Cooking at 40

Yes, it’s true. I am having an affair with my slow cooker. We spend long and leisurely nights together, the two of us. The “Cooker”, as I fondly refer to him, will simmer for hours and hours at a time. His aroma is luscious whenever he’s turned on–basil, lemon, thyme and sage all rolled into one.

He’s in no hurry to please. He will cook low or on high, depending on my patience. There are no fights between the two of us. Just an agreement for him to please. He will make my food look and taste good while I get to enjoy the feast.

I’ve tried to keep my affair a secret. But I think my husband has caught on. He’s not sure what to think of all the homecooked dinners. I know he’s sensing my guilt. He’ll come around though, I am sure. Once he sees the benefits to my one-night stands with the Cooker. Benefits that include Chicken Parmigiana, Leg of Lamb, and Beef Stew.

Slow Cooker Beef Stew

2 lbs. beef stew meat, cut into 1 inch cubes

1/4 c. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper

1 clove garlic, minced

1 bay leaf

1 tsp. paprika

1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce

1 onion

1-1/2 c. beef broth

3 potatoes, diced

4 carrots, sliced

1 celery stalk, chopped
Place meat in slow cooker. In a small bowl mix together the flour, salt, and pepper; pour over meat, and stir to coat meat with flour mixture. Stir in the garlic, bay leaf
, paprika, Worcestershire sauce, onion, beef broth, potatoes, carrots, and celery. Cover, and cook on Low setting for 10 to 12 hours, or on High setting for 4 to 6 hours. Source: Allrecipes.com

Slow Cooker Chicken Parmigiana

1 egg

1tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. pepper

6 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

1 cup Italian bread crumbs
• 2-4 Tbsp. butter
• 14-oz. jar pizza sauce
Beat egg, salt and pepper together. Dip chicken into egg and coat with bread crumbs. Saute’ chicken in butter in skillet. Arrange chicken in slow cooker. Pour pizza sauce over chicken. Cover and cook on Low 6-8 hours. Layer mozzarella cheese over top and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Cook an additional 15 minutes. Source: Fix-It and Forget-It Big Cookbook

Slow Cooked Leg of Lamb

1 leg of lamb with or without bone

4 garlic cloves

1 Tbsp. rosemary

1 Tbsp. olive oil

1 lemon

1 tsp. pepper

Chicken or beef stock
On a chopping board, pat your lamb dry with paper towels. Finely grate about half the zest off the lemon and grind into a paste with the garlic, rosemary, oil, salt and pepper using a mortar and pestle. Rub the paste all over the lamb. If you like, let it sit on the countertop for half an hour or so, or refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. Put it into the CrockPot. Add about half a cup of liquid. Squeeze the juice of the lemon overtop too. Cover and cook on low for 6-8 hours. Source: DinnerwithJulie.com

I’m reading Genome: The Autobiography of a Species in 23 Chapters and I have decided that if I ever went back in time and had to do it all over again, I would become a biochemist.

I would have worked on the Human Genome Project and tried to discover some of the 30,000-70,000 unidentified human genes. I would have been like Elizabeth Blackburn, that scientist who co-discovered telomerase enzyme in the telemore gene (the longevity gene). In a lab, maybe I would have figured out how to prevent telomere-shortening and avoid the mutations that cause cancer and chromosomal abnormalities.

Beans, beans and more beans

OK, back to reality. I have put the book down now. So you may be wondering after reading above how on earth I will be able to segue from writing about telomere genes and cancer, to posting a food recipe. Don’t worry, I always find a way.

Although I may not become a biochemist in this life, there’s no reason why I can’t look for ways to prevent cancer, right? My answer to cancer prevention: Eating beans. OK, in all honesty, this is not a new idea. Years ago researchers at University College London discovered that a natural compound (inositol pentakisphosphate) found in beans inhibits the activity of an enzyme involved in tumor growth.
In my small effort to help increase longevity and prevent cancer, I am posting a recipe today from the Bacon Family Cookbook for Three Bean Salad. Eat more beans!

