¡Buen Sabor!
Just felt the need to write about what we are having for dinner–-again. "Again" because this meal is a frequent eat here in our household.
Piccadillo, made with ground turkey to lighten it up; garlic, onions and peppers; cumin, oregano, cinnamon, a can of salt free tomatoes, all sauteed in olive oil and then raisins added and my son's portion plated. Then I add the chopped green olives for the rest of us.
Boniatillo, which is sweet potato pudding. First you have to infuse water with lemon and stick cinnamon (about 20 minutes at the simmer) and then make a syrup with some (a cup of) brown sugar (soft ball stage). Smush up two cans of sweet potatoes, drained, in a food processor. Add that to the sugar mixture. Add two egg yolks, tempered with the sweet potatoes, and some low fat milk (I know, with all that sugar and egg yolks...I had to health it up somehow).
This is my son's favourite meal. I like it too; it's got that sweet/salty thing (the olives pack the salty punch).
I gotta go and infuse some water now.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Nerdyrappinghood
Speaking with my sister this weekend, she mentioned at some point during our conversation that she liked Firefall. And that there was nothing wrong with that. I of course immediately concurred.
We are children of the '70s. Back then, growing up in Miami, there was an "elevator music" station called WLYF, Life-FM. My brother used the music from the station to create some of his incredibly silly and wonderful taped "commercials" about wheelchair races and "the Norland Senior High Art Show." WLYF was so sappy and so not even Mancini that it was truly only meant for parodies. I have learned that WLYF still exists, but has evolved to "adult contemporary," which means, in essence, they now play Firefall. And there is nothing wrong with that.
In all likelihood, they also play Ambrosia, and England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Player and Ace. Oh my. It's today's elevator music. I am now qualified and perhaps certified as a big nerdy over 40 child of the 70s.
Don't get me wrong. I am also the hip mother of an 11-year old and I know my Kanye West from my Ludacris (clean versions only, thank you very much). I still bop to a world beat and I still like my Sid Vicious with a sizzling side of Elvis Costello. I mourned the demise of CBGB the other day. I did my best "Wayne's World" imitation to "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the car today.
But I am not ashamed to admit: I like Firefall. And all those other guys. Half of my iTunes library is testimony to that. Maybe that doesn't make me so hip. But it sure is comfortable and wonderful and will most certainly augment those future wheelchair races with aplomb.
We are children of the '70s. Back then, growing up in Miami, there was an "elevator music" station called WLYF, Life-FM. My brother used the music from the station to create some of his incredibly silly and wonderful taped "commercials" about wheelchair races and "the Norland Senior High Art Show." WLYF was so sappy and so not even Mancini that it was truly only meant for parodies. I have learned that WLYF still exists, but has evolved to "adult contemporary," which means, in essence, they now play Firefall. And there is nothing wrong with that.
In all likelihood, they also play Ambrosia, and England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Player and Ace. Oh my. It's today's elevator music. I am now qualified and perhaps certified as a big nerdy over 40 child of the 70s.
Don't get me wrong. I am also the hip mother of an 11-year old and I know my Kanye West from my Ludacris (clean versions only, thank you very much). I still bop to a world beat and I still like my Sid Vicious with a sizzling side of Elvis Costello. I mourned the demise of CBGB the other day. I did my best "Wayne's World" imitation to "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the car today.
But I am not ashamed to admit: I like Firefall. And all those other guys. Half of my iTunes library is testimony to that. Maybe that doesn't make me so hip. But it sure is comfortable and wonderful and will most certainly augment those future wheelchair races with aplomb.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Drivinghood: North and South
When I was living on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and one of the incredibly insane owners of an automobile, I figured out that there was an unwritten, unspoken code shared by taxi drivers.
Taxi drivers own the streets of NYC. They know exactly how to navigate each pothole. They can tell Just how far any other vehicle is at anytime.
There are no lines on Madison Avenue (at least there weren't last time I drove in NYC). At least they are not painted lines. They are energetic lines.
Like meridians up and down the body (any fan of acupuncture knows what I am talking about), these lines keep everything in working order. And then there is the cooperation between each taxi driver, sharing this unwritten code, this brother- and sisterhood of maneuvering, watching out for one another. It is fast and furious but completely organized, and part of some zen-like flow that I am pleased to engage in. It's fun for me to figure out this code and ride the wave. And you become part of this Northern drivinghood yourself, with fraternite, egalite.
I am still trying to suss the code between pickup truck drivers here in the Deep South. There is one, that much I have figured out. Sometimes it involves ensuring that my little Honda does not get in front of them. There is nothing so grand as a Ram perched at the front of the lineup at a red light, especially one that has the satisfaction of having edged everyone else smaller than they out of the way.
This is different than the other lack of etiquette I experience from the SUV drivers. They like to bear down on us little vehicles, huge behemoths on my tail. But they also like to bear down on their own. No egalite, fraternite.
The trucks, they take care of each other. Just like the taxi drivers, they somehow work together so that they navigate traffic as a unit. Did I mention that there are sometimes as many pickup trucks on our roads as taxi drivers up Madison Avenue? Now just picture these trucks all travelling in symphony (Hmmmm. Trucks=symphony. This is a new one. Do we have something here?). They allow the other trucks to be part of their flow. They work in concert. (More musical references to trucks. I think I will get cussed out now.)
