For the past couple of years, ever since our local paper ran a story about the installation of a new monk at the local Buddhist temple, I've toyed with the idea of looking more seriously at Buddhism. As with many people my age, the term immediately brings to mind flocks of saffron-robed teens hanging out at airports begging for money and bearded, long-haired pudgy androgynous gurus bilking the credulous. It takes almost an effort of will to divorce those images from the reality. On the other hand, I did experiment a bit with yoga as a teen, mainly from books, but occasionally along with Lilias, and became a semi-irregular practitioner while in grad school. I have a set of DVDs that I have employed for weeks at a time, off and on, over the past 10 years or so. And yes, I realize that yoga and Buddhism are different, but they arise from the same philosophical tradition.
After the troubles and disappointments and sadness of Wraith and her kittens, Mike checked out some books on meditation and Buddhism and read some passages to me which he found significant and helpful. That was the final impetus to push me to suggest that we visit the Tam Bao temple, if only for the guided meditation.
Why is there a Buddhist temple in the middle of this stronghold of Christian conservatism? For the same reason that there are many fine Vietnamese restaurants and Vietnamese grocery stores -- this is one of the areas of the country where Vietnamese refugees settled after the fall of Saigon. Southeastern Louisiana had the room, a climate that is similar to home, and the industries in which many of them were already proficient, especially fishing and shrimping. Many, but obviously not all, are Catholic. Most moved to New Orleans, but a sizable contingent moved north to Baton Rouge.
We drove out there last week to find out exactly where it is and how to get to it and where to park and all of those other little details that are particularly important in Baton Rouge, where the streets are deliberately designed to prevent through traffic. It was also an opportunity for a Vietnamese lunch at Viet Garden restaurant. The temple was not difficult to find, but getting into it was just a bit tricky the first time. We parked and walked around the grounds, noted the bigger, paved parking lot tucked away to one side, and peeked into the Buddha hall.
We had thought to attend one of the Tuesday night meditations, but after calling the Temple to verify the time, I had the distinct impression that I was being steered toward the Friday night English service. Possibly because the young man I spoke with kept saying, "Well, the English is on Friday night. Tonight is just Vietnamese." And given that Mike had to be to work at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, we changed our plans to Friday night.
After a day that included leaving home before 7 to get to campus early enough to park and walk to my office before robing and walking down to graduation and sitting through the two-hour ceremony (and constantly reminding myself that, while this is a tri-annual experience for me, it is a once-in-a-lifetime for the graduates), then back to my office for the reception, then back to the parking lot, I was ready for a little quiet mindfulness. Both of my feet were protesting the unaccustomed activity, the right a bit more than the left, of course.
I had planned a shrimp curry for dinner, but Mike said, in that way of his, "Oh, I thought we were going to get dinner at Little Saigon, since we'll be in that area." Uh-huh. Sure. But I was willing to be convinced not to cook dinner. So, that's what we did, although we ended up at Saigon Noodles, which has taken over from Little Saigon (which, I discovered today, has re-opened across the street), none of which is in any way relevant, except that this might become a regular Friday night event.
We arrived at the Temple at 7:00, about 20 minutes early. A nice young man in the parking lot told us that people were free to enter and sit quietly, so we did, leaving our shoes outside the door, along with three or four other pairs. The floor, which earlier in the week had been bare, was laid out with mats and cushions and book cradles. There are also padded benches along the outer walls. A man lifted one of the bench tops and took out an extra cushion. Mike and I selected places and, while Mike helped himself to a second cushion, I maneuvered my way down to a seated position and crossed my legs.
People began arriving in ones and twos and taking places; some paused to bow to the Buddha, others just sat. They were a very diverse group in every way -- age, race, sex, weight. A few looked like "typical" Buddhists -- tall, thin, in flowing clothing or yoga pants, who sat in the lotus position -- but most, well, did not. Most sat on cushions, quite a few of them sinking gracefully and crossing their legs without difficulty, but a handful sat on the benches.
