This Week’s Soup: Curried Chicken & Vegetable

tender chicken breast. red pepper, celery, parsnips,carrots, zucchini, tomato, onions, garlic. curry, cumin, turmeric, cinnamon.

“Are they happy chickens?” Handsome asked, lingering on the porch this morning after having said goodbye.

No, sir. No, they are not.

He was asking about the poultry featured in today’s soup. We’d been talking Soup Group and our soup options for this evening’s dinner. On Wednesdays, I cook soup all morning at Soup Group, and while I rarely feel like soup for lunch, I hardly ever feel like cooking for dinner. So Wednesdays = Soup for Dinner. (Beats Sleep for Dinner.)

Today’s soup, the curried chicken, would be a contender for dinner at our house tonight only if the meat was natural. And, sadly...

Sometimes the Soup Group shoppers buy special sausage. We occasionally have local beef (like from someone’s family member’s front range ranch). But our chicken, today and generally, is commercial, factory-raised chicken. “Headless chickens,” Handsome calls them, because he read somewhere that some factory farms were breeding chickens without beaks (because without beaks, the chickens in confinement couldn’t hurt one another as easily). Somehow that turned into chickens without heads. And somehow that became all factory farmed chickens, “headless chickens.”

Versus “happy chickens.”

I should mention that for decades Handsome was a vegetarian. His vegetarianism has slowly been corrupted (or reformed) over the last few years as a result of my efforts, my pandering ways, in the kitchen. It’s so easy to make meat taste delicious.

But it’s a lot easier to be discriminating (or snooty-pants) about what kind of meat you’re willing to eat when you’re not completely sold on eating meat at all. And when you only eat meat occasionally.

Welcome to our house.

Tonight’s soup, chez nous, was vegetarian corn chowder. (Also really good.)

Neglected Cat Stories

(These are not cat stories I’ve neglected to tell you. Nor am I a neglected cat telling my stories. These are stories of cat neglect. Scenes from a Neglected Cat.)

I am the owner-caregiver of a long-haired little cat-beast named Paprikash. Handsome and I don’t call her Paprikash, except when the vet asks for her name. Around the house, we refer to her casually as The Beast.

There are pitchers of water that would outweigh my beast, but she’s quite monstrous when there’s no point of comparison. Full-grown and just about six pounds, Paprikash is an unusually small cat. (Chaco brought balance to our home by being an unusually large dog.) She’s dark and very furry, and fancies herself my protectress.

When she’s in my lap, I call her Mamacita.

The last week or so, I’ve been catching up on The Beast’s neglected grooming. This is a multi-phase process, you understand, because there’s an awful lot of hair, and it’s way out of control, far beyond the poor creature’s ability to groom herself. Her fur isn’t matted, but it’s long, and soft, and training for matted. I’m so pathetically behind on her care that I’m not even trying to complete the grooming job in one sitting. Half the time, I’m just trying to stave off further decline.

After finishing with the beast, I require a change of clothes, there’s so much hair everywhere. I wear dedicated beast-brushing clothes for the task. Clean-up after every session so far has involved a broom and dustpan, rag and cleanser, so that my office doesn’t look like an unkempt beauty parlor with clumps of stray hair everywhere.

This morning, while brushing her, I noticed that in addition to the snarls of beast hair sticking to my beast-brushing shirt and the clumps drifting like soft, miniature tumbleweeds across the office floor, there were multiple tufts of fur stuck to the wall facing us. On. The. Wall.

I thought that was the height of excessive hairiness until I felt a clingy beard of fur begin to collect around my chin.

Our grooming sessions only last so long, usually just until one of us has had too much and walks away in disgust. (It’s not always me.)

But I love that beast. I know she’s looking out for me. The Little Mama. Good Beast.

Design Can...

I'm impressed and inspired. I watch this little video, and I don't know whether to cry, cheer, or start sewing.*

From the project website:

Abject Object is a design enterprise that supports homeless individuals and shelters through the design, production, and sale of retail accessories made from reclaimed materials. A hands-on rather than handout model for social and economic empowerment, Abject Object teaches valuable job skills including sewing, production, and business strategies, to homeless individuals.

