Sunday Dinner

I'm gonna back-date this to Sunday, since that's when I made the food. And oh, was it oh-so-good.

For those of you who don't know, Hoppin' John is a Southern dish that in its most basic form is black-eyed peas with rice. I made the Crook's Corner version, myself. Having dated a former Crook's cook, he filled me in on the secret of this tasty dish. Black-eyed peas and rice (of course) but topped with shredded cheddar cheese and a "salsa" of tomatos and green onions. The green onions are key. Not red or yellow or white, but green. I put a little red pepper and cider vinegar in with the tomatoes and green onions, for an extra Southern kick. (I don't know if Bill Neal -- the founder of Crook's and a Southern food expert for those of you who aren't up on your Chapel Hill school of cooking -- would insist on going that far, but I do.)

I know that Hoppin' John is a New Year's tradition, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it whenever possible. This time, it was a farmer's market inspired meal. I found (joy!) black-eyed peas at the market last week. I also found a bunch of other stuff, so it took me a week to cook them. They were so good, they're already gone. (Although I'm posting this as if it were Sunday, it's really Tuesday.)

Anyway. Yummy. Yummy. Yummy. I sauteed some onions in happy bacon grease, then added the peas and some chicken stock and water. And because I also make a mean veggie version (and this only had fat, not a ham shank or hock), I tossed in a piece of kombu (which adds many of the same flavonoids you get from ham). Just remember to take out the kombu after about 20 minutes, or it starts disintegrating and then it's really annoying. I was out of bay leaf, so I had to skip that. Then, a big tablespoon of miso (another veggie trick to add the flavonoids). So good.

Here's a picture. It makes me drool.

What Did I Get For My Troubes? A Case of the Clams

I had to go to Trader Joe's, and in this town, that means a trip to Monterey. Since it was a lovely afternoon, I decided I might as well do what normal adults do and have dinner as well. This town doesn't have a slew of dining options, so going to Monterey is my big chance for dinner-time treats.

I did a cursory online search and decided I'd hit up the Fisherman's Wharf for some seafood. What the hey? I grew up in tourist trap, I know what's what. And I also know that you can find some good chowdah in a tourist trap.

So I trip-trapped, trip-trapped across the bridge to see what goodies I could find. All the restaurants along the wharf (picture Kennebunk Port -- complete with Saxony Imports -- but jammed onto one pier) had out samples of their chowder. "Yee-haw!" I thought to myself, "Now I'll know which chowder is good."

The answer is none of them.

I don't know what it is about the West Coast, but you can not find good chowder out here. Maybe I haven't found that one perfect place yet, but I've been to Seattle, Seaside and Cannon Beach and Pacific City and Portland, Oregon, and now California, and the chowder is crap.

Let me explain. The best chowder in the word is found at a place called Chowderheads in Scarborough, Maine. It's a small place, tucked off the side of a strip mall along Route 1. It's a random place to find such good chowder, but good it is. I guess it's technically a fish chowder, but it's creamy and succulent with a rich, seafood flavor with a colorful, and tasty, dash of paprika across the top. I've also had good, brothy, creamy chowder at the Clam Shack in Kennebunk -- but I haven't been there since the Jacques let it go. In short, chowder should be milky -- creamy, not thick and starchy. It should not taste like flour and potato starch. It should taste like seafood, cream, fresh potatoes, and pepper. It should not be thick. It should be a soup, not a gravy.

The chowders at the Fisherman's Wharf were all starch. The first one tasted like a bag of flour. Ugh. The second one tasted like a bag of flour mixed with clam broth. (Very clammy, although I didn't see any clams.) The third one (which passed for edible) was still thick, but there was a hint of cream and some visible clam chunks. It was alright. Alright in a sort of a limited way for an off night.

I guess I just have to make my own. I make a mean clam chowder. And I've got to get back to Scarborough. Chowderheads is closed on Sundays so I missed it the last time I was in town.

The Look

We all know someone with "the Look", right? Our Moms all had the Look. The Look will stop you in your tracks. Even if you've done nothing wrong, the Look will make you think you have.

I have spent years perfecting the Look, and I don't even have kids. I have, however, spent far too many days and nights in the company of children masquerading as adults. From high school on, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the company of the male of the species. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my time with boys: they're silly and funny and exuberant. But they have warranted quite a few Looks -- making me an expert.

So today, at the end of a less horrible time with my Hellclass, I was looking over at Spike. Spike has been a bane of my existence (I have more than one, if that's possible) since Day One. And there he is, making some bizarre face at me. So, I turn up the Look and remind him that he's got to spend some time with me after class. (Which I did en Espanol -- well, a little bit en Espanol.)

After class he tells me that I have this really "hard" look, like I'm "007" or something (his words, not mine). He was trying to imitate me.

He's actually pretty cute when he's not making my life a living Hell. Trying to imitate my Look. He obviously doesn't understand that men have a difficult giving the Look and he does not have enough experience to do it properly anyway. Poor baby.

Literature Lessons

"'...My ass is tough and quarters is scarce." (Black Boy, Richard Wright).

In this quote, Wright is relating the story of a coworker who puts on an embarassing and masochistic act to get a quarter for lunch. The show involves bending over to pick up the quarter so the white man can kick the guy in the butt.

I feel like it's my personal motto.

The Wire

I'm watching The Wire right now. Well, not *right now*, but on the weekends. If I had episodes in the house during the week, I'd never get anything done. I did the same thing with Six Feet Under a year or so ago, but then I had three roommates watching with me (actually, it was Scott's fault that we even started). At least I'm in better control of the rentals this time.

