something.

Stravinsky is still outside, now following my landlady around. We talked briefly about it, with her commenting on how well cared for Stravinsky appears to be. She directed me to a neighborhood website that might help find previous owners or someone looking to adopt him. I hope it works, because Stravinsky still hasn't figured out to do with the saucer of milk.

Ten Seconds of Terror

Steve and I spent the weekend out of town, celebrating some family birthdays. There were two kinds of cake, both with a cool whip topping. I preferred the chocolate cake, and I ate many small pieces after dinner while pretending that I wasn't actually eating more cake. Before getting ready for bed, I had one more piece (which didn't count, of course) that I gleefully consumed by hand in a kitchen romantically lit by the open refrigerator. 

The following morning, I scrutinized my reflection in the bathroom mirror and noticed a large streak of platinum gray in my hair. I've been finding the occasional gray hair for three years - yes, I still vividly remember the first time - but this was a streak of epic proportions and had developed overnight. Panicked, I leaned in closer for a better view.

My hair wasn't platinum at all, just coated with a streak of dried cool whip from last night's cake.

Cool whip in my hair. 

I sighed and brushed it away. I vowed to never eat cake by hand in a dimly lit kitchen right before bed ever again. My nerves can't stand another jolt like that.  

Bacon

I love bacon.  I'm not shy about this fact of life. I. Love. Bacon. I have for as long as I can remember. In grade school, I once ordered a BLT hold the T at a restaurant. The waitress told me it wasn't a very healthy choice. I didn't care, because the T got in the way of the BACON so why in the world would I want it on the sandwich?

Now, I can appreciate tomatoes. But I'll admit that bacon often makes decisions for me. Out for lunch and deciding between two sandwiches? Which one has bacon? CHOOSE THAT ONE. Oh, that breakfast special you're eyeballing doesn't come with bacon? FORGET IT. Or, order it as a SIDE. Excuse me, Steve, did a hostess ask YOU to cook the bacon as we help out with the meal? STEP ASIDE. No, seriously, back away from the bacon. 

I have sharing issues when it comes to bacon. Maybe it's unhealthy for my relationships and my heart, but I love bacon and that's the unequivocal truth.

On Sunday, Steve and I went to a bourbon tasting dinner at Newstead Tower Public House, where each course was accompanied with a different bourbon and a bourbon cocktail. It was one of the best meals that we've had in St. Louis, and the chef came out to talk to each table individually at the end of the night, which made us feel very special. More notably, my obsession with bacon has risen to new heights because of this meal. We ate a beef stew filled with the most delicious, thick-cut, tender-fatty bacon I have ever tasted. Glorious. Also, we enjoyed Newstead's version of a Maple Leaf Cocktail:  Bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, served in a bacon and pepper rimmed martini glass with an entire strip of bacon as a swizzle stick. 

The evening was a bacon revelation.  Only my second bacon revelation, the first being on our honeymoon in Portland when Steve and I consumed a maple-bacon donut at Voodoo Doughnuts. I know it sounds unusual, but please, for your own good, don't dismiss it.  Once you try it, a fiery passion for bacon will be awoken in you that will never ever extinguish. 

Then again, I was bacon crazed before I tried any of the aforementioned delights. Perhaps I am slightly, very slightly, biased.  

Half-Failed Experiment

I've recently become intrigued with finding substitutes for eggs in baking.  This curiosity has been piqued by two factors: guilt and money. The guilt stems from reading The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. It's a great book that changed the way I see food, and also made me feel horrible for layer hens that are trapped in cages.  I won't go into the details of why I feel so bad for them, but I feel really bad for them. I am fine eating regular eggs that someone else buys, and I manage quite easily to not think about the chickens. But when I am shopping and I get the normal eggs in the cart, I am permeated by guilt as I inevitably envision what I read about in that book. And suddenly the normal cheap eggs seem like they actually cost an awful lot.

So now we get cage-free eggs, most often through our CSA, which leads us to factor two: the money. Cage-free eggs cost more. Kind of a lot more. As a result, I prefer to eat them as eggs rather than use them as, say, binding/leavening in a quick bread.  I pretend I get more out of them this way. (These eggs are easier to separate, and the colors of the yolks change based on the diet of the chickens! Fascinating!) When I read The Hobbit in the eighth grade, I had no idea how right Bilbo really was in that riddle competition. Inside an egg is golden treasure - expensive golden treasure - that goes into my baked goods.  I think of this and cringe every time I crack an egg into a mixing bowl.      