There's so much I find appealing about this project: the human service component, the materials recycling, the community partnership, the multi-purpose products, the fashion styling, the practical applications, the skill-building workshops, the entrepreneurial training, the profit-sharing...

That waste-repurposing rag rug has me feeling optimistic about the future.

*Hat tip to the unique and vibrant emancipate oluwakemi, where so many interesting things are to be found.

1...8...39...50!

Last Sunday, the local family celebrated Aunt Aggie and Uncle Paul’s 50th wedding anniversary with a little get-together at Handsome’s and my place. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​It was lovely.

Of course, Aggie and Paul were there; Mom came with Uncle LD; Frere came (tho without bunnies, it being their mom’s weekend to have them); cousin Beth showed up with cousin Wilson, who is rarely in town. So good to see him! All three of Aggie and Paul’s daughters live on the West coast, so they weren’t able to make it. And Dad was absent, as he was headed out of town for a conference. But it was great company, all the same. Such good vibes were permeating the room - we laughed and laughed together, telling stories, teasing each other, making toasts. What a happy, celebratory occasion!

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Mom and Dad were the sponsors of our festivities. Mom wanted to go Big Nice for them, but 1) we agreed that since Paul is on the road so much these days being an internationally-celebrated, world-changing superstar, he and Aggie would probably prefer a casual, at-home gathering to another something fancy-pants at a restaurant, and 2) Mom and Dad's living room is currently under construction in a somewhat dramatic fashion. When you factor in what charming hosts Handsome and I are, you see that our sweet little dollhouse was the natural choice.

So, naturally, Handsome and I saw to it that the champagne was flowing and delicious food was on offer.

On the menu:

Beginning

Caviar pie

Uncle Paul’s house-smoked salmon

Bruncheon

Roast chicken & vegetables

Savory bread pudding

Mixed green salad

Fresh fruit salad

Dessert

White poppyseed cake with apricot filling and whipped cream frosting

The cake, we ordered, and Uncle Paul brought his special salmon. The rest of it was me on my feet in the kitchen for two days -- okay, for a long night the night before. Everyone really enjoyed their meal (Mom described it as “ambrosial” - heh heh), so it was utterly worth it.

I've got a belief system about food, and it includes the perspective that really good food can elevate an occasion exponentially. That’s one reason I'm working to improve my skills, and I was just so glad that I could contribute to the joy that filled the house last week. It was an honor and an accomplishment.

I was also happy to take the opportunity to work a little commitment voodoo: I ordered the cake from the same baker who did Handsome's and my wedding cake eight and a half years ago. And the poppyseed-apricot combination is the same flavor combination as the top tier of the three-tier cake we served at our wedding. (Yes, I know that's not voodoo. I don't actually practice voodoo. But I'm not above culinary suggestion.)

When people showed up with flowers, I felt quite sure they must be for me, as a kind of reward for my good efforts. Of course, the flowers were technically for Aggie and Paul, but since the happy couple were leaving town the next day for Mexico, all the fleurs ended up staying chez nous (win!), pretty little reminders of what a great time we’d hosted.

These are the gorgeous flowers Aggie and Paul’s eldest daughter sent:

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Mom brought two big grocery store bouquets that I rearranged into this selection for the living room:

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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​...And this purple arrangement that is currently gracing my oficina:

...Some greens for the kitchen window shelf:

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...More greens for the main floor bathroom:

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

...And a little posy for Handsome’s cove:

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Felt like, looked like, smelled like, tasted like a success.

Because...50 years!

Not Remotely Appetizing

This article from the March 2010 issue of Consumer Reports has me wondering what might be lurking in my refrigerator.

Consumer Reports tested the cleanliness of a range of “prewashed,” packaged salad greens. You know, the kind sold in plastic clamshells and bags.

Irrespective of brand name, style of packaging, or organic status, the samples were found to contain "rather high levels" of bacteria indicating poor sanitation and, get this, “fecal contamination.”

Specifically, 39 percent of their samples exceeded acceptable levels of total pathogenic bacteria, and 23 percent exceeded acceptable levels of enterococcus bacteria.

I’m so grossed out.

