Journal ~ Blueberry Scones, the Library, and My Hawaiian Shirt

Yesterday I had an excuse to go the library. When I was searching the library database for a book, I discovered that I had two books that were overdue by a week. I usually watch for those email reminders, but I must have overlooked these. I happily pulled the books from the pile, snapping a photo of them because I wasn't done with them yet! I was happy because I would return the books, then browse the shelves after collecting a book that I was in search of and knew was on the shelves. 

After I self-checked in my overdue books, I pulled out my iPhone, and opened the email that I had sent to myself with the call number: 808.02 NAMING. I wound my way toward the back of the library, walking past tables of chattering teenagers. As I walked further and further down the narrow passages of books, I found myself at the end. I looked up and scanned the call numbers and there it was: Naming the World and other Exercises for the Creative Writer Edited by Bret Anthony Johnston. I took the book from the shelf, admired the red cover with a small image of a piece of art titled "Cockatoo and Corks," a piece of art that is interestingly strange. I love surreal art.

Instead of going back down to the front of the main library the way I came, I decided to go over one isle and I found myself in the cookbooks. I turned left and right and saw that baking was on my left, so I started there. There was one cookbook that was displayed: Krystine's Healthy Gourmet Cookbook by Krystine Crowell. I flipped through, and in the first several pages, I saw a nonfat whole-wheat blueberry scone recipe that caught my attention. I decided that I would take the book and I would make the recipe that night. All I needed was the yogurt and blueberries.

I turned to the right and eased my way down until I saw some Mexican cookbooks. I took two. I wanted to wander a bit, but as always, time slips right by me when I'm in the library. I knew that I couldn't browse for too much longer because I had to get home and wash dishes and start on dinner. But I did make a last stop to scan the new books and that's where I found The Public Library: A Photographic Essay by Robert Dawson. I flipped through and knowing that I wouldn't have time to read it now, I would have time to skim and I wanted to take my time looking at the different libraries that he included in his book. One sculpture in the book took my breath away. Titled "Psyche" it touched something deep within my own: A huge sculpture in the shape of a head, made up of roughly fifteen hundred small sculptures of books and butterflies, suspended in air.

That was my last book, I went to the self-check machine to check out the handful of books that should have only been the one that I came for. The machine beeped at me and said my card was about to expire and that I needed to go to the circulation desk. I took my books and walked up to the standing desk. The librarian asked how she could help me and I explained. She just needed my identification and my library card would be renewed for another three years. She looked up, as she was typing into her computer and said, "Your shirt is making me want to be in Hawaii." I looked down at my deep blue Hawaiian shirt with large white flower blossoms. I looked up and smiled.

"Oh, your a Cancer she said," looking down at my identification. "I'm a Cancer too. My birthday is on the 20th. I see your on the cusp.

"Yes, I'm right on the very end, but I am a Cancer."

It was refreshing to have someone actually bring up their own astrological sign, someone who was older, and relate to me. So many times, I've done the same.

"Have you been to Hawaii before?"

I thought about this because I knew I had, but it was so long ago I had to remember one island or two. "Yes."

"Which islands?"

And so, we continued our brief conversation, two friendly Cancers, as she processed my library card renewal. She told me how she was married in Kauai and what a beautiful island it is. I mentioned how I had heard many good things about it, but that's one of the islands I had not been to.

We finished up and instead of going to the self-check machine, I had the librarian check my books out. She was such a kindred spirit, a nice change from dealing with machines and others that are too busy or who aren't' as friendly.

And this friendly exchange was all thanks to my expiring library card and my Hawaiian shirt.

After dinner, I told hubby that my plan was to bake, then study. He looked at me and said you should study first. I said, "I need to bake first because it relaxes me! Then I'll study." 

I did make the blueberry scones first and they were different. They looked pleasing. They lacked a little flavor, especially after coming after oatmeal chocolate chip cookie bars. With a little dab of butter, I think they'll be perfect. 

"Untitled (Cockatoo and Corks)"

http://www.wikiart.org/en/joseph-cornell/untitled-cockatoo-and-corks-1948

"Psyche" - Sculpture at the Main Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

http://culturenow.org/entry&permalink=19914&seo=Psyche_Ralph-Helmick-and-Stuart-Schechter

Blueberry Scone Recipe

http://recipecircus.com/recipes/Buny/Scones/Nonfat_Whole_Wheat_Blueberry_Scones.html

Citrus Yellow Cake

Last night I wanted to bake a cake. My grandmother used to always have a simple cake on hand that I grew to call grandma bread. I have a thin notebook that I saved where I wrote a few of her recipes down and grandma bread is there. My handwriting confirms I was a young girl—neat and girlish in pink pen. I don’t use her recipe because I don’t trust myself to “add milk until right consistency.” And my Mexican rice never comes out the way hers did. There is something about grandma’s cooking that cannot be matched.