I started researching egg substitutes, hoping that the vegan baking trend could give me some guidance. I came upon ground flax seed. Mixed with water, it makes a good substitute, I read. And so healthy too, I thought, all those Omegas, even though I have no idea what Omegas do. So I tried it in banana bread. Oh my, success! So I tried it in brownies. Epic failure!

Well, half an epic failure. They were absolutely delicious! But they were rock solid. Let me reiterate: Rock. Solid. Steve and I could tell something was amiss with the brownies when they were molten after thirty minutes of baking and refused to set until forty-five minutes in the oven. Before we realized the magnitude of the disaster, we took the brownies over to Kaylen and Pete's apartment to share with some friends enjoying a game night.

I slid a knife into the brownies and they cracked. Yikes. Steve explained the situation and, lo and behold, a couple there had recently tried the same experiment.  Their brownies were of the molten chocolate disaster persuasion, they explained. Hm, I thought as I gnawed on a brownie that could have been used as liner for a bulletproof vest. What went wrong?

I decided I had no idea. This is why I am a musician and not a scientist.

Pretzels and A Fond Farewell

If the word "pretzel makes you think of the adjectives "dry," "crunchy," or "healthy," you have never been wooed by the homemade pretzel and rarebit at Dressel's Pub here in St. Louis.  Once you are subject to the charms of this butter* beauty, this fresh from the oven pillow of dough which is then dunked in a beer and cheese sauce, you will never (never, and I mean never) think of pretzels as something you buy in large plastic barrels from the grocery store.  The trouble is, when you go to Dressel's for a pretzel you're going to ask for a pint of beer, and while you're at it an entree or dessert since you visit the establishment less often than you like (but more often than you should).  A real-life, grown-up, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie scenario that results in quickly spending too much money in the name of the pretzel.  So what is a girl, The Mouse in this case I guess, supposed to do? Try to replicate the heavenly experience at home, of course. 
 

Steve researched and was in charge of the rarebit, which was a rousing success and proved itself on the first try.  The pretzels were good, not great. But encouraging enough to try it again for some friends, perhaps partially because I loved shaping the dough so much.  The second attempt yielded slight improvement, but I really have to say the third time was the charm.

The secret? Kneading the dough in the KitchenAid. For months, the KitchenAid laid dormant in the cupboard as I insisted on doing almost everything in the kitchen by hand, even though it took extra time. After a convincing argument from a bread book I had out from the library, I decided to give the KitchenAid a try...and I don't think I will ever knead bread by hand ever again. The dough came out beautifully and was better incorporated than I ever thought possible in a homemade bread. As a result, the pretzels came out perfect: a crispy, golden exterior, and a light, fluffy, almost cloud-like interior.  Between the risings and the restings and boiling the shaped dough prior to baking, making pretzels takes a long time.  In my book though, it's totally worth it, because we now have a freezer full of pretzels for later consumption. Um, yum.

Let's pause for a moment of silence and bid farewell to our good technique of hand kneading bread dough.  It was good to us, but in the end, was too fickle a mistress for us to settle down and marry.    

*I just realized that I use "buttery" very frequently when describing the positive attributes of foods I enjoy. I am unsure what this says about me or the health of my heart.

I'll Be Baklava

Everything I have read about phyllo dough goes something like this:

"I was really scared, but this was easy!"

"I've heard it's hard to work with, but I didn't have a problem."

"The thought of using it filled my gut with dread and left me quivering in a corner for several hours before I mustered the courage to begin, but it wasn't too bad."

Phyllo dough, the bully, causes panic in the streets and strikes terror into kitchens across the world.  Shame on you phyllo!  These people just want to enjoy a nice slice of baklava. Yet, by all accounts, phyllo was all bark and no bite. I chose to journey on, deciding that phyllo just must be misunderstood.  If I gave phyllo a chance, we could develop a good working relationship!  Plus, I really wanted to enjoy a nice slice of baklava. 

Phyllo dough and I became such good friends that together we made baklava and spanakopita.  Working with it was part cookery and part paper mâché, part delicacy and part speed.  In short, I loved it.  It was easiest to move the sheets draped over the backs of my hands.  Then a quick brush with butter (or oil, for the spanakopita), and on to the next layer.  Repeat, repeat, repeat... When it tore, I kept going, because phyllo is good at keeping that sort of thing secret. Then the nut filling, then layers, then filling again, then layers. I cut a diamond shaped pattern just through the top layers, baked the baklava, and poured a sugar and honey sauce over immediately after it came out of the oven. 

It was sweet, savory, crispy, buttery, almost caramel-y, and generally delightful.  I am sorry, phyllo dough, for ever doubting you!