Anyway, for those of you who haven't let The Wire take over your life yet, it's the story of cops and thugs and other nefarious types in Baltimore. In later seasons (I've caught a couple of eps on TBS -- not the best way to watch an HBO show), a school gets involved in the plot, too. Anyway, the cops follow big cases against the drug dealers and smugglers and get in each others' way. And a lot of what you see is shot from the perspective of surveillance cameras.

So, there I was today, sitting in an expulsion hearing. Oh yes. And yes, it is only the third week of school. And not only were probation, gangs, and contraband the subject of the hearing, but then my administrator pulls out a reference to the school's surveillance footage. Right then, I realized I was living an episode of The Wire.

Now, if only I could find McNulty...

P.S. One of my students left me a nice note telling me that s/he didn't like my voice. Nice.

BLTs

Today, in celebration of summer, farm workers, and the land of milk and honey, I will eat nothing but BLTs.

The BLT is my favorite sandwich of all times. As a child, I mastered the art of the BLT. My family, loving as they are, took advantage of my youth and got me to make them thousands of BLTs. "Carrie," they'd say sweetly, "You make the BEST BLTs." And I, obliging youngster flattered by their praise, would promptly march to the fridge and begin the long process of constructing a towering, tasty treat. My Dad and my second oldest sister used that line the most -- and it worked for a long, long time -- until Beth ruined it for everyone by telling me one day that "I made the best glasses of water." The jig was up. I stopped falling for flattery and made my BLTs only for myself.

Years later my father confided that they did indeed flatter me into making them sandwiches, but that did not change the truth: I made the best BLTs.

Here are my tips for making "the best BLTs":

1. Use only red, vine-ripened, flavorful tomatoes. The tomato is the key to the entire flavor of the sandwich. This means you can only eat BLTs in mid-to-late summer, when your garden or farmer's market is overflowing with tomatoes. Anything less will result in a sub-par sandwich.
2. Use a lot of tomatoes. Slice those bad boys at least 3/8 of an inch thick and make sure you cover the entire bread. Cut the slices in half to fill in the corners if you need to. Every bite should be full of juicy, sweet tomato.
3. Avoid iceberg lettuce. You should avoid iceberg anyway, but especially in a BLT. I prefer romaine for its crunch and ability to stand up to the other flavors. Red or green leaf is fine, but it makes for a girlier sandwich.
4. This might go without saying, but don't scrimp on the bacon and make sure it's got some crisp. It doesn't need to be falling apart burned, but you don't want limp, flaccid bacon. Three to four strips should be plenty, depending on their thickness and how much fat they lose. I prefer Nieman Ranch bacon. They raise happy pigs. And happy pigs make for happy bacon.
5. I am a sucker for white bread. A good, heavy white sandwich bread is my favorite, however, in this era of whole grains and heart disease and what not, I usually use wheat. It breaks my heart a little, but the sandwich is still good.
6. Toast the bread. 'Nuff said.
7. Hellman's (Best Foods) mayo ONLY. All other mayonnaise is sub-par and will ruin your sandwich. Ruin. Forever. Don't do it.

Is it any wonder my family tried so hard to get me to make them sandwiches?

So, for breakfast today, I had an open-faced BLET. That's a bacon, lettuce, egg, and tomato sandwich. I got the tomatoes and lettuce yesterday from the farmer's market. Oh, heaven in a piece of food. Nieman ranch bacon. And a light wheat, thick sliced bread from TJ's. It was the best BLET.



Lunch was sublime. Truly.



BLTs don't have to be sandwiches, you know. The homemade ranch-like dressing was my nod to mayo. I skipped the bread though. Crutons would have been a welcome addition, but I didn't plan well enough ahead. And it's Labor Day, so nothing is open. And if something is open, it shouldn't be. It's freakin' Labor Day!

Welcome to Krazy Karoline's Kozy Korner

Yes, the long awaited Krazy Karoline Kblog (the "k" is silent) is here. Visit this page for Krazy Karoline's Kulinary Kreations, Krazy Kwilts, Krafts, and Knits (the "k" is NOT silent), and Kantankerous Kurriculum. Maybe you'll even see some Kool Klothes and Kicking Keds.

Amazing, isn't it, how useful the letter "k" is?

The whole "Krazy Karoline" thang started, oh, 5 years ago while I was still living in the Bull City. I am a horrible packrat, especially where stashes are concerned (fabric, yarn, paper, drywall screws -- I horde it all). I had finally started making a crazy quilt to use up my fabric scraps. I figured I could justify holding onto all those useful (yet so useless) ends of fabric if I made a crazy quilt. Deep down I knew it would take me at least 10 years to finish the quilt, meaning I was forcing myself into a decade-long relationship with four plastic tubs of fabric scraps. Meanwhile, I joined a stitch and bitch group. In a stunning coup, I was hosted stitch and bitch one night (oh, was Michael jealous -- it meant I was "in" you see). And, inviting them over to see Krazy Karoline's Krazy Kwilt seemed so much more fun than just "having some friends over for desert and knitting". And I thought the fame would keep me on track.

Well, it's been five years and I'm a good 12 squares in. Yes. 12. I've moved the darned (ha ha) thing four times -- once across the entire country. In that time I've finished three other quilts -- all for other people. One was hand quilted. Yeah. Do you see where I'm going with this krazy theme?

The moral of the story? Get married and I'll make you a quilt. Maybe I should take my own advice?

Nah.

That's krazy talk.