Three Bean Salad

Recipe by Amy Clay Hodge

• 1/2 c. sugar
• 1/4 c. chopped green pepper
• 1/2 c. vinegar
• 1 tsp. salt
• 1 Tbsp. soy sauce
• 1 medium onion, diced
• 1 tsp. celery seed (or celery salt)
• 1/4 tsp. pepper
• 1/4 c. oil
• 3 (16-oz.) cans beans (green, yellow, kidney or garbanzos), drained. If you’d like to convert those canned beans to dried beans, here’s a handy canned bean and dried bean conversion calculator.

Combine everything in a large bowl. Mix well. Cover. Refrigerate for several hours. Serves 8 to 10.

My Golden Retriever is going crazy right now. We’re due for what appears to be a big storm, but you never know. My dog has been wrong before.

Last week, in fact, my dog was wrong. He spent two hours following me – panting, drooling, checking himself regularly to make sure his tail was still there.

I would walk to the kitchen, the dog would follow. I would go outside to get the mail, the dog would follow. By the way, a safety rule: Never walk backwards when a dog is following you. A huge, furry tripping hazard.

Hiding Under Stairwells

Contrary to my dog, I kind of like storms. As long as I’m inside. There’s something about that sense of “something excited is about to happen. Get in before the storm!” I did not inherit this liking for storms. My dad would run around unplugging everything in the house. And my grandmother, well, she was just terrified. She would hide in the stairwell and we’d sit there with her, on the steps, and wait until the storm passed. And then it was not until we could count to 100 without hearing any thunder that we were able to crawl off the steps.

And my dog, apparently, does not like storms either. He pants, drools, wimpers and then pants some more, drools some more, and wimpers some more. This continues until I sit down with him, As soon as my ass hits the chair, there he is. Ready to lick me down from head to toe. Any bare patch of skin he can find (thankfully, because I am an old lady now, bare patches of skin are hard to find). And then, after I have been completely violated by this 75 pound fur monster, what does he decide to do? He starts to pant, drool, and wimper all over again.

At this point I am ready for a margarita and a bath. The latter will have to wait because there is a storm coming. So I’ll just stick to the margarita. Here’s a great margarita recipe.

Margarita Recipe

• Ice
• 1-1/2 ounces tequila
• 1-ounce lime juice
• 1/2 ounce Cointreau
• Salt (optional)

Moisten the rim of a glass then dip it in salt. Add ice, tequila, lime juice, and Cointreau and then stir. Serve immediately.

Grandpa Bacon loved to talk. There was something so soothing about listening to him, not having to worry about carrying on your end of the conversation.

He could talk your ear off about pretty much any subject, especially politics and history. I remember him sitting in his “Archie Bunker” chair watching a war documentary on TV and yammering away about the town of Thetford, taxes and public services. Ah, if only I could go back in time and hear my grandfather talking away again. Only now I would be able to throw in a few barbs about who I voted for last year and what is wrong with the conservative party today.

Of course, back then I was more interested in pop culture but I don’t ever recall Madonna or Michael Jackson coming up in any of our conversations, unless of course he was talking about what was wrong with youth today.

Back then I would just tune him out after a few minutes. Usually this would occur right after I had delivered his glass of water and he had launched into, “Now Angie, do you know what is wrong with…” and then I would politely smile and drift off, comforted by the sound of his voice.

Learning to Drive

When I was 15 my grandfather stayed with us while he was recuperating from a surgery. Looking back on it now, I can’t think of a more dreadful way to recuperate. He got stuck riding shotgun with me after I got my driver’s permit. My mom was too nervous to deal with me behind the wheel and I think my dad had all but given up on me ever learning the rules of the road. So here was Grandpa, recuperating and stuck in the passenger seat of a yellow Volkswagon Rabbit.

How patient he was. He never even blinked an eye as I weaved on and off dirt roads, trying to adjust the cassette tapes in my car tape player. He just kept right on talking. I would pipe in now and again with a “Really?” or “Oh, wow” just to make him think I was paying attention. However I kept my foot on the gas petal while trying to determine how many times I could drive past my boyfriend’s house without his family noticing.

