Incorrigible and Not A Team Player. Yep, That Is Me.

A few years ago, I participated in a dessert competition. Now, I'm not normally one for entering competitions unless I feel highly motivated to prove myself, or I really think I can win it. Overall, I'm not one to seek out a competition just for the thrill of it (unlike other family members). This is probably the reason I always hated team sports, but I digress. I know I am a good cook and baker, and I normally wouldn't feel any particular desire to publicly prove it. If it wasn't for one thing, and one thing only. I despised the person running the event.

I am not usually a vindictive person. Well, no more so than anyone else, I suppose. This person, however, had gotten under my skin in too many ways and for too long a period of time. She decided to hold an event within the organization we were involved in at the time solely for promoting herself. She was one of those self-important people who seems to enjoy lording their own lofty (usually perceived) position over others. Even when they really have no status to claim. She also turned out to be someone who liked to talk poorly about others behind their backs, yet was perfectly pleasant and rather friendly to that same persons' face. I am not sure what I ever did to wind up on the malicious side of her. I try to treat people with respect until they show they are not to be respected or trusted. I like to give folks the benefit of the doubt. Yet I also know that I have no tact, and often say things that people take poorly even if they are not intended that way. Maybe this was just one of those times. Or maybe she was just an unpleasant little person and jealous or feeling unconsciously threatened by me. I will never know.. At the time, this event seemed like she was attempting to make others look bad so she shone in the light brighter than any other people.

As a way to shine even brighter than the celestial bodies themselves, the theme of her event was determined to be "Angels," which really had not a single thong in common with the organization at the time except in a peripheral fashion. If you were to squint a lot. Needless to say, her decision to hold this event rankled me, and I decided to do something about it. Part of her event was to have a dessert competition, also under the theme of "angels," where the attendees would choose their favorite tasty delight. Hah! I can do this, I decided, with just a wee bit of mischievous calculation. I combed my recipes for ideas, and felt disgust and disdain over the very idea of an angel food cake or anything remotely of the sort. This sublime dessert needed passion, depth, and lust rather than the traditional image of the lightest, airy, confection.

Then it hit me. Devil's Food Cake. Only I would infuse the cake with the richest dark (almost bitter) chocolate flavor rather than the pale, flat flavor of many a Devil's Food Cake. Rather than any traditional icing, I chose the style of a German Chocolate Cake, with a rich toasted coconut and toasted pecan frosting, where the pecans had been laboriously sliced in the perpendicular to resemble an angel's wings. It was a stroke of genius. I wanted my audience to feel as though they were being corrupted by even tasting a morsel of my divinely inspired dessert. I wanted to show off what an awesome baker I can be. I wanted to rub her nose in it and steal some of the glory she was trying to take all for herself. I called it my "Fallen Angel Cake," and it was glorious.

As I walked up to where the event was being held, I apparently caught her eye. She had been unaware up until that point, that I would be attending. It was not my usual type of event to go to, so it was a good assumption on her part. However, as I said, I wanted to put her down a peg, even if it was just to make her uncomfortable by my presence. I wanted her to even *try* to argue that my entry could not be allowed because it didn't fit into her predefined idea of what was acceptable. As I told her about my lovely Fallen Angel Cake, I could see her struggling to find a way to deny my entry. Her better judgement (or the realization that I would probably shame her publicly in some way) won out, and my entry was approved. I am sure she felt I didn't have a possibility of winning, so what would it hurt?

Apparently the bulk of the attendees felt so enlightened and moved by my fallen angels' passion, they voted my dessert the most noble honor of best tasting at the event. The woman putting on the event who apparently had no sense of humor was deflated by the wicked temptation of my offering, to which I found myself the owner of the most fiendish satisfaction. It pleased me greatly to watch her have to publicly congratulate me (and give me a small token for a prize) for my winning delight. Her words came out slowly, as though having to pass over a great blockage in her throat (the crow, maybe?). I felt vindicated by my win, and pleased to have my skills in the kitchen justified and enjoyed. That afternoon, my greatest pride was not in bursting her well-filled bubble of hot air, but in the plate cleaned of all but a few crumbs.

What makes me recount this story to you all? Well, today is my birthday, and I felt the need to indulge in a little devilish sweet delight for my birthday cake. So I am making another Fallen Angel Cake for the family to enjoy with me.

