cooking tunas: live feed!

11:10 am Just finished prepping tunas for cooking. This consisted of me gingerly removing tunas from paper bags with tongs, then holding them with a fork while scrubbing with the rough side of a new sponge. The sponge went directly into the trash. The tunas were cut in half and put into a big pot which went onto the stove.












11:18 Tunas are cooking merrily over low heat. I'm mashing them to get all the juices out.

11:25 Didn't take too long. Lots of lovely pink juices coming out. Looks benign, but I still have to strain all the glochids out. I hesitate to say it, but I don't think I've gotten any in my hands yet.

11:31 The kitchen smells "green", as Raphael says. Green and mildly fruity. Reminds me of pears. Regular old pears with their kind of mild, almost floral smell. Now for straining out the big stuff.



11:45 Big stuff dumped in trash. Now for the cheesecloth to get rid of all those pesky glochids.



12:08 Six layers of cheesecloth may be overkill, but I'll admit it - I'm scared. You should see the color of this stuff. It's dyed the cheesecloth bright pink (and my colander too, I think).

12:09 Alright. Back to straining.

12:22 Done! And now I have a big bowl of the prettiest juice you ever saw. Now I have to do something with it besides look at it.

12:40 Thinking syrup instead of jelly.

12:41 Hmmm...

12:51 I'll be back.












2:28 Syrup. Still got 3-and-a-half cups of juice in the fridge, too, for future endeavors. The syrup is delicious.

tunas tunas everywhere

Right around now, the desert is loaded with tunas. Tunas so thick all over the ground that you can’t take a step without slipping on one. Tunas dangling from the vegetation at eye-level. Tunas flying through the air like missiles – yeehaw!

Naturally, I’m totally exaggerating.

I’m also not talking about fish, although it would probably be a much more compelling post if I were talking about fish.

I’m actually talking about prickly pear tunas - the plump, red, oblong fruits of the prickly pear cactus. They don’t really fly. In two paper bags in my fridge, I’ve now got about forty of them with their nearly invisible yet utterly devastating spines and beet-pink fleshy wounds where I twisted them off the edges of the pads.






This means that the Fall To-Do List has finally been breached.

i, too, pay for torture

My new dentist stuck his arm into my mouth the other day and promptly found a myriad of things wrong with my current dental system. I’m not all that surprised, I guess, considering I’ve lived in the Old Pueblo for more than seven years and seen a dentist only three times up until now.

I think it's really not been my fault, though.

Do other people have such difficulty finding a good dentist and maintaining a healthy enough relationship with their dental plan that they’re allowed to visit this rarest of beasts more than once in a lifetime?

I’ve had terrible luck with dentists in the past few years, frankly, although now that I’ve done the math, I realize that it’s not nearly as bad as I remember.

My first dentist charged me twice for a cleaning I only got once (but had to go in for twice), and the hygienist made me crazy with talk of some dinosaur special she’d just seen during which I was never even able to insert my stock phrase about how “archaeologists don’t actually study dinosaurs because they’re archaeologists, not, you know, people who study dinosaurs”, on account of the sharp instruments holding my tongue hostage.

That same dentist also continued to send me Christmas postcards for several years after that fateful appointment – long after my memory of the hygienist had faded to the point where I could no long pick her out of the cheerful staff line-up with their Santa hats and jingle bells and scary pointy torture items and whatnot.

My second Tucson dentist I adored. He was a great dentist who I saw only once. He was also Chinese, which I think has nothing to do with it, except that apparently the Chinese have some sort of Dental Mafia established in Tucson. Three or four of his closest relatives are also Tucson dentists.

During our visit, he told me about how he fishes and how there was this one fish this one time and also how he loves to hunt and how come so many of his patients are archaeologists anyway? But then he moved his office really far away and shortly after that, a change in dental plans abruptly tied the final knot in the garbage bag of our failing relationship. I was a little afraid to leave his practice what with the Dental Mafia thing going on. My supervisor, Helen, still sees him, though, so I get all the news. (Helen: “He went hunting again. He almost got an elk. It was apparently super awesome.”)