A young man in a brown robe with a shaved head, who would later identify himself as "Brother Will," and a woman in a brown robe entered, bowed to the Buddha, and a few minutes later, the service began. One of the men rang the bell -- it is a very large bowl-shaped bell that is rung by striking it with a wooden ballet, and gives off a very resonant tone that reverberates through the hall; much more pleasant than I had anticipated -- and a young woman read an introduction to the service, so that newcomers would know what to expect without feeling singled out.
The abbott entered, we all rose. He offered incense to the Buddhal they went through the three prostrations. Although most of those in attendance did prostrate themselves, Mike and I were not the only two who refrained, mainly because we both doubted our ability to get back up again without help! Brother Will explained that, while meditating, we should ignore the need to scratch or move; that if we absolutely had to move, it should be done mindfully, and that any thoughts should be accepted and then let go. Shortly after, the lights were dimmed, the bell was rung, and we began our 30 minutes of meditation. The abbott chanted something in Vietnamese, which, like Gregorian chant, was more powerful for being unintelligible.
Every five minutes or so, Brother Will would softly ring the bell, and recite a chant in English to help us re-focus on our breath. Every time I would think "I can't do this," the bell would ring and I would find that I could -- until about 20 minutes into it, when I realized that I could no long feel my feet or my ankles. I could not move my toes. I began to panic; all I could think of was how essential it was that I restore circulation.
First, I used my hands to shift my feet farther from my body, which helped somewhat. I tried to re-focus, but with the restoration of blood flow, my feet had begun, first to tingle, and then ache. Then, I straightened out my left leg, and tried to re-focus, but really, at that point, all I was doing was waiting for the 30 minutes to end. I wondered what would have happened if I had just ignored it. Obviously, my feet were not going to develop gangrene in that little bit of time.
Blessedly, the time did come to an end. We were instructed to rub our hands together, then massage our face and head, then our neck and shoulders, our back, and finally out legs. Mike then went to sit on a bench along the wall; 10 minutes later, I wished I had joined him -- and we'll just start out at the wall the next time.
Brother Will then introduced himself, explained that the abbot is away on a retreat (but did not introduce the monk who was leading the service, whom I shall continue to call "the abbot") and gave the homily -- I cannot think of it as other than that. He is a monk-in-training of about 18 months and doing his best, but not the deepest thinker. He questioned us about "What makes you happy?" then expressed surprise that people said, "Family, love, friends" -- to me, the expected answers. He expected to hear "Cars, money, iPhones." So young and inexperienced. Even if that were what people thought, most would have known better than to actually say it. He sort of rambled on about the topic for 10 minutes or so, then same man who had lit the incense and run the bell to start also rambled on, reading some passages from the Buddha and the Dalai Lamah. After 20 minutes or so, I was not the only person who was restlessly shifting, and the abbot suddenly rang the bell softly, then loudly, then softly again after the sound had died away.
That served to refocus all of us; the man finished what he was saying, and the floor was opened to comments. Nothing particularly noteworthy, just people repeating the sorts of things you would expect about "happiness" -- family, nature, love. I thought about saying that, for me, happiness comes from learning and acquiring knowledge, but I didn't want to sound, well, like a prig.
Again, the abbot rang the bell, then pointed to a young Asian man and over to his right side. The young man quickly moved, picked up a microphone, and began to translate. The abbot repeated much of what had been said, but expanded on it and contextualized it within Buddhism and Dharma, in particular the difference between the happiness that comes from without and that which comes from within, and the fragility of happiness that is attached to the outer world.
It was while he was speaking that I realized that even family, love, nature provide a happiness from without; that even that happiness is fragile and short-lived; happiness that depends on anything outside of ourselves is subject to loss. Family die; they become estranged; grow-up and move on with their lives; thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors made a very good living telling women in the 1970s and later that they needed to find a life beyond their children; the empty-nest syndrome is still recognized. Even learning and knowledge can be lost to Alzheimer's or a stroke or dementia. Mindfulness means finding joy in what is now.