Another Quickie

Tonight, I am only up for another quickie. Why? It is late, and I have been going non-stop all.day.long. I am pooped. Seriously. Yet I come on here, knowing that my heart-of-hearts will guilt my creative spirit to no end if I don't post tonight. So here I am, and here you are. Forgive me for sounding a little list-y tonight, I am foggy brained and just want to sit and vegetate in front of a book while my creative juices simmer in the back.

Today started off with a bang and continuation of yesterday's festivities. Just before dark we picked out a pleasant looking fellow from the backyard coop and butchered ourselves a Thanksgiving turkey. He was a black slate (really a genetic mutation of the blue slates I believe), and a nice sized bird. We had just enough time to pluck and remove the inner bits before we were too chilly to continue as our solar heater was setting. We do all our processing outside to keep the house a bit cleaner, so we are a little more subject to the whims of Ms. Nature. Since the sun was already looking quite rosy and dim, we decided to continue the preparations after breakfast. Our friend had a good nights rest in a cooler filled with ice while we snuggled warm and cozy under the covers inside.

This morning we continued the preparations with choosing a second turkey from the pen (the smaller of the two slate toms we had remaining). We gave him our thanks for feeding our family, and spent some time plucking and butchering him. Jacob came out to help while Claire was inside pretending to be a moth flitting about with giant orange silk wings. When our second bird was all ready, he went to the ice bath with his fellow bird to rest. In the intervening time, we made pies, cranberry sauce, baked sweet potatoes, and prepped for the grande finale tomorrow. After the weigh-in today (17lbs even once fully dressed out!) we carted our first bird over to the neighbors house. We had offered them a holiday bird to be neighborly a few months ago, also figuring that it would help cut down on our feed bill just a little bit. These big turkeys can eat a huge amount in a day!

The bird we dispatched for ourselves was probably in the range of 21lbs, which is pretty darn good for a heritage breed! I certainly wouldn't buy a larger one at the store. He has a nice amount of fat, and his thighs are HUGE, so I am looking forward to seeing how he tastes tomorrow. It was only just a little while ago we popped our bird in the oven, for a night of slow roasting. Rather than try to cook him in one blaze of glory, I thought we would see what a cooler (275 degree) longer time in the oven would do to our heritage bird. I am sure he will be moist and tasty under his tin foil hat.

Anyways, I am tired and I know I haven't been super entertaining tonight so I will sign off. For those who celebrate the holiday tomorrow, have a fabulous Thanksgiving. For those who do not, I hope you have a wonderful Thursday in peace.

G'Night all!

What Are You Cooking?

Every year, I wonder if we should have something different to eat for Thanksgiving. It is such an American holiday, and I feel a particular pull to at least do some of the "traditional" fixings. In years past, I have had a variety of "non-traditional" meals. Duck breast, ham, beef, maybe even enchiladas, not counting my years after High School being poor and without family at all, where I ate whatever was around unless invited to a family meal by friends or co-workers. Then there were the many years of holidays spent on the Florida coast where we gorged ourselves on fresh shrimp and crab for the holiday. I always felt like such a rebel, consuming seafood when everyone else was downing turkey or ham. It was always strange, though, when my mother insisted on her rutabaga being included. As an homage to her own family traditions, she picked one up faithfully every November and December and cooked it. Even with shrimp. Truly an odd arrangement.

I used to plan alternate family dinners for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I talked about Indian, Mexican, and more. I championed sweet potato pie, black eyed peas, even my mothers' beloved rutabaga. Yet I kept coming back to the basics. I love the flavor of a good turkey, especially slathered with an amazing gravy made from its own juices. The rich saltiness of the gravy goes so well with the meaty texture and flavor of the turkey. Especially with a kick of spicy-tart cranberry sauce on the side. None of that horrid canned stuff for us. No, I get fresh (as much as I am able) berries and cook them with a cinnamon stick, some cloves, and orange or pineapple juice as a sweetener to counter the sheer tartness of the cranberries. Let it simmer for a while for the flavors to marry and it is the ultimate partner in my turkey-gravy-berry trio.