My Perfect Driving Companion

Once in a while, things would get a little dangerous. Like the time I was parked at Cumberland Farms and pressed hard on the gas pedal to back out of my parking space only to realize I was not in reverse. We ended up stopping just an inch away from the brick wall of the Cumberland Farms store and I saw my life flash before me. Not that I was worried about dying in a car crash. No. I was more worried about my parents finding out and taking away my permit and my right to ever leave the house.

My grandfather, meanwhile, must have blinked that time but he never let on. I am convinced he must have feared for his life that time but he kept right on talking through the whole thing. Perhaps, after all he had been through, he may have thought if it’s going to happen, might as well happen in a yellow diesel rabbit driven by his granddaughter.

Through all of this, somehow, I managed to get to my driver’s license. Perhaps even more remarkable is that my grandfather continued to ride with me.

Looking back after all of these years I’ve decided that what my grandfather and I had during those driving trips was a mutually beneficial relationship. I got the perfect traveling companion: Someone who would keep quiet about my driving. While he got someone to talk to, trapped in a car, for over an hour. I’d say it was a win-win situation for both of us.

My husband married me because of chicken. It may sound crass but it’s true: I did not seduce him, my chicken dish did.

Now this was not just any chicken dish; this was David’s Chicken. A savory dish of chicken breasts, heavy cream and white wine. To my husband, David, this dish meant three things:
1) I could cook,
2) I could cook well, and
3) I would make a great wife because I could cook really well.

I know it may sound a little deceitful, especially if you have known me all my life and are aware that I do not cook.

Perhaps because of this very fact my mom was concerned for me and my future marriage prospects. She is the one who sent me this recipe when I went off to college. Turns out, she was right (but please do not tell her that). This was the one dish that I was able to master well (perhaps because it was easy to prepare and did not require many ingredients), and sure enough, this dish caught me a husband.

So after 12 years of marriage every now and then, usually when my husband is in the process of cooking dinner, I feel a slight twinge of guilt for not being the good cook I passed myself off to be. In the end though I think our arrangement works great. I stick to vacuuming and laundry while he feeds us all well.

So my advice for those looking for a better half – whether you are male or female – is this: Master one really great main dish – just one – and of course I highly recommend the David’s Chicken recipe below.

Enjoy!

David’s Chicken

by Bonnie Campbell

• 4 chicken breasts
• 1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
• 1 Tbsp. butter
• 1 c. heavy cream
• 1/3 c. white wine
• Dash of soy sauce
• Salt and pepper to taste

Rub 4 chicken breasts with Dijon mustard and saute in butter until cooked thoroughly. For sauce, cook heavy cream over low heat and then add wine towards end of the cook time (approximately 15 minutes).
Pour sauce on top and serve with rice.

Cherry Blossoms

You know spring is around the corner in DC when people start talking about the Cherry Blossom Festival. Although it’s still a month away, I think we’re all sick of snowpocalypse (have I mentioned they are predicting an inch of snow today?) and we’re looking forward to seeing our green lawns again.

A Cherry Tree

Growing up in Vermont, I remember my grandmother’s cherry tree in full bloom. Of course, being that it was Vermont, I don’t remember seeing the cherry blossoms until May. However, once those cherries were ripe, my grandmother would put them to good use in jams and pies. My grandmother, like my mom, made an amazing cherry pie–bittersweet, plump, juicy cherry filling with a homemade lattice top.
Never mind how much sugar is put into a cherry pie, cherries actually have a lot of wonderful health benefits. Did you know studies have shown cherries may provide relief for muscle and joint soreness? Cherries also are a natural source of melatonin–a powerful antioxidant produced by the body’s pineal gland that regulates sleep patterns. Eating melatonin-rich cherries can be a natural way to help you get a good night’s sleep.