My third dentist is a bit of an enigma to me so far. His office is tiny and slightly on the shabby side, although it seems very clean and has lots of cool pictures of buildings in the waiting nook instead of pictures of smiling molars bearing toothbrushes and dancing around pastel vegetables which is a nice change of pace. His office is at one of those intersections of “Crappy-scary-gang” Neighborhood and “Not-quite-so-crappy-with-noticeably-fewer-drive-bys” Neighborhood that we get here in Tucson. I like him. I like the three people he has on staff. Not one of them has even asked what I do for a living, thank god, because that means no one talks to me incessantly about dinosaurs while jabbing my gums with sharp instruments.

Of course, within minutes of first meeting him, he ridiculed my tooth-brushing habits, informed me I had four cavities, and told me I’ll most likely have developed severe arthritis of the jaw by the time I’m sixty. But there’s something I like about him and that charmingly threadbare carpet of his.

Next week, I'll see him for the fourth time in less than a month to continue our assault on my malfunctioning dental system. It’s easily the most intimate I’ve ever been with a dentist since becoming an adult. Maybe I like him because I’m seen him so often that he actually remembers my name.

cool

This morning when I got out of bed I had to put on a...a whatsit. One of those things with the things that go around your arms. Not handcuffs. Sweater. I had to put on a sweater. It was weird.

a big to-do

Now that fall is coming, it's time to get serious. Fall is my busiest time of year, and I'm not talking about the influx of students who want to know how to describe dirt ("So...this is reddish-brown and not browny-orange? I don't get it."). And I'm also not talking about the massive amounts of writing homework that are already piling up on my...in my bag and around my bed, actually, since Raphael's classes this semester are not all about architecture for an interesting change and my desk is therefore currently bowing under the weight of a Bible, a Qur'an, a Spanish-to-English dictionary, a normal dictionary, a book about the pyramids, and a passed-out Guatemalan.

I'm talking about the other stuff.

You see, every year, as the weather cools and my fancies turn to other fancies, my list of Things To Do grows to ponderous proportions and morphs into some kind of ravenous sea monster. I can no more fight it than I could fight, well, a sea monster. And, being a scruffy little desert rat, I'm pretty poorly equipped for that sort of battle.

I've got to make limoncello, for example. I didn't realize this until last week when my supervisor (we'll call her Helen.) (Because her name is Helen.) made a batch of it and described to me the process of peeling the lemons and inadvertently clouding up the Everclear. All I could think was, "Oh my God, I haven't made limoncello in almost two years. I'm doing it tonight!"

Of course, peeling eight million lemons takes approximately three years, so I didn't start that night, but No. 1: Making Limoncello went directly onto my fall list.

In much the same Helen-related way, it happened this past week that No. 2: Making Prickly Pear Jelly also went on the list, followed closely by

No. 3: Cook Tami Extravagant Moving-to-Idaho-and-Marrying-Some-Guy-Named-Steve Good-Bye Meal;

No. 4: Artfully Decorate House with Gourds and Things;

Nos. 5,6, & 7: Mix Lime Paints and Paint the Living Room Yellow, Make Up Christmas Cookie Party Invitations In Advance and For Real this Year, and Create Many Punched-Tin Can Votive Holders to Hang in Adolescent Trees and create Sparkly Fairytale-Type Atmosphere in Yard;

and

No. 8: Create Weekly - Uh, Monthly Family Newsletter. Also For Real This Time.

In the fall, I turn into a regular Martha Stewart. A very lazy Martha Stewart who does not own her own magazine and has never gone to prison and is not particularly drawn to things made out of doilies.

The way I figure it, I could complete Nos. 1 through 7 by the end of this weekend if I buckled down. And if I had no homework. And if I could find my desk. And if I could cross Nos. 3, 5, and 7 off the list. And if I knew the date of the Cookie Party. And if I was really Martha Stewart. And had a staff.