He then shifted tone, and asked those of us who were new to introduce ourselves; of the 50 or so people who were there, about 10 were there for the first time. Most of them were students at LSU, although one other woman was also faculty at LSU and new to Baton Rouge.
We ended with a group chant in English. The regulars quickly gathered up the cushions, mats, and book stands, while I gingerly walked over to Mike, testing whether my feet would bear me out to the car. We were greeted by a friendly ginger cat as we left the hall, who demanded pets from everyone who came out. We don't know whether it is a regular occurrence, but we rather hope so.
Are we ready to commit to this? Possibly. Certainly we want to make it a regular practice at home, and we find value in the guided meditation at this stage. We're not decided about becoming members of the community. The constant bowing to each other with hands in heart position felt awkward, but that can be overcome with time. I think we'll just take it as it comes, which is all that we're asked to do.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
It did get worse -- and now it's over
The saddest news first. We were left with no choice but to call animal control. Wraith would not let us near the kittens, and we could not leave the little ginger one with an untreated broken leg. I would have been clawed from elbow to wrist, if I hadn't been wearing a long-sleeved sweater and rose gauntlets. We sent them, cage and all, last Friday, then picked up the humane trap to capture the other two. We set it yesterday, and by the evening, both had been picked up.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
It could be worse, but it's bad enough as it is
We honestly don't know what we were thinking, or perhaps fantasizing is a better term. The idea that we could catch 4 nearly-feral kittens at all is, in retrospect, utterly unrealistic. And to bring kids into the mix . . .
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Real "Master Chef" home cooking
"Master Chef" is one of the very few network television shows we make a point of watching; that "Hell's Kitchen" and "Kitchen Nightmares" are two of the others should come as no surprise. However, I do have one perennial complaint, to wit, if "Master Chef" really is "America's best home cook," then why are contestants judged on their ability to create "restaurant quality dishes" with the high-quality ingredients using professional tools?
The real test of a good home cook is to turn out family-pleasing dishes seven nights a week, 52 weeks a year, and to do it on a budget in a suburban ranch kitchen. I'd like to see a "Master Chef" mystery box that included only items found in my fridge and in my pantry -- the week before I get paid. Now THAT would be a challenge! Oh, and Joe would have to swallow it.
Another would be using up leftovers in ways that disguise what they were originally.
I thought of this last week as I was putting together what I think was a pretty decent pork pot pie with cheddar biscuit topping for dinner last night. It was the left-over herbed pork roast (a rub of chopped fresh sage, rosemary and garlic with olive oil, salt and pepper) and potatoes from last Sunday's dinner (the miracle of refrigeration!). I sauteed some minced onion and garlic and with a gravy made from the drippings stretched out with some chicken stock, added the cubed pork, diced potatoes, and some frozen mixed vegetables. Ordinarily there would be left-over roasted carrots, but we've been out of carrots for a couple of weeks now; Mike kept forgetting them at the grocery store. I mixed up some buttermilk drop biscuits, cut back a bit on the shortening and added some cheddar cheese, but no herbs, figuring that the herbs from the pork would be plenty. I baked it in individual ramekins as a further diversion from the fact that it was made with left-overs. Baked until the topping was browned and we had dinner.
Later in the week. I made broiled frozen cod with pesto made from the basil growing in our herb garden served over orzo. Mike picked some very tiny baby eggplant, so I halved them, drizzled with some olive oil, topped with some finely minced garlic and parmesan cheese and roast along with the cod. I saved a bit of basil to sprinkle over them. I wanted to do a saute with peppers and tomatoes, but nothing was ripe yet.
The cod and pesto were a success, and the next night, I made homemade ravioli with basil/garlic/ricotta filling and the rest of the pesto. That used some ricotta that I had in the fridge, and leftover pesto -- two for one.
I'm planning ricotta-stuffed cannelloni for this week, with a red sauce, to use up a couple of tomatoes that are getting too ripe and the rest of the ricotta.
