The Barefoot Kitchen Witch

Roasting Garlic

Two weeks ago I bought about twelve heads of garlic, intending to roast them in olive oil at the same time as some of the batches of tomatoes I'd been doing, but I didn't get to them until today.

Usually I peel some of the outer papery layers off and then old the head of garlic on its side and cut in half about midway between the stem end and the tip.  Today I mangled the first one and decided to try something different.  So I just broke apart the garlic heads and put them all in a foil-lined cake pan.

Then I drizzled a good amount of olive oil over the garlic cloves and stirred them around so all were well coated. 

Then I covered them with a sheet of foil, tucked the edges from the bottom sheets of foil up around the edges of the top layer, to tuck all the garlic in nice and snug, and popped them into a 300 degree oven (alongside three more pans of tomatoes!  It's our best tomato year ever) for about an hour or so. 

To be honest, I didn't time them.  I never do, really.  I go by smell and by touch.  Periodically I'd take the pan out and press on the bigger garlic cloves to see if they were squishy yet.  It might have taken longer - and of course oven temperatures can vary as well, so - use the squish test for best results.  You want 'em squishy.

When they're ready, take the pan out and let them cool until you are comfortable handling them.  The aroma - if you love the smell of roasted garlic - and if you don't, you're probably not going to do any of this - but like I was saying - the aroma is swoon-inducing.  If you've been in the kitchen the whole time, you might not realize just how deliciously garlicy this will smell, so go outside for a few minutes, pick some tomatoes, water a plant or something, and THEN go inside and take a good inhale.  Like I said - swoon-inducing.

What you want to do next is get a little bowl or container for the garlic, and another bowl for the papery parts.  Set the pan and these two bowls near your sink, because your fingers will get very oily during this process and the papery bits will stick to you annoyingly, so you'll want to be able to rinse often.

Next - you take one of the heads of garlic and hold it over the keeper bowl and squeeze the roasted garlic out.  Now - a couple of tips here.  I've found that it's best (if the papery part hasn't split already) to hold the clove with the stem end (the little flat end) down and the outer, rounded, convex side of the garlc toward you.  The garlic tends to squirt out at the bottom, and if the paper is going to split on the side anywhere, it seems to do that on the concave side.  At least, that's what happened tonight when I was doing it.  And I have the oil-splashed tee shirt to prove it.

The papery part goes in the other bowl (the slop bowl is what I call it), and every so often you'll notice the paper sticking to your fingers, so you'll want to run your hands under the water from time to time.

When you're done, you'll have a bowl of soft, golden-brown, roasted garlic that glistens with olive oil.

Voila!  Now, if you have time (I didn't tonight - I'd done enough for one night), you can dump all this into a food processer or blender and start pureeing it, drizzling olive oil in if needed to make a thick paste.  Then you could divvy it up into some small containers, freeze all but one, and keep that remaining one in the fridge.  Use a spoonful here and there - in a pasta sauce, smeared on bread, on your oatmeal...okay, I haven't tried that one, but who knows, it might be really good. 

Oooh - this is really good - get a baguette, slice it into about 1/2 inch thick rounds, lay the slices out on a sheet pan and put them in a 400 degree oven for about ten minutes.  Flip them over and put them in for another ten.  While they're baking, take some of your roasted garlic and whisk it in a bowl with some more olive oil, and maybe some salt and pepper.  When your little slices are dried out a bit, spread some of this garlicy oil mixture on each one and put them back in the oven for another five minutes or so.   

And then, just to drive yourself right over the edge, serve these garlicy baguettes with a slice of room temperature brie and maybe some apple slices or grapes on the side. 

Or skip the fruit, and don't invite anyone over, and just eat the whole thing yourself!!!

Just kidding, of course! 

I'd never do something like that, and I'm sure you wouldn't either.   

Certainly not.