Oh, and also if I didn't spend all my time addressing the all-important No. 9: Making the Big Fall To-Do List.

meet woody

Last weekend, after a long and involved process involving approximately twenty-five minutes of deep consideration and 260 miles worth of gas, we brought into our fold yet another addition to the pantheon of Household Gods that Live in Our Kitchen.

We call him "Woody". He is, clearly, a woodstove.

Although he is not the pellet stove we really have our hearts set on, we do feel comfortable that Woody, with his tiny and adorable metal feet, shiny accents, and particular brand of self-deprecating humor, will fit in comfortably with our other Household Gods:

Fridgey, with his stoicism, a matter-of-factness that hides a charming humility, and general ability to provide the household with edible and relatively sanitary food items;

Stovey, our sharp-dressing, genuine "Nice Guy" appliance who can be simultaneously the life-of-the-party and the guy-who-gets-it-all-done and also cooks a mean apricot-cherry-glazed pork tenderloin.

El Coffee Makero, with his devil-may-care attitude and sense of wicked fun who keeps us good and jittery all day long if that’s what we request.

And, of course, sensual little Ilsa:











In conclusion, we're very excited about our new heat-source and feel that Woody, with his charming personality and Victorian-Parlour-Chic good looks, can prevent us from sending eight million dollars to Southwest Gas every month this winter and would also make an excellent president.

But we don't trust him around Ilsa.

stickin' it to a cricket

So I'm making rice tonight, in a pan that was washed, I think, yesterday or possibly the day before. And I'm boiling the water and cooking the rice and I'm all happy because I'm making rice and then at one point I realize that the rice has got to be done by now so I grab a fork and lift the lid and --

Wait! Some background!

We have these things that I have always called Jerusalem crickets around here - although it's quite possible I was led astray early on in my Tucson experience and they're something else entirely. There's apparently such thing as a Mormon cricket, too. I just know there are jokes to be found here, but I'm incapable, right now, of finding them.

Anyway, these "Jerusalem crickets", as we shall call them out of pure laziness, are ridiculously ugly things, kind of a dirt brown with creepy appendages sticking out everywhere. And I have kind of an inexplicable love/hate relationship with the them. Dare I say, "They're so ugly they're cute?"

I could say it. But it wouldn't be true. Yet still. Maybe it's their personalities. As far as I know, they're utterly harmless to humans. They come in all sizes. The tiny tiny ones are much easier to not freak out about because they really do have this whole cute thing going on. Their appendages are much more difficult to make out in any kind of gory detail.

Every day there is one of these crickets somewhere in the house. Often it's the kitchen sink, but usually it's the bathtub. The ones in the kitchen sink generally don't fare so well because we don't know they're there until we're emptying the strainer and they're all twisted up amongst the nasty food bits. Poor crickets. The other ones usually get rescued because you can pick them up by their antennae. It's creepy, but it can be done.

I also find their dried up corpses in the bottoms of pots and pans that I haven't used in awhile. Like maybe a week. They're apparently curious little critters, these guys. Curious and incredibly oblivious to the danger. All danger.

Anyway, so...

-- holy shit! There's a dead cricket in there! In! The rice! Cooked in the rice! With the appendages! Everywhere! And not the tiny tiny kind! The monster kind! The kind that has been around for like 300 years, and weighs like 800 pounds! The Methuselah of crickets!

I'm not expecting this, so I just about have a heart attack.

It didn't really weigh 800 pounds. There's no way I could've fished it out of the rice with a fork if it did. My forks just aren't that nice. And luckily, I had let the water boil for a little too long and forgotten to check the rice so I would've had to throw it out anyway.

Lucky for me, that is.













Conveniently, there was a largish cricket in the bathtub as I wrote this post.

everyday challenges

Raphael: (points at book) What is this word?

Jenny: Awe. You know, like 'awesome'?

Raphael: (skeptically) That's how you spell it? A-W-E?

Jenny: Yep. Just like in awesome.

Raphael: Oh, you mean ahweysome.

Jenny: I might...

Raphael: You English speakers pronounce everything so weird.

let sleeping ninjas lie

Raphael: Did you sprinkle lavender oil on my pillow last night?

Jenny: Yes - why, do you like it?