I realize now that for grandma bread I can follow a basic yellow cake recipe. It uses butter instead of lard. I think she melted the lard and the yellow cake recipe has you cream the butter and sugar together. I wonder to myself if I should melt the butter and do it that way. No, I better not. She never used recipes; I need recipes as a guide, they provide a structure and basis to work with and learn, later becoming part of my overall cooking knowledge base. As I’m beginning to cook—and bake again, I’m finding a lack of confidence in my baking abilities. I want to build up a knowing and an understanding of the ratios to later experiment. I realize that with baking, there is a precision and accuracy that needs to be followed, which is why I finally broke down and bought a liquid measuring cup and measuring spoons, which I bought just last night, along with an inexpensive hand-held mixer. I had all of these kitchen items before I moved. I practically donated the whole kitchen, so now I’m gradually inviting these kitchen necessities and doo-dads back into our new kitchen.

Last night, after dinner, I had the urge for something close to grandma bread. I flipped to the yellow cake recipe in Better Homes and Gardens. I had everything I needed except baking powder. What the heck? I went out in the pouring rain, jogged to the car to avoid getting too wet. First I went to CVS to get a mixer and measuring spoons. There was only one to choose from. Next stop: the grocery store for baking powder. In the baking isle I saw baking pans and although I have a square one at home, I bought a round one for the cake. I picked up extra butter in case I decide to make another cake soon. Oh, yes, and I needed an orange to zest because I liked the idea of citrus yellow cake as one of the variations listed in the cookbook.

Back in the kitchen, I preheated the oven and set out to bake a cake. I had to make do with a small metal mixing bowl that I use to toss salads. Thank goodness I had a larger plastic bowl that I had gotten at the .99 cents store that is more for serving than mixing. This would hold the dry ingredients and later become the second mixing bowl once the ingredients were mostly mixed and no longer fit in the metal mixing bowl. Images of real mixers sprung to my mind and how, although the cake mix was coming together, it was a challenge to keep the flour from flying out of the bowl. I had to mix slow and careful.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my oven may not bake accurately. I also do not know for sure, and I feel like such an amateur, but the recipe instructions said to use two 8x1 ½ or 9x1 ½ round baking pans or one 13x9x2 inch baking pan. I was prepared to use the square pan that I had if I had to. I would have two different shaped cakes, but the batter all fit into one round pan. Into the oven one round pan went.

Well, the cake took a lot longer to bake and became quite brown around the edges. I had to put foil over the cake to be sure it didn’t brown too much because toward the end I bumped the oven up from 375 to 400 degrees. It finally baked all the way, a knife coming out clean. Forgot toothpicks. The good news is the cake wasn’t dry. It seemed slightly dense, but not too much. It reminded me a bit of a pound cake, which I like a lot. Next time I bake a yellow cake, I will use two pans.

Baking is definitely a very humbling experience and not one to be taken lightly when working from scratch. I feel as though when I was a young girl—I baked better, with more confidence. Maybe it was because most of my baking was done at grandma’s house.

Memories of Mother and Sustenance

Different memories have been stored away of when my mother passed away. Memories of how I adjusted—different compartments that I placed her within my 13-year-old self—different memories that sometimes seem to barley scrape the sides of each other as though they are fractured, yet whole.

What really brings me to a standstill is when I realize that 13 years is such a short time when it begins at birth—to know someone. But when the bond is between mother and child, daughter in this case, the bond seems to bend time into something more profound. Some of my memories include trying to get a sense of who she was to me—who was this person—this woman—my mother? I have many memories, some stronger than others but to wrap my mind around it—the best that I can do is continue knowing my mother through my own self, through the flickering memories; and through the ways in which I think about her and continue to nurture her in my living life.

I always enjoyed being in the kitchen when my grandmother cooked and I helped out by making the tortilla dough into balls, but I didn’t help her cook anything else. My mother wasn’t a very good cook—at least I don’t think she was. She never prepared any Mexican meals. She made a potato soup that I loved. My stepfather seemed to do most of the cooking and some of his meals were from his days in the Army. Shit on the Shingles is one I remember because of the name, of course. He cooked a lot of pork and beef dishes, and oh how I adored his scalloped potatoes. I’ve never tasted anything so heavenly. My aunt, who lived next door at the time, cooked and baked. I would help her bake cookies. She didn’t make them from scratch, but I enjoyed the process of going to the store with her to select a cookie mix and go back to her kitchen and get to work.