The real test of a good home cook is to turn out family-pleasing dishes seven nights a week, 52 weeks a year, and to do it on a budget in a suburban ranch kitchen. I'd like to see a "Master Chef" mystery box that included only items found in my fridge and in my pantry -- the week before I get paid. Now THAT would be a challenge! Oh, and Joe would have to swallow it.
Another would be using up leftovers in ways that disguise what they were originally.
I thought of this last week as I was putting together what I think was a pretty decent pork pot pie with cheddar biscuit topping for dinner last night. It was the left-over herbed pork roast (a rub of chopped fresh sage, rosemary and garlic with olive oil, salt and pepper) and potatoes from last Sunday's dinner (the miracle of refrigeration!). I sauteed some minced onion and garlic and with a gravy made from the drippings stretched out with some chicken stock, added the cubed pork, diced potatoes, and some frozen mixed vegetables. Ordinarily there would be left-over roasted carrots, but we've been out of carrots for a couple of weeks now; Mike kept forgetting them at the grocery store. I mixed up some buttermilk drop biscuits, cut back a bit on the shortening and added some cheddar cheese, but no herbs, figuring that the herbs from the pork would be plenty. I baked it in individual ramekins as a further diversion from the fact that it was made with left-overs. Baked until the topping was browned and we had dinner.
Later in the week. I made broiled frozen cod with pesto made from the basil growing in our herb garden served over orzo. Mike picked some very tiny baby eggplant, so I halved them, drizzled with some olive oil, topped with some finely minced garlic and parmesan cheese and roast along with the cod. I saved a bit of basil to sprinkle over them. I wanted to do a saute with peppers and tomatoes, but nothing was ripe yet.
The cod and pesto were a success, and the next night, I made homemade ravioli with basil/garlic/ricotta filling and the rest of the pesto. That used some ricotta that I had in the fridge, and leftover pesto -- two for one.
I'm planning ricotta-stuffed cannelloni for this week, with a red sauce, to use up a couple of tomatoes that are getting too ripe and the rest of the ricotta.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Jam tarts
After my first surgery, because Mike had been literally waiting on me for weeks at a time, I finally made him the blackberry jam tart he's been asking for every year when our blackberries are in season. The first ones I made were 4-inch blackberry pies, which he devoured, but then informed me that they weren't what he wanted. He wanted a tart shell, filled with jam, and topped with a lattice crust, the way his mother used to make.
After I was speaking to him again (never tell your wife that the blackberry pies she spent an entire day making, including picking the blackberries, were not the pinnacle of dessertness; I forgave him primarily because I had used packaged pastry crust), I agreed to try again. I picked another basket of blackberries and cooked them until they were soft, then passed them through my food mill, then continued to cook the juice with sugar to taste until it was thick.
While it cooled, I made the pastry crust, following the Cook's Illustrated "fool-proof" recipe, rather than using my old stand-by. Well, they never met this fool. It calls for chilled shortening, as well as cold butter. My shortening was not chilled. I scooped out the amount called for and put it in the freezer to chill, hoping that would do. Then, I got out the food processor, measured the dry ingredients into it (doubling the sugar), realized that I should have held out one cup of the flour, so scooped it back out with a soup spoon, and proceeded to process the butter and shortening in short bursts, per directions. I then added the additional flour, at which point it became clear that the shortening was not cold enough, as it blended into a paste, rather than clumping.
Then, following the recipe, I dumped it all into a mixing bowl, wondering all the while how this was saving me time. I don't have a crew of dishwashers. Couldn't I just have cut the shortening and butter into the flour in that bowl, the way I always have? I even have a pastry blender, which is a whole lot easier to clean than a food processor.
So, I sprinkled on the cold vodka and the cold water and pressed it in with a spatula, as per the directions. It seemed very soft to me. That was when I discovered that it had to be refrigerated for 45 minutes or up to 2 days. Errrrghhhhh!