Raphael: Maybe that's why I slept so well.

Jenny: Excellent!

Raphael: I slept like a ninja.

Jenny: I, uh, didn't realize that was something they were known for.

Raphael: Among other things, of course.

Jenny: Right. Like crazy swords and wicked moves...

Raphael: Well, some of them, I guess.

Jenny: ...and those crazy masks, and don't they use nunchucks?

Raphael: What?

Jenny: Nunchucks - you know, the things on the chains that you swing around...I don't really know how to use them, actually.

Raphael: OHHHH!

Jenny: What?

Raphael: I said "angel". I slept like an angel.

Jenny: Yeah. That's makes a lot more sense.

sophis-tee-cated

We're having a very sort of European-style dinner tonight. And by that I mean that it's nine p.m. and I'm still in the chopping-tomatoes-and-listening-to-reggaeton stage of things. I don't know if the reggaeton per se is a European thing, but I feel like chopping tomatoes after sunset on a Friday makes me, if not exactly French, at least a little more sophisticated than I was last night. When I was in bed by 8:45. Reading a teenage vampire book.

I really love late dinners, actually, and not because they make me feel especially fancy or French at all. It's because I can take my time and enjoy the making of them.

Let's face it, if you haven't even started mincing the garlic by eight-fifteen, you're not eating anytime before nine. Might as well slow down. Pour a glass of wine. Tenderly wash the pesticides off each tomato. If you're not eating until nine, you might as well not eat until ten. Or whatever. All the pressure -- dice the carrots! Grate the apples! Saute those onions! For god's sake, the onions! -- simply melts away.

So, tonight I'm making the tortelloni again because it involves a big ol' handful of basil, and I was informed by someone the other day that we had "too much basil" in the Humidity Controlled Crisper. First of all, what he's doing in the Crisper is beyond me. There is no peanut butter in the Crisper. Nor bananas. Nor hot chicks of any variety.

And second, can a person have "too much basil"?

As someone who knows a couple of French people, I say, "Absolutely not! Har har har!".

Then I turn up the reggaeton.

humor at the expense of politicians. poor politicians

does this count?

I'm taking another writing class this semester. We've had only one class so far, but I sensed a similarity in terms of advice. No, not sensed. "Sensed" implies that I might have interpreted things incorrectly. Sensed implies that somehow I might have some kind of option. Really what it was was bludgeoned into me that the only way to write better is to write more.

Write write write, you bastards! That's what she told us. At least that's what I heard. Write until your arms fall off and your brain turns into runny oatmeal! Write until the keyboard crumbles to dust beneath your fingers!

That being said, I kind of did that this week. I dropped cumbly nacho meat into my keyboard, anyway, while I was writing and attempting to have lunch at the same time. Not two activities I've ever been able to effectively combine. Either I'm eating nachos or I'm writing. Writing or eating nachos. And the twine shall ne'er meet...or something along those lines.

So if I disappear for longer periods of time than usual these days, it's for one reason or another. Either I'm writing writing writing, I have gooked my keyboard up with some kind of meat, or my arms have fallen off.

it's good, this tortelloni

Consider the mild-mannered dried cheese-filled tortelloni for a moment. Several characteristics are immediately obvious to the careful observer. It is dry. It is filled with cheese. It is tortelloni.

Now cook it. Just rip open the bag and dump every last tortelloni in boiling water for a few minutes. They love to swim, so don't let guilt stop you.

Meanwhile, saute a little garlic, sweet corn, and prosciutto in butter and then throw in some chopped tomatoes. Mix it all into the pot of cooked tortelloni and toss some basil in there. Lots of basil.

Let the warm aroma of butter, cheese, and basil permeate your senses. Go ahead. Pinch up a newly softened tortelloni between thumb and forefinger. Gently! Gently! Examine it. Extend your teeth to it and bite through its tender skin. Some things never change. Though now soft and pillowy, it is still filled with cheese. It remains, as always, tortelloni.

A lesson for us all.

Summer Garden Tortelloni

it was the day after a dark and stormy night...