When my mother passed away, I had what must have been one of her paperback sized Betty Crocker cookbooks, and in the inside cover I remember writing the date of her death. I didn’t visit her in the cemetery for a long time and when the cookbook disappeared, I lost the date and as odd as it may sound, no one seemed to remember the exact date either. I knew it was October—we all did— but couldn’t remember the day.

I’m not sure when exactly; a strong sense that it was sometime after her death, I would watch cooking channels like they were cartoons. I loved Julia Childs; Yan Can Cook with Martin Yan; “The Frugal Gourmet” with Jeff Smith. I started looking in cookbooks and trying out recipes.  I would cook a meat meal for my grandfather and I could tell the meat was too tough by the way he was slicing into it. I made cream puffs, cookies, and cakes. I even tried to make a dessert that looked so beautiful but it involved gelatin and I really didn’t have a clue. It was a circular form and had white wine it in, layers and layers of grapes cut in half would set into the gelatin. I don’t think it ever worked out, but I still remember the picture in the magazine. I also tried my hand at candy—divinity, penuche, taffy. As I dig into these candy memories, I wonder was it the names that got me. The letters side by side are enough to entice a young girl, the sounds of the words taking me into another realm. I don’t know. I do know that I did not have a candy thermometer, so I ended up with a bad mess. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be in the kitchen, experimenting, losing myself. No one helped me. I think this is one way that I felt complete and I’ve always loved food.

Food has been there for me—in my grandmother’s wonderful Mexican dishes and her love; my aunt’s cookies and her kindness; my stepfather’s interesting concoctions and his sugary sweetness because he worked in a large bakery; and even my mother’s potato soup, ah dear mother—especially her soup because it seems to be one memory that connects me to her through cooking. Now I see even more so why the potato is one of my favorite foods. I will eat anything potato—the gracious, versatile, nourishing potato.

I’ve mostly cooked and some baking here and there, on and off, through my adult years. I’m nervous to use our small oven in the apartment because it’s gas and because it seems to get so hot. I don’t fully trust it. 

Now I have the Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book, which I love consulting and searching through.

Recently I prepared a recipe from the Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites: Flavorful Recipes for Healthful Meals. On Sunday I made one of the recipes: Southwestern Hominy Stew. It reminds me of Posole, a pork and hominy type soup, my grandmother used to prepare and that I know my mother loved. I enjoyed it very much and my significant other gave the thumbs up as well. Last week, I made a chicken curry with peas and spinach and coconut milk. It was pretty good, but I feel like it needed some heat to counterbalance the sweetness of the coconut milk. I used an already prepared curry powder from World Market.

Here is the recipe for the Southwestern Hominy Stew:

1 cup chopped onions
3 large garlic cloves, minced or pressed
2 medium potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks (about 2 ½ cups)
2 cups frozen lima beans
2 teaspoons ground cumin (I used a lot less so that the cumin wouldn’t overpower the stew)
1 teaspoon salt (seemed to be enough sodium already, so I waited to salt my individual bowl)
3 cups basic vegetable stock. (I used an organic prepared container)
2 cups undrained canned tomatoes, chopped. (I used fresh tomatoes and added water)
1 roasted green bell pepper, seeded and coarsely chopped
1 roasted red bell pepper, seeded and coarsely chopped
1 roasted fresh green chile, seeded and minced. (I used a jalapeno)
1 tablespoon finely chopped cilantro

(I roasted the peppers on a flat cast iron skillet)

Combine the onions, garlic, potatoes, lima beans, cumin, salt, and vegetable stock in a 3-quart soup pot. Cover and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer gently for about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes with their juice. Stir in the roasted bell peppers, the roasted chile, and the hominy. Simmer the stew, covered, for about 15 minutes more, until the potatoes are tender. Add cilantro and serve.

For the condiments, I warmed corn tortillas until they got hard and then loosely cut them up for adding into the individual bowls. I also chopped onion, more cilantro, and avocado. I imagine cheese would be nice too, but I liked it this way. Because we like meat, I cooked up a small amount of pork tenderloin with onion and garlic as a topping.

In the words of the late Jeff Smith when he would close his “Frugal Gourmet Show,”

I bid you peace.