A Cherry Pie

Since I have pie on the mind, and International Pi day (that’s the number Pi, but when it comes to math, I feel the need to start eating) is coming up, I thought I would share a cherry pie recipe. Enjoy!

Homemade Cherry Pie

• 1 qt. (pitted) sweet cherries
• 1/2 c. granulated sugar
• 1 tsp. lemon juice
• 3 tsp. corn starch
• Dash salt
• 9 inch baked pie crust

Place cherries into a medium-size bowl and then extract the juice. Reserve cherries. Drain the cherry juice into a medium-size saucepan. Add sugar, cornstarch and salt to cherry juice and blend. Stir mixture over medium heat until thickened. Remove from heat and stir in lemon juice. Cool to lukewarm. Then fold the reserved cherries into the cooled glaze. Chill to re-thicken and then transfer to your baked pie shell.

My dad is in the hospital today. I live far from my family so the only thing I can do today is to anxiously wait. Waiting is horrible. For anyone who has had someone you love become ill, you probably know what I mean.

For some, attempting a Lindsey Vonn visualization exercise helps the time go by. That’s when you start visualizing a doctor telling your loved one that he will be fine, and to take 2 aspirins and go home.

For others, you may begin to remember moments in time with your loved one. As the movie reel plays in your mind, your anxiety may soon turn bittersweet.

• You begin to feel bad about being such a bratty kid when you were young and then you realize you have two bratty kids (at times) of your own and perhaps that’s just the way kids are.
• And you see how hard it is to raise a family while working and you remind yourself to thank your dad for just being him.
• And you see how scary the world can be and you finally understand why your dad would go out looking for you if you were not home before dark and you add this to your list of thank you’s.
• And then you start to feel bad about dating someone 4 years older than you when you were 16 and you silently thank God that you have boys .
• And then you begin to wonder how on earth your father was able to handle you moving 3,000 miles away when you were 22 and realize that your kids will probably do the same.
• And then you wonder how your father reacted when he learned that you had moved into your San Francisco apartment with 3 strange boys and you think perhaps your mom never told him.
• And you get a little sad remembering when you had to leave Seattle after your parents relocated there and you wonder if your dad has ever really forgiven you.
• And, as you wait by the phone, you question why you have to live so far away and then realize that it is just how things were meant to be.

And then, after speaking with him on the phone, you hang up and wonder if you will handle aging and being sick as gracefully as he does.

And for that, you realize, you will just have to wait and see.

My 7 year old likes to tease me. I know exactly where that teasing gene came from: my dad…my uncles…my grandpa…There’s a long lineage of teasing that has been passed on to my son.

So you can imagine the fun he is having with my upcoming LET’S NOT TELL ANYONE MY AGE NOW birthday. Unfortunately for me, somewhere along the way these past few weeks he has learned that his mom is not too happy about her upcoming age change. Therefore he has decided that it will be pure amusement to torment me about turning LET’S NOT TELL ANYONE MY AGE NOW.

Is it April Yet?

His teasing most often occurs in public places. School parties, the post office, grocery store. It will start out all nice and innocent like when we’re in the produce aisle picking out bananas, “Mom, is it April yet?” At first I will naively think that maybe he’s hoping there will be strawberries to buy in April, that is until I hear his follow up: “Mom, aren’t you 40 now?”
At first I do the “pretend I didn’t hear it” tactic and I don’t respond. This never works with my son so I’m not sure why I still use it. Ignoring makes him repeat the question in an even louder voice, “MOM, AREN’T YOU 40 NOW?”

I respond in an equally loud voice, “No honey, I am definitely not 40″ and give him a wink and a big wide “Silly little boy” smile to nearby shoppers.

Nothing gets by this kid though. He will then respond in a scolding voice, “Mom, Dad said you were turning 40.” I then lower my voice a bit and say, “Yes, honey, but it is not April.”
Now this is the time when I begin to curse the day that he learned about the calendar in Kindergarten and I make note to write to his teacher advocating that calendars are not taught until 2nd grade because this is when he decides to reply, “Well mom, April is only a few weeks away so you’re really 40.”