When I pulled it out of the fridge, it was still really soft, but at this point, I did not have any more time to wait, so I sprinkled my pastry cloth liberally with flour and rolled it out. It rolled like a dream, but when I tried to roll it around the pin to transfer to the tart pan, it drooped and sagged and fell off the pin as I lifted it from the counter. After a few more tries, I gave up and just pressed it into the pan, doing my best to make it even. I then blind baked the crust for about 20 minutes, let it cool, and filled it with the now room temperature jam (which was absolutely fabulous -- such concentrated blackberry flavor, it was almost too good).
Here is where I lost it. I rolled out the remaining dough, cut it into strips, and tried to pick them up. Maybe 3 inches would lift before it would break. A few choice expletives later, I dumped a cup of flour on the pastry cloth and kneaded enough into that dough to make it manageable, rolled it out, cut the strips, laid them out, and baked the thing.
Mike, poor thing, got quite an earful when he got home from work, consisting mainly of "All I want to hear from you is how this is exactly what you wanted. I do NOT want to hear how your mother did it!"
He must have meant it when he said it, as he ate two pieces that night, another piece at breakfast, and had to call me to come and get him from work because . . . because you should not eat three pieces of blackberry jam tart within 12 hours. Despite the near-disaster with the crust, it still came out light and flaky and crispy.
I still don't know why the "fool-proof" pastry failed -- was it because the shortening was not cold enough? Because of the extra sugar? The kitchen too warm? I didn't leave it in the refrigerator long enough? There was enough left to make another crust, so I popped it into a plastic bag and into the meat drawer.
And got it out today to use for a fig jam tart, way more than 2 days later. The figs are ripening and he spent the morning vacuuming and doing the kitchen floors, to say nothing of having been saddled with cooking duties for the past three weeks.
Rolled it out, flipped it into the tart pan, weighted it down and blind baked it while I made the fig jam -- figs cooked down with sugar to taste and a couple of tablespoons of the limoncello I made last year, since we're out of lemons. I would have used port, but I used the last of that for the Christmas pudding. Let everything cool, pureed the figs with my immersion blender, spread the jam in the shell and stuck it in the fridge. The bits of crust that broke off are as flaky and crispy as they were 2 months ago. The fig jam isn't quite as rich as it would be with port -- but needs must.
Having tasted it, I'd call it more of a "fig puree" tart than a jam tart -- fig jam doesn't jell so much as thicken. Very tasty, but the texture is not quite right. Next time, I would not puree the figs, just chop them roughly and leave some pieces for texture. Still, Mike has had two pieces . . .
I really think the next time, I may follow the Cooks' Illustrated pie dough recipe as far as ingredients go, but I'll just cut the shortening (which is now in the fridge) and butter into the flour, rather than messing with the food processor. I know they use it on Master Chef, but . . . I'm not on Master Chef.
After I was speaking to him again (never tell your wife that the blackberry pies she spent an entire day making, including picking the blackberries, were not the pinnacle of dessertness; I forgave him primarily because I had used packaged pastry crust), I agreed to try again. I picked another basket of blackberries and cooked them until they were soft, then passed them through my food mill, then continued to cook the juice with sugar to taste until it was thick.
While it cooled, I made the pastry crust, following the Cook's Illustrated "fool-proof" recipe, rather than using my old stand-by. Well, they never met this fool. It calls for chilled shortening, as well as cold butter. My shortening was not chilled. I scooped out the amount called for and put it in the freezer to chill, hoping that would do. Then, I got out the food processor, measured the dry ingredients into it (doubling the sugar), realized that I should have held out one cup of the flour, so scooped it back out with a soup spoon, and proceeded to process the butter and shortening in short bursts, per directions. I then added the additional flour, at which point it became clear that the shortening was not cold enough, as it blended into a paste, rather than clumping.
Then, following the recipe, I dumped it all into a mixing bowl, wondering all the while how this was saving me time. I don't have a crew of dishwashers. Couldn't I just have cut the shortening and butter into the flour in that bowl, the way I always have? I even have a pastry blender, which is a whole lot easier to clean than a food processor.