But why isn’t there data on how “prewashed” lettuce compares to a regular head of lettuce?

And how do either of these numbers compare to lettuce fifty years ago?

I’m just thinking that if there are similar levels of fecal contamination in a regular head of lettuce, and/or there always has been fecal contamination in lettuce, then maybe this is a non-issue. That is, have we always eaten these bacteria in our lettuce? Perhaps that’s what it means to eat things that grow in the ground? And the only difference in modern times is that we can measure more exactly just how much bacteria we’re eating?

I’m feeling queasy.

But I’d like more data. (Or less. Like none.) Especially when the best the report can do for me is to tell me to wash the greens myself, even though “Rinsing won’t remove all bacteria but may remove residual soil.”

That’s only so reassuring, guys.

Their recommendations, in toto:

• Buy packages as far from their use-by date as you can find.
• Even if the bag says "prewashed" or "triple-washed," wash the greens yourself. Rinsing won't remove all bacteria but may remove residual soil.
• Prevent cross contamination by keeping greens away from raw meat. For more information, go to www.ConsumersUnion.org/safefood.

Time to look into the anti-microbial properties of vinaigrette.

Language, Smarts, and My New Boyfriend

I used the word “behemoth” in a meeting today. And while I knew that I was using it correctly, I was instantly worried that I hadn’t pronounced it correctly.

(You know I checked later, and it turns out I’m okay.)

This comes as a result of positive peer pressure. Specifically, I’ve been spending all kinds of time with Dad, helping him with a grant application for his business, and I guess he’s rubbing off on me. Dad uses words like “temerity”. For the same purposes, in the off-hours that constitute most of my day, I tend to use words like “balls”. So it’s probably time I upped my game. (I’m sure the grant funds are incidental, and improvements to my language skills were Dad’s whole point all along.)

Dad’s a longstanding advocate for speaking intelligently, or “like you’ve got a brain in your head,” as I think of it.

This brings us around to my new boyfriend:

Scott Fujita, November 2007

I know, folks. Hold on to your hats, I’m digging on a football player. But seriously, this article is such good shit, I wonder if Fujita has a PR coach. I’m kind of dying to know.

Another new boyfriend. And a slight uptick in my interest in this year’s Superbowl.

Didn’t see it coming.

Accommodations

If my house had a Grouch Room, in it would be this Grouch Chair, and there I would sit and revel in my grouchiness.

The Selfish Giant, spotted at krisatomic

Without the chair, it's just me being surly in the living room. (Not cool.)

Testy and Cantankerous

Man, am I in a crappy mood. I ought to be sitting on my porch, waving a cane, and yelling at kids to get the hell offa my lawn. I think I’d enjoy that today.

Last week’s soup was Cabbage Stew with Meatballs. It was an invented recipe (shhh), and came out kind of awesome. Sales have been quite strong.

This week, there will be no Soup Group, as our cooks have been commissioned to make a chocolate dessert for some club, instead. Maybe it’s because I’m irritable and crotchety, but I don’t get it, and I don’t think I’m going to participate.

The way I see it, the Soup Group makes soup, and we sell it, and the proceeds benefit the clinic in Baghdad. Dessert is not soup, and these dessert proceeds won’t be directed to the clinic in Baghdad. Some guy just figured, oh there’s ladies working in the kitchen on Wednesdays - let’s ask them to make some dessert for us.

It’s not a request that should have been honored. But because I couldn’t think of a response other than “Fuck no” (which would not have been appropriate), the other ladies cast their votes without my input, and they decided to go with it.

And, perhaps because of this mood I’m in, I’m actually feeling a little annoyed every time I think about it.

Clearly, it’s time to get back to yoga. Or something.

What has been making me smile, regardless of my generally evil disposition: There was a moment last night at the Haiti Relief event when I was out on the dance floor with a new buddy (who was tearing it up, by the way), and I realized that the vastly white, middle-aged crowd surrounding us was singing along - literally, every single word - to the song “Disco Inferno”. Not just the chorus, beloved. The whole song. Loud and clear.

It was hilarious. A really funny group-sing moment. Ha.

...And then the moment passes, and I’m a crotchety old bag again. Oh well.