Bless my child. I can only hope that someday he marries a patient woman who is not afraid of aging.

My camera and I have a love / hate relationship. I show my camera nothing but love and adoration while my camera continues to hate me. It’s pretty straight forward. Our roles are clear. However, I’m not sure how it all started.

I suspect it may have something to do with the day I plunked down more money than I care to confide here on this camera. That was the day that I was fondling my new camera proudly while walking out of the store and then proceeded to drop it on the sidewalk. No doubt an omen of what was to come and, sure enough, my camera has tortured me ever since.

Our relationship has not improved with age

Our relationship, this camera and I, has not improved with age. I will take it gleefully to important life events — Christmas concerts, my kid’s sporting events, family birthday parties — and it will decide to act up and misbehave.

My camera starts out acting nice, leading me on by giving me one really good shot. This is when I remember why I spent more money than I care to confide here on this camera. Then, just as quickly as it gave me that one good shot, my camera will suddenly turn on me.

Torture devices are varied

My camera’s torture devices are varied, such as when it decides without any warning that its battery is dead. And this usually occurs right as we are about to sing Happy Birthday, or when my son is going to score a goal. Other times my camera changes things up a bit, claiming its “memory card is full” even though I cleared it out before leaving the house.
Yet these hardships are nothing compared to the pictures it takes of me. This is when the camera really decides to get vicious. Now, if you’ve known me for a few years, you will see the evidence of my camera’s intolerable treatment: Closed eyes, red eyes, eyes squinting, mouth open, no smile, too much smile, gums showing, hair in eyes, hair sticking up — you name it, my camera has captured it all (and laughed at me the whole time).

At some point I will have had enough. That is the day that I will go and spend more money than I care to confide here on a new camera. I’m looking forward to that day. After all, show me a photogenic person and I will show you a nice and very well-behaved camera.

One thing you notice as you get older is that your house starts to look the way your body feels. The paint begins to crack, window frames look worn, tables get coffee-stained, and couch fabrics are torn. Even your curtains start to look wrinkly and faded from the sun. You know in your heart that it’s time for a makeover — for your house (although you could probably use one as well) — and you start to dream about how you could get on a show like ABC’s Extreme Makeover Home Edition.

No Balloon Boy in this House

Knowing that reality shows are not in my near future (there is no “balloon boy” living in this house), I decided to restart my honey-do list. The vacuum cleaner was first on my list of repairs. I honestly believe this is the most important item we have in our house.

Going without a vacuum for even a day means wading through 3 inches of hair to get down the hall to our living room, only then to sit down on a chair to become covered by another inch of fur.

Rupert aka “Hair Monster”

Leaving the house looking like an exact replica of your Golden Retriever is not very attractive. It would be very reasonable for people to stand as far away from me as possible, especially those who are allergic to pets.

So you can see why the Sears call had to be first on my list. And $88 later I am still waiting for my vacuum to come home.
Obsession with Windows

In the meantime, in between dusting the pet hair off my clothes, I have been obsessing about our front windows. Three windows actually: 2 bedroom windows and 1 bay. There are so many reasons to replace these windows that I will not even get into the details but let me assure you of one thing: Windows are not cheap.

And, just when you think you have found the cheapest windows out there, you are told that no matter what you do for your house NEVER EVER go with the cheapest windows. So now we are looking at over $6,000 just for a bay window. This eye-popping, “hurt my wallet” sum has made me write a poem that I will now entitle:

Ode to the Bay Window

$6,000 for a bay window
Now I know why I am feeling so blue,
This was the price of my new car at age 22.

$6,000 for a bay window
Single-paned, cracked, chipped and worn,
The decision to shell out more on this house is enough to cause me to mourn.

$6,000 for a bay window
They say I’ll save money in tax credits and heating
So if they’re right, why do I feel like they’re cheating?

$6,000 for a bay window
I’m willing my heating problems to some other louse,
Maybe it’s cheaper to just sell this darn house.