Comfort Food

I made a birthday cake for the boyfriend of a friend of mine.  He's turning 40, so it was an "over the hill" sort of theme.  I made a mountain - or the upper part of a big mountain - all brown with little bits of grass here and there and gray rocks around the base...and at the bottom of the cliff at the back of the mountain.  Then I made little signs like you'd see while hiking a trail, and on them were numbers: 5, 10, 15 and so on up to 40.  The top of the mountain had a white drape of snow, upon which I wrote the requisite "Happy Birthday" message.  The signs - construction paper glued to toothpicks - the only inedible part of the project - began a the bottom and pointed the way up a winding, zig-zagging trail to the top of the mountain.  The "40" sign was at the back, angled down, pointing at the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.  Over the hill.  I should have taken a picture.

I used to take pictures of all my cakes.  But apart from family birthdays, I haven't done a whole lot of cake-making.  This was kind of fun, this cake I just did.  I'm never really satisfied with them, but my son thought it was terrific - it looks rather similar to the two "volcano" cakes I've done for him (with plastic dinosaurs all over the terrain) for his past two birthdays.  He liked the fondant rocks, especially.

And my friend liked it, so that was a good thing.

She came by yesterday morning to pick it up, after calling first to make sure she had the directions right.  She hasn't been to my house in a few years. 

When she called, I was making my breakfast.

I'd fried some bacon - left over from last weekend's camping trip - HAD to cook it up or it might go bad.  Right?  Of course I had to.  So anyway, bacon, nice and crispy the way I like it.  (My husband likes his less crisp.  But he wasn't home.)  I toasted an english muffin.  And made myself a peanutbutter and bacon sandwich.  Okay, I had two of them.  Yes, coronary in the making.  I don't have them very often at all, (the sandwhiches, I mean), so I figured it was okay.  And let me tell you, even cold, those were the yummiest things I've had in ages.

I think I needed something yummy and containing my two favorite food groups: fat and starch.  I've had a lot on my mind and it's been affecting me in unexpected ways.  For instance - Friday night we went out for dinner - with the kids - at this old restaurant near our house.  It's a relic of times past when banquet halls were everywhere and turkey dinners made with canned gravy were common.  They specialize in old-fashioned comfort food.  They have meatloaf night, for example.  I've never had their meatloaf, but I'm sure there are a slew of regulars who come specifically for that dinner every week.  It's a great place to bring the kids, mostly because it's casual and they have good kid food. 

We ordered drinks and appetizers and then the meals.  And here's the weird thing...I ordered a glass of Kendall-Jackson chardonnay.  Because they don't have a wine list and it's something that I know I like. 

And this time, Friday night, I took a sip and it tasted like olive juice.  Not olive oil, but the liquid in a jar of olives.  I tried another sip, thinking maybe I was imagining it.  Nope, same taste.  Bill noticed the odd look on my face and said "it's gone bad?" and I told him what it tasted like to me.  He took a sip, evaluated it, and shook his head.  "It's fine."  I tried another sip, as if maybe his pronouncement would kick my taste buds into behaving properly.  No - still tasted like olive juice.

And when our meals came...he had ordered the prime rib (Friday's special) and I got baked stuffed shrimp so we could share and have our own surf-n-turf.  I had some of his prime rib first, and it was excellent.  He had shrimp and moaned with delight, practically.  I had a bite of shrimp...and it was cooked perfectly - had that sort of "pop" feel when I bit into it - and not overcooked at all.  But it tasted...off.  I don't even know how to describe the taste.  It wasn't like fish gone bad or anything...it just had some strange industrial taste.  I ate the whole piece, thinking, like I had with the wine, that my taste buds would correct themselves after a while, but no.  So I gave Bill the other shrimp and ate the rest of my mashed potatoes.  The carrots were from a can.  I gave them a pass.

And that was my meal.  Very odd.  Other elements tasted right - but those two things were so very off.  Very disappointing.  At least I didn't have to do the dishes.

So yesterday I cooked dinner.  And here's what I made.  It may gross some of you out, but hey, at least you weren't in the kitchen while I was cooking it, so be thankful.

I made mashed potatoes with red skinned potatoes, butter, milk, salt and pepper, a little bit of minced onion, and the remaining bacon, chopped up into REAL bacon bits.  Y.U.M.