So, I sprinkled on the cold vodka and the cold water and pressed it in with a spatula, as per the directions. It seemed very soft to me. That was when I discovered that it had to be refrigerated for 45 minutes or up to 2 days. Errrrghhhhh!
When I pulled it out of the fridge, it was still really soft, but at this point, I did not have any more time to wait, so I sprinkled my pastry cloth liberally with flour and rolled it out. It rolled like a dream, but when I tried to roll it around the pin to transfer to the tart pan, it drooped and sagged and fell off the pin as I lifted it from the counter. After a few more tries, I gave up and just pressed it into the pan, doing my best to make it even. I then blind baked the crust for about 20 minutes, let it cool, and filled it with the now room temperature jam (which was absolutely fabulous -- such concentrated blackberry flavor, it was almost too good).
Here is where I lost it. I rolled out the remaining dough, cut it into strips, and tried to pick them up. Maybe 3 inches would lift before it would break. A few choice expletives later, I dumped a cup of flour on the pastry cloth and kneaded enough into that dough to make it manageable, rolled it out, cut the strips, laid them out, and baked the thing.
Mike, poor thing, got quite an earful when he got home from work, consisting mainly of "All I want to hear from you is how this is exactly what you wanted. I do NOT want to hear how your mother did it!"
He must have meant it when he said it, as he ate two pieces that night, another piece at breakfast, and had to call me to come and get him from work because . . . because you should not eat three pieces of blackberry jam tart within 12 hours. Despite the near-disaster with the crust, it still came out light and flaky and crispy.
I still don't know why the "fool-proof" pastry failed -- was it because the shortening was not cold enough? Because of the extra sugar? The kitchen too warm? I didn't leave it in the refrigerator long enough? There was enough left to make another crust, so I popped it into a plastic bag and into the meat drawer.
And got it out today to use for a fig jam tart, way more than 2 days later. The figs are ripening and he spent the morning vacuuming and doing the kitchen floors, to say nothing of having been saddled with cooking duties for the past three weeks.
Rolled it out, flipped it into the tart pan, weighted it down and blind baked it while I made the fig jam -- figs cooked down with sugar to taste and a couple of tablespoons of the limoncello I made last year, since we're out of lemons. I would have used port, but I used the last of that for the Christmas pudding. Let everything cool, pureed the figs with my immersion blender, spread the jam in the shell and stuck it in the fridge. The bits of crust that broke off are as flaky and crispy as they were 2 months ago. The fig jam isn't quite as rich as it would be with port -- but needs must.
Having tasted it, I'd call it more of a "fig puree" tart than a jam tart -- fig jam doesn't jell so much as thicken. Very tasty, but the texture is not quite right. Next time, I would not puree the figs, just chop them roughly and leave some pieces for texture. Still, Mike has had two pieces . . .
I really think the next time, I may follow the Cooks' Illustrated pie dough recipe as far as ingredients go, but I'll just cut the shortening (which is now in the fridge) and butter into the flour, rather than messing with the food processor. I know they use it on Master Chef, but . . . I'm not on Master Chef.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Little Phantom and the Wraith
Baton Rouge is known for its feral and stray cats. Somewhere I think I read that there are more feral cats in Baton Rouge per capita than any other city in the U.S. Or maybe I just made that up, convinced that it is true. A black mother cat gave birth to half-a-dozen kittens in the pampas grass outside Kohl's a few years ago; the employees, including Mike, left food for them daily. We saw at least 3 kittens one evening when we sat outside at Joe's Crabshack. One little black-and-white fellow with emerald eyes was jumping from empty table to empty table, then rousted out a couple of his siblings to play in the sand around and under the playground equipment. We reported it to our server, who said that one of the employees was feeding the mother cat.
When we got home, I notified the Capital Area Animal Welfare Society (CAAWS) and became a member. As I'm typing this, I realize that we need to do more. But, then, we are, in our own small way.