I then look toward the sweet potato for my next hit. And Yes, I think food can be a drug, and I am totally addicted to the exquisite flavors of a fantastic meal! This isn't the sweet potato casserole with marshmallows floating on top like some fruity tropical drink stuffed with 16 umbrellas, sprigs of mint, celery, and seven fancy swizzle sticks that I make. I prefer the simple baked sweet potato with pastured butter on top, and a pinch of salt. Sweet potatoes and yams are already naturally sweet, so why add the cloying stickiness of commercial marshmallows to them? I can't think of too many other foods that are more revolting. I would personally rather eat fried crickets than the sweet potato/marshmallow sludge. I like the contrast of the earthy sweetness of the potato to the salt and creamy butter. It makes me feel grounded and whole.

Speaking of feeling grounded, I think pumpkin pie (homemade, of course) deserves a spot at the table. I have tried pecan pie, even a chocolate version which was amazing, yet it wasn't quite the same. The best pumpkin pie is consumed about a day after it is made, to allow the flavors to fully generate. I am a crust lover, preferring mine deeply tanned, while Greg loves his custard. Together we leave not a crumb behind. I would love to add a tart cherry pie this year, but sadly they are not available. It would be a spectacular counterpoint to the meal. At last, this is the majority of what we are having. My in-laws have ordered stuffing and carrot casserole from Furr's Cafeteria (*shudder*). Greg has convinced me to make a healthier and better tasting version of the carrots, so I will add that to the list. I may even whip up a few white potatoes for them (we eat them maybe twice a year), but again I may not. Now all I need is a bottle (or two!) of wine and we will be set! Too bad the in-laws don't drink. Oh wait, that means more wine for me, Hooray!!

Sourdough

I am not sure exactly how we did it, but we created a monster. Not just your fly-by-night everyday creature, but a truly horrible monster whose mere proximity leaves a rank taste in the back of your throat which cannot easily be removed.

It all started so simply, as stories like this often do, with a desire for fresh Sourdough bread. Last winter, having left our own carefully tended batch in the fridge at home, we looked locally for another strain to raise as our own. We finally located some, and brought it back. Fed lovingly on a weekly basis with premium organic whole wheat flour (despite avoiding wheat, we have not yet tried growing Sourdough on other grains). We baked we buttered, we loved our bread.

Eventually spring came, and is often the case when the house warms up, the Sourdough was left in its cool room to think about itself. We have neglected our strains before, with no ill outcomes, as even if the top turns black you simply scrape it
off and feed it once more and the culture returns to its former tasty glory. There was something different about this strain though.

Through the summer we occasionally started to get a whiff of something...dead. It is an unmistakable odor that weaves into your taste buds like few others. Once you have smelled death and its sister decay, you never forget it. We suspected a mouse perished in my mother-in-laws sewing room. Coincidentally the same room the Sourdough lived in. A month passed, and the scent not only lingered, but grew. After several months we had silently hoped the poor dead little thing had dedicated, as the smell was a little less obvious.

Alas, such was not the case. As the weather started cooling again, thoughts and cravings returned to our beloved Sourdough, and with it the nagging guilt that it had been abandoned for too long. My beloved husband, keeper of the cultures, took it upon himself to perform his ritual resuscitation of the Sourdough. He was unprepared for what greeted him upon opening the lid.

Actually, we were all unprepared for the overwhelming blow to our noses. He almost ran through the house with containers of cultures gone horribly, horribly wrong to remove them from the living areas. It took over three days for the smell of decay to finally start to abate from the sewing room. For another week, the containers of our new chemical weapon sat and thought about itself outside near the trash can. Not a soul wanted to deal with its disposal.

Eventually, my dearest spouse nerve himself up to the task and cleaned the bowls out into the garbage. After bringing the bowls back inside, he rinsed then heavily bleached them. Finally, they took a spin in the dishwasher, for their final triumphant return to daily use.

Except, something was still wrong. As the dishwasher worked, I still had that lingering scent in the back of my throat. Upon opening the machine, all I smelled was death. We ran the machine again. Still smelled like death. The scent seems to have permeated the plastic of the bowls now, so they sit outside while we decide what to do about them. We both hate the idea of tossing the bowls, as they could be useful.

Catfish bait? Something to pack in your luggage to dissuade the TSA to poke about in your undies? The possibilities are endless.