And here's the best part - I took the bacon grease (oh yeah) and sauteed 4 sliced onions in it until they were golden and soft, then moved them out to the edges of the 14" pan and added two pint containers of chicken livers.  Yes.  That's what I said.  And I seared them on one side and then flipped them over and seared again.  Then I turned the heat down, added a slosh of red wine and salt and pepper, and simmered the whole thing for a while until most of the liquid was gone.  I added one more slosh of wine, sprinkled some dried thyme over it all and stirred that in, simmered a little more, turned off the heat and then stirred in some sour cream.  Oh yes.

Fortunately neither kid wanted any of it.  Bill had some - he has come to like chicken livers, although he told the kids last night (when they said they didn't like the livers) (they tried them though - that's the important thing) that he only pretended to like them the first few times I cooked them.  Really?  Well.  That scores points - it's very sweet.

Anyway, we also had spinach, and guacamole and chips, and some smoked bluefish.  An odd mish-mash of menu items, but there was something for everyone, and that was my goal. 

I am starving now, just reliving that meal.  I may have to have some for breakfast.

I'll talk to you later.  In the meantime - what's comfort food for you?

Molting

This morning while doing my morning blog-check, I came across Sheila's post here, which linked to these two posts, which I read and immediately thanked Sheila for linking to them in the first place.  Go check them out - the topic - loosely - is body image...self image...what we see when we look at ourselves, and how we should look at ourselves and probably don't.

I know that when I think of my body, or look at myself in the mirror, I focus on the flaws, mostly.  I have to be in a certain good frame of mind to like the face reflected back at me.  I have to be in that certain good frame of mind, also, to see beyond the post-baby imperfections (3 years post-baby at that) and be proud of the body that grew those two babies in the first place.  I see the parts that aren't perfect.  I look past the good stuff to actually LOOK for these imperfections.  There seems to be some odd sort of comfort in making sure each flaw - each dimple of cellulite or loose pinch of flab - is still there, right where it was last time.  Yep.  Hideous.  That's me.  Okay.  Proceed.

Once when I was a self-conscious and shy teenager (because, of course, I was the ONLY one...) we went to the beach - my family - and despite the blazing sun, I intended to stay on my towel on the sand...in my shorts and tee shirt.  It might have even been the hideous summer when I wore jeans - no shorts at all.  But I digress....  No way was I going to parade across the sand and go into the water in my bathing suit - with all my uckiness exposed like that.  My mother had no patience for my explanation - and she said - in what I remember as a rather irritated voice - "what makes you think everyone's looking at YOU?" - in other words - get over yourself and go cool off in the water - like you're supposed to at the beach!  I went...but was still unconvinced that the entire beach-going population wasn't snickering behind their trashy novels and bottles of sunscreen.

I'm still a lot like that.  Hypercritical to the point that I cripple myself.  I keep trying to change, though.

I know someone whose daughter has an eating disorder.  She was treated for it years ago, but it is back, and it is destroying her.  She is married.  Has small children.  Works two jobs taking care of other people - but will not care for herself.  She denies that there is a problem.  Her body is suffering.  Her mother, this woman I know, shakes her head and clenches her jaw and her eyes get red and glassy with tears.  Why?  What is that girl thinking?  How to get her to stop?

What is it we're trying to get rid of?  We seem to starve ourselves into invisibility...or eat so much we bury ourselves under layers of pain.  We look away from the mirror, we work so hard to camouflage ourselves - and it's all in the futile attempt to hide ourselves from ourselves.  And we can't.  And, of course, it's not necessarily about the food.  The food is just a tool.  Or a weapon.  There are so many weapons. 

Where do we learn this from?  This self-loathing?  This dissatisfaction with our bodies?  Certainly all the stick-thin supermodels and airbrushed magazine covers don't help things.  I'm trying to remember how I got that way, though.  I don't know.  I don't know if I learned it from my mother or just absorbed it from my peers.  I don't know.