Sometime the end of last year a little black kitten started showing up around our house, sitting in the front windows and yowling at our cats. Miller in particular would respond, batting at the window and warning him away. Finally, we decided that he must be a poor little stray, and put food out for him. He ran from us at first, but the food would disappear, and gradually he become more trusting, finally allowing us to touch him. Mike discovered that he was an unneutered male, and left me with the task of taking him to the vet. We named him Phantom because he would just show up from nowhere when it was feeding time.
As is usual, these situations always arise just when it's least convenient. I'm able to remember the time so clearly because it was about 2 weeks before we were scheduled to go on our first cruise. There wasn't time to organize things through the animal societies here -- they have various and sundry requirements and, of course, are completely backed up -- and we were planning to adopt him, anyway, so I caught him one morning (there is no greater feeling of guilt than picking up a trusting little kitten with the intent of taking him to the vet) and took him to Dr. Phil. The next day, the deed was done, he had his shots, and a few days later, Mike discovered that he belongs to the people across the road.
Any animal lover will understand how angry I am as I type this. They had brought the kitten back from some friends' farm for their young boy, and had kept him in the house, but now that they had a new baby, "naturally" they couldn't let him stay in the house. Oh, but they do still keep the dog in the house. Mike asked if they fed him, and the man said that they did put food out, but he could live on rats and stuff he could catch. I'm proud of my husband for not telling that . . . person . . . what he thought of him, although he did tell him that we had thought he was a stray and had him doctored. The idiot just responded, "Oh. Thanks."
At this point, 7 months later, he is as much or more our cat than theirs. He comes over at least once a day to be fed; I have introduced him to the delights of catnip, and sometimes that's all he wants. Most mornings, he comes galloping across the road, tail held high, when I go out for the paper, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for catnip, always for a pet. If the door is open, he heads straight into the laundry room and begins marking the appliances; he will also huff and hiss at the bottom of the door, if either of our cats is on the other side. If I'm working in the front yard, I'm almost certain to have some company.
He discovered that he can jump from the hose caddy to the kitchen window, so it is not uncommon for him to appear as I'm fixing dinner, and demand his. He still occasionally sits in the front windows and teases the boys, although if it's just Buddy, they usually just sit and look at each other, and we know that he sleeps behind the Indian hawthorn in front of the house.
Mike has brought him in the house more than once, and he so clearly wants to stay, but Miller is having none of it. I sometimes wonder if we shouldn't just let them fight it out. Miller would let him know who was boss, and that would be the end of it, but I worry that Miller could really hurt him. He's so used to Buddy backing down that I don't know how he'd react to a cat who didn't. He's just so damned big, and Phantom is a little thing -- fiesty and scrappy, but little.
And now he has discovered the cat flap (it's really a door for large dogs which was here when we bought the house). About 10 days ago, Mike came back to the bedroom with Phantom. He had found him in the living room, marking the carpet around the cat scratcher. Obviously, he had jumped the fence and gone exploring. He took him out in the backyard and spent 15 minutes or so playing with him and Buddy. Then, Phantom decided it was time to go and jumped the fence.
A few days ago, as we were watching television, I saw Miller at the cat flap, but . . . the head wasn't quite big enough, and where were his white markings? You guessed it -- Phantom.
Buddy, who was on the couch, perked up his ears, and then ran to the flap. He and Phantom stared at each other through the plastic, then Phantom walked off, and Buddy followed through the flap. When Mike went out to check on them, they were just sprawled on the patio together. I wonder how often they have met up in the back yard; how many mornings when Buddy jumps down from the window and asks to go out, has Phantom been out there saying, "Meet you in the back yard?"
So, who is the Wraith? A few weeks ago, Mike discovered that another cat was also eating the food we put out for Phantom. He saw them walking up the driveway together, and on another occasion, saw Phantom waiting for the other cat to cross the street. He named it "Wraith" both because it is a grey tabby and because it is nearly skeletal. We're fairly certain that it is female, so I will call it "she." She eats astounding amounts of food, but doesn't seem to gain any weight, so Mike is going to stop at PetCo for some dewormer. She's far too skittish and emotionally fragile to think about capturing and taking to the vet right now.