I have to figure out how to become part of that flow. How to cruise effortlessly through that little bottleneck on East North Street, the one right at Main Street, big red pickup on my right, big white pickup in front of me. Once I can determine the unspoken language of pickups, perhaps I can, in some small (read: Honda) way also become part of that great drivinghood of the South.
Taxi drivers own the streets of NYC. They know exactly how to navigate each pothole. They can tell Just how far any other vehicle is at anytime.
There are no lines on Madison Avenue (at least there weren't last time I drove in NYC). At least they are not painted lines. They are energetic lines.
Like meridians up and down the body (any fan of acupuncture knows what I am talking about), these lines keep everything in working order. And then there is the cooperation between each taxi driver, sharing this unwritten code, this brother- and sisterhood of maneuvering, watching out for one another. It is fast and furious but completely organized, and part of some zen-like flow that I am pleased to engage in. It's fun for me to figure out this code and ride the wave. And you become part of this Northern drivinghood yourself, with fraternite, egalite.
I am still trying to suss the code between pickup truck drivers here in the Deep South. There is one, that much I have figured out. Sometimes it involves ensuring that my little Honda does not get in front of them. There is nothing so grand as a Ram perched at the front of the lineup at a red light, especially one that has the satisfaction of having edged everyone else smaller than they out of the way.
This is different than the other lack of etiquette I experience from the SUV drivers. They like to bear down on us little vehicles, huge behemoths on my tail. But they also like to bear down on their own. No egalite, fraternite.
The trucks, they take care of each other. Just like the taxi drivers, they somehow work together so that they navigate traffic as a unit. Did I mention that there are sometimes as many pickup trucks on our roads as taxi drivers up Madison Avenue? Now just picture these trucks all travelling in symphony (Hmmmm. Trucks=symphony. This is a new one. Do we have something here?). They allow the other trucks to be part of their flow. They work in concert. (More musical references to trucks. I think I will get cussed out now.)
I have to figure out how to become part of that flow. How to cruise effortlessly through that little bottleneck on East North Street, the one right at Main Street, big red pickup on my right, big white pickup in front of me. Once I can determine the unspoken language of pickups, perhaps I can, in some small (read: Honda) way also become part of that great drivinghood of the South.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Romantic Notions of Autumn
Whilst growing up in Florida during some of my Wonder Bread years, I missed autumn something fierce. I also missed snow, but that is another story.
So I moved back to NY...I lived on my college campus amongst some of the most vivid colours in nature (Westchester) and then had the good fortune thereafter to work in Connecticut and drive up the Merritt Parkway to experience even more chroma and hue in its maximum glory. Oh, and yeah, and then back to NY and Westchester and curving around the Sprain Brook Parkway, all trees and rocks and orange-reds at 50mph...
I love fall. My body loves fall. Once the humidity drops away, once the air crisps, my humor rises and my energy begins to explode. My senses come alive. I have found that others agree. Fall may come a bit later here in South Carolina, but it is no less intense. Let it be said, though: I am no fan of Indian Summer...let's just get on with fall (and snow, let's have some snow...). I like the cool and the cold.
I think this weekend we will be going up to Flat Rock, NC to pick apples. North Carolina and its Blue Ridge Parkway boasts some of the most beautiful foliage in the country, I have found. And so close! Still a little early right now for fall colour, but I learned that the apples for pie-making are ready at this time so off we go.
Already, though, the Carolinas have a fully-red maple here, a brief flirt with orange at the top of another tree, and against the deep green, these little bits of colour pop.
Yep, fall loves me too. I am jonesing for more of it, missing the New England component of it, but real content in the glow of my romance with Carolina autumn.
So I moved back to NY...I lived on my college campus amongst some of the most vivid colours in nature (Westchester) and then had the good fortune thereafter to work in Connecticut and drive up the Merritt Parkway to experience even more chroma and hue in its maximum glory. Oh, and yeah, and then back to NY and Westchester and curving around the Sprain Brook Parkway, all trees and rocks and orange-reds at 50mph...
I love fall. My body loves fall. Once the humidity drops away, once the air crisps, my humor rises and my energy begins to explode. My senses come alive. I have found that others agree. Fall may come a bit later here in South Carolina, but it is no less intense. Let it be said, though: I am no fan of Indian Summer...let's just get on with fall (and snow, let's have some snow...). I like the cool and the cold.
I think this weekend we will be going up to Flat Rock, NC to pick apples. North Carolina and its Blue Ridge Parkway boasts some of the most beautiful foliage in the country, I have found. And so close! Still a little early right now for fall colour, but I learned that the apples for pie-making are ready at this time so off we go.
Already, though, the Carolinas have a fully-red maple here, a brief flirt with orange at the top of another tree, and against the deep green, these little bits of colour pop.
Yep, fall loves me too. I am jonesing for more of it, missing the New England component of it, but real content in the glow of my romance with Carolina autumn.
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