But I don't want to teach that to my daughter.  I watch her at this age, and she is so proud of her little body.  So unconcerned about it.  So happy with it.  She plays, she runs, climbs, jumps, spins in circles, falls to the floor, rolls around wrestling with her brother, hugs, throws, draws, plays with play-doh, carries the cat around, rides her bike, splashes around in the water, whacks the neighbor's little boy on the head with a whiffle ball bat, and shakes her little booty, much to the panic and consternation of her father. 

She loves herself.  She enjoys her little body and all the wonderful things that that body allows her to do.  She does not compare herself to anyone, unless it is to insist "No, I CAN DO IT MYSELTH!" (that's how she says "myself."  I think it's very cute.)  She is mighty in a tiny package.  A little force to be reckoned with.  And her body - and her perception of it - is perfect.  As it should be.

I envy her.

Somewhere inside me there must be a little girl with a confident strut and an absence of negative self-image.  She peeked out the times I was pregnant, when I felt invincible and earth-motherish, and maybe a few other times in my life.  But for the most part, she is hidden away beneath layers of my successively older and more critical selves. 

And it's not just the body image that has been affected.  Other aspects of that little girl have been covered by layers of doubt and derision.  She is smart.  She is creative.  She is strong.  And she wants out.

So I'm trying to peel away the tanglement of many years and just not care what the people on the beach think of me.  Because really, even if they're thinking mean things - so what?  Why should I care?  Who are they, anyway?  Why have I allowed them to have such a hold over me?

And the sad thing is, they don't exist anywhere but on the beach in my mind.  They are my voices.  My mean thoughts.  Fed and nurtured til they grew big and strong and powerful.

Such a waste of time and space and energy. 

Time to peel their fingers off me.  I have too much to do.  Too much I want to do.  I can't be dragged down by them any more.  I need all this mental energy for other things.  Time to be rid of my own straightjacket. 

I've worn it for too long. 

Doors

When a door seems to be opening...a door you've been wishing would open but never expected it to...shouldn't you take that step?  Wouldn't it be foolish to ignore it?  How much would you kick yourself later if you don't?  If not now, when?  And what if, besides that door, other doors...and windows, show signs of movement...and it's all lining up the way you have wished it would...and still you hold back...unsure...because what if?  What if it's not what it seems?  Or what if - what if you fail?  What then?  Especially when you are not just "you" but also an important part of other peoples' lives too...people to whom you are responsible...people you must consider when deciding anything momentous (sp?)...because you can't be completely selfish when there are mouths to feed and a mortgage...and yet...what is the cost of regret?

Just something to think about....isn't it?

Princess Brandywine

Macs

No, not the computers, the apples.

It's apple-picking time.  Last weekend we took the kids and my sister's kids on our nearly-annual apple-picking journey.  All the kids look forward to it, and every year it's over so quickly - so many ripe apples to pluck and only so much space in the bags they give you.

This year we went (again) to Jaswell's Farm in Smithfield, RI.  Not only were there apples to pick, but they also had a huge field of pumpkins to pick and choose from, not to mention a wide variety of produce and baked goods in their little store.

Besides a ton of apples, we got a dozen ears of super-fresh corn, and - it's practically required - some apple cider. 

The cider was gone by the next morning - we should have picked up more while we were there.  Ah well - we can go back. 

And - the other important part of this nearly-annual field trip (we didn't make it last year for some reason) is the group shot of the cousins.  Here's one of them - I shot around 20 and still haven't decided which one(s) to polish up and print.  But I like this one - it's fun.

I've got a busy weekend ahead - unfortunately not a ton of computer time available either until Sunday afternoon.  Hope you have a great weekend wherever you are, with whatever it is you're doing! 

Junkie

I went to Staples on my lunch break yesterday.

I needed it.

I needed it bad.

I only planned to get a large wall calendar to put up in the kitchen so I can keep track of the kids' (well, Alex's) school deadlines and events, and Bill's gigs, and my own whatever I have.

But I stepped into the store, got a whiff of paper products and ink, and I was gone.

I don't know what it is about office supplies, but I would rather browse around an office supply store than any other, with the exceptions of bookstore and grocery store.  It all depends on what I need.  And I don't mean - need eggs because we are almost out of them.  No, it's something different.  I think it's a sort of creative need, maybe.  And right now, in September, at my favorite time of the year, I am all about the need for organizing.  I wish this would hit me in August, BEFORE the school year starts, so I am not scrabbling around two weeks into it wishing I'd started things sooner.  But the weather's wrong in August.  And that's all there is to it.

So yesterday - I needed things.  I needed a big calendar.  Printer paper.  I definitely needed Sharpies.  In lots of colors.  And I needed post-it notes.  Because, you know...they're colorful.  I stood there and stared at all the colors and sizes of post-it notes for who knows how long, trying to decide.  I'm pathetic.

I also needed pens.  Many pens.  And glue sticks.  You know, for the kids.  I forgot construction paper and regular drawing paper.  Hmmm...maybe I should go back today.

I got all the stuff I needed - along with some things I only "needed" but at the time I needed them, so they still count.  In my anything's-justifiable world.  haha.

And I got to the checkout line and the girl behind the counter asked "Would you like to donate a dollar for sick children?"  And I stared at her for minute and asked "Which ones?" And we both burst out laughing.  It was for a hospital in Massachusetts.  I donated.  I was feeling generous and happy by then. 

I'd got my fix.

The Call of the Wild Julia

I really wish Julia slept.  I mean, she sleeps, but she doesn't zonk out for a solid 10 hours like her brother does.  Of course, he didn't always sleep like this either, so I'm hoping this is just a phase.  A long, endless, coffee-necessitating phase.

Two nights ago around 2:30 in the morning, Julia started calling "Mommmmmmyyyyy....Mommmmyyyyy...."  She, like the birds and other wild creatures, has different tones that indicate different things.  In this instance, it's kind of a blend of Moan and Whine with a bit of Crabby Girl stirred in.  I go into her room and see what I expect to see when I hear that sound:  she is in her bed, eyes shut, on her side, blanket on the floor, and her legs and arms swim in arcs across the surface of her purple Dora sheets.  She is in constant motion, 3/4 asleep, and in need of something.  She doesn't know what it is.

I try.  "Do you need your blanket back on?" I ask, tucking it around her swishing legs.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo" she Moans/Whines in sleepy irritation.

"Do you need to go potty?"

An insult, apparently. "NOOOOOoooooooooooooo, I don't need to go pottttttyyyyyyyy!"  She sort of sounds like a ghost too.  She keeps writhing slowly, like a willow tree in a brewing storm.

"Are you thirsty?"  This is it - it's usually one of these three things.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!"  She thrashes around now, and somehow works herself sideways across her toddler mattress, jamming herself temporarily between the back of the former-crib-now-big-girl-bed and the safety rail in front. 

I try sense.  (Apparently I lack any myself.)  "Okay, Julia, if you aren't going to tell me what the problem is, I'm going back to bed."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"  More thrashing and flailing.  The storm's picking up.  "I DON'T WANT YOU TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"Julia, you need to be quiet, you're going to wake up Alex and Daddy."  (Like she cares.)  "Now what's the matter?"

I try the three main questions again, all of which anger her more, and she becomes louder and more thrashy.  She turns a complete circle, lying on one side - sort of like Donald O'Connor did on his arm in the "Make 'Em Laugh" scene of Singin in the Rain.  But there's no laughing here.

I start to leave.  I'm tired.  She screams "NO MOMMMMYYYYYYYY" and, obedient puppet that I am, I swoop back to the crib and hiss at her to be quiet. 

She just gets louder, and I'm tired of standing bent over the bed, so I say "Okay, we're going downstairs."  Which is something she normally would love to do in the middle of the night, but since it wasn't her idea, then no, it is not a good idea.  She shrieks.  "I DON'T WANNA GO DOWNSTAIRS!" I pick her up and she is heavy with sleep and her eyes are still mostly shut and she starts writhing and flailing and I don't even know how to describe the sound of her voice except by saying things like "banshee" and "angry bird" and "Janis Joplin."  Alex, at this point, sits bolt upright in his bed and starts to cry, terrified, no doubt, by the demon in his room.  I tell him kindly to go back to sleep as I carry the wild animal out the door.  She is still shrieking "NO! NO! I DON'T WANNA GO DOWNSTAIRS!" and trying to escape, which makes going down two flights of stairs a bit challenging, but we make it to the basement and I put her on the floor and go sit on the couch to wait it out.

She is a tiny monster, her dark blond hair seems to wave around her head like Medusa's snakes, and she glares at me from beneath her bangs.  If she had fangs, she would bare them.  Instead, she continues to shriek at me and tremble with sleepy rage. 

I just watch.  Because I want to laugh and that wouldn't be good.  But it's hard to be frightened of a banshee in pajamas that have oversized pink and purple flowers all over them. 

Perhaps feeling hampered by these benign garments, my little fireball suddenly - still glaring at me, swiftly REMOVES HER PAJAMA BOTTOMS AND HURLS THEM ACROSS THE ROOM!  SO THERE!  She waits to see if I react.  I don't, because I really have to fight to keep from laughing at that little display.  So she looks around and finds a yellow plastic bowl from her play kitchen set, and throws that.  Interestingly, she sees a plastic play knife but does not throw that.  I guess this is all just for show and she has no real interest in bloodshed tonight.

Since the throwing isn't having any effect on me, she shouts "I'M GOING BACK TO MY BED!" at me and heads for the stairs.  I cut her off, and plant myself a few steps up and say, calmly "You need to calm down."

"I DON'T WANNA CALM DOWN!" she shrieks and falls to the floor and flails and wriths and screeches and then it starts...the shrieking begins to change, and the face crumples some, and she starts crying now, and finally the end is in sight, and she is no longer the scary banshee...she is just a tired little girl who was in some strange half and half state of wakeful and sleepy and now she just wants to be one place or the other...so she cries, and I pick her up and hold her for a while...and we just hang out there in the middle of the darkened living room until we are no longer wild animal and observer, but child and mommy.

She goes back to bed pretty soon after that, and the rest of the night is fine.

Now, last night right around 2:30 again, I was awakened by a loud and sad "MOMMY!  MOMMMMYYYY!" - a different sound from the moaning/whining one.  I went into the room and "Mommy, I fell out of my beddddd!" she wails from the floor.  She is tangled in her Dora blanket and not hurt, but not all that thrilled either.  I get her untangled and back to bed pretty quickly.

And then about 5:00 or so this morning it comes again:  "MOMMY!  MOMMMYYYY!!!!!!!!!!" And I go in again, expecting to see the same purple and blond lump on the floor, but no, she is in her bed, and crying. 

"Julia!  What's wrong???" I ask.

"Daddy ate my cheeseburger!" She wails.

I bring her into our bed, show her that no, Daddy is sleeping and didn't eat her cheeseburger, and she falls back to sleep, snug between us.  Peace.

Morning Fog

In my brain - not outside.

I was up til after eleven last night trying to catch up on things, computery things, and then I was awake for maybe another hour just thinking of more things to do.  And I was tempted to get up and get the laptop back out and just work on projects until my eyes closed, but no, there's the whole "get up and bring the kids to daycare/school and get myself to work" thing in the mornings I have to keep in mind.  I'll just get up early, I said to myself, and I'll write a post then.

Ha!

Now I can't really remember what I wanted to write about.  Probably because I don't have a lot more time and I'm feeling rushed and I still have to have the kids get dressed and I need to iron my own stuff for work. 

So this is what I've come up with.  Scintillating, isn't it. 

Okay, then.  Since this post is going nowhere, I'll leave you with a picture from the weekend, and then just focus on the practical matters of the morning.

For your viewing pleasure:

Morning Glories climbing across the sun at my sister's house.

Hi

I've been wretchedly ill for the last several days - today is the first day I've felt like looking at the computer at all.  I'll be back hopefully at some point this weekend.  Hope all's well in your world.