At first, she would run at any sound from the house, but gradually, she has come to allow Mike to stroke her and now purrs and rubs his legs. She spends at least part of her day under the RAV4 (Mike has put a pet bed underneath), which, of course, isn't being driven right now. She came out when I opened the door to put out some recycling yesterday, then stopped when she say me, and . . . didn't actually hiss, but stared with her mouth open, then retreated under the car. I told Mike that she was waiting to be fed, and, of course, she came running to him.
I think Gollum might have been a more appropriate name.
When we got home, I notified the Capital Area Animal Welfare Society (CAAWS) and became a member. As I'm typing this, I realize that we need to do more. But, then, we are, in our own small way.
Sometime the end of last year a little black kitten started showing up around our house, sitting in the front windows and yowling at our cats. Miller in particular would respond, batting at the window and warning him away. Finally, we decided that he must be a poor little stray, and put food out for him. He ran from us at first, but the food would disappear, and gradually he become more trusting, finally allowing us to touch him. Mike discovered that he was an unneutered male, and left me with the task of taking him to the vet. We named him Phantom because he would just show up from nowhere when it was feeding time.
As is usual, these situations always arise just when it's least convenient. I'm able to remember the time so clearly because it was about 2 weeks before we were scheduled to go on our first cruise. There wasn't time to organize things through the animal societies here -- they have various and sundry requirements and, of course, are completely backed up -- and we were planning to adopt him, anyway, so I caught him one morning (there is no greater feeling of guilt than picking up a trusting little kitten with the intent of taking him to the vet) and took him to Dr. Phil. The next day, the deed was done, he had his shots, and a few days later, Mike discovered that he belongs to the people across the road.
Any animal lover will understand how angry I am as I type this. They had brought the kitten back from some friends' farm for their young boy, and had kept him in the house, but now that they had a new baby, "naturally" they couldn't let him stay in the house. Oh, but they do still keep the dog in the house. Mike asked if they fed him, and the man said that they did put food out, but he could live on rats and stuff he could catch. I'm proud of my husband for not telling that . . . person . . . what he thought of him, although he did tell him that we had thought he was a stray and had him doctored. The idiot just responded, "Oh. Thanks."
At this point, 7 months later, he is as much or more our cat than theirs. He comes over at least once a day to be fed; I have introduced him to the delights of catnip, and sometimes that's all he wants. Most mornings, he comes galloping across the road, tail held high, when I go out for the paper, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for catnip, always for a pet. If the door is open, he heads straight into the laundry room and begins marking the appliances; he will also huff and hiss at the bottom of the door, if either of our cats is on the other side. If I'm working in the front yard, I'm almost certain to have some company.
He discovered that he can jump from the hose caddy to the kitchen window, so it is not uncommon for him to appear as I'm fixing dinner, and demand his. He still occasionally sits in the front windows and teases the boys, although if it's just Buddy, they usually just sit and look at each other, and we know that he sleeps behind the Indian hawthorn in front of the house.
Mike has brought him in the house more than once, and he so clearly wants to stay, but Miller is having none of it. I sometimes wonder if we shouldn't just let them fight it out. Miller would let him know who was boss, and that would be the end of it, but I worry that Miller could really hurt him. He's so used to Buddy backing down that I don't know how he'd react to a cat who didn't. He's just so damned big, and Phantom is a little thing -- fiesty and scrappy, but little.
And now he has discovered the cat flap (it's really a door for large dogs which was here when we bought the house). About 10 days ago, Mike came back to the bedroom with Phantom. He had found him in the living room, marking the carpet around the cat scratcher. Obviously, he had jumped the fence and gone exploring. He took him out in the backyard and spent 15 minutes or so playing with him and Buddy. Then, Phantom decided it was time to go and jumped the fence.
A few days