I woke up late. Later than usual for me, around eight, cursing Grant and his late-night barbeque-centered activities. Curses! Luckily, the coffee maker was cheerfully bubbling out the last drops of the viscous nectar I sought as I entered the sunny kitchen where He was washing the dishes left over from yesterday's pancake-and-mimosa brunch with Christine and Sebastian.

I let my eyes wander over his glossy black hair and rippling muscles as he scrubbed a bowl of dried pancake batter. This guy could scrub my dishes any day. I had a lot of dishes. But I couldn't linger. Time was short. Too short for lingering. Too short for giving in to my own selfish desires. I poured myself a cup of coffee and turned. He met my eyes over the steam rising from my mug.

"So you're awake," he said in his sultry voice, his eyes dark with unspoken passions and pancake batter smeared sensually on his cheek. "I've been waiting for you."

"You have?" I said, my heart skipping a beat.

"Yes," he said. "I have."

"What do you need me for?" Two could play at this game.

"Someone has to feed the dog," he whispered. "And my hands are wet."

I shook my head, trying to clear my muddled thoughts. He was dangerous, that much I knew. What I didn't know was if I could stay out of harm's way when I was around him.

I needed time to figure it all out, so I took my coffee and left him standing alone in the kitchen, water dripping like sweat from his strong hands.

It was warm outside, but not yet hot. It soon would be, but now it was not. Not yet. Not hot, that is. But it was warm, that much was clear.

There were things I had to do. Important things. Like think about where we were going to put a vegetable garden. I breathed deep and spilled coffee all over my hands. Curses! I was still too shaken by our all-too-brief encounter in the kitchen. Would I ever be able to control my traitorous emotions? Times like these called for strength, for focus! I clutched desperately at my temples. Would I ever be able to do what must be done?!?

I needed a shower. Maybe a shower would clear my swimming head. But to get to the bathroom, I'd have to pass by Him again. With his glowing skin and that blasted debonaire grin and those cheekbones. Those cheekbones that could cut a woman's heart out with one smile. Cut it out and toss it right into the garbage like it was old wadded-up tin foil with bits of burned-on vegetables stuck to it.

I couldn't let him stop me. He was only a man, after all. Nothing but a man. And what man had ever been able to stop me? I had no need for men. I had no need for the desperate, fluttering emotions so many men aroused in so many women. Weaker women than I.

I marched into the kitchen, determined to avoid eye contact. I placed my coffee cup on the counter next to the sink so that he could wash it. Wash it the way he could wash out my insides with just a glance in my direction. Like he'd taken a hose to my guts and opened the nozzle so that water came out in the hardest spray possible. The kind of spray that flattens the tomato plants and decimates the herbs.

He grabbed my arm as I tried to pass and whirled me around, pulling me up against his rock-hard chest, looking down into my eyes.

"What do you want?" I breathed.

"You never fed the dog," he said. "I think she's getting really hungry."

"Is she asking for food?" I demanded, trying to wrench my body from his grasp, cursing my shaking voice, unable to take my eyes from his.

"Maybe," he said, pulling me closer. I could feel the heat of his body. Hot and moist like the air that comes out of the dishwasher when you pull it open just after it's finished washing the dishes. "I'm not sure. She nosed her dish a little."

I tried to yank my arm away but he held me tighter. "Yeah, sounds like she is," I whispered, trembling in his grip.

"I washed all the dishes," he said meaningfully, and I shivered.

"I know," I said. "Thank you."

"You want more coffee?"

That's when I realized I couldn't fight him anymore. It was too hard. I was too weak. A man who did my dishes and made me coffee and cared whether or not the dog was hungry? Who was I trying to fool anyway? This was the man for me. This dark-haired devil.

"I'll tell you what," I murmered into his ear. "You pour me another cup while I'll feed the dog."

When he kissed me, I felt the way the dishes must feel at the first touch of that cleansing, steaming hot water. I felt the dried pancake batter caking my soul melt away as the fresh grapefruit-scented dish soap of his desire washed over me.

And I had a feeling the dog was in danger of never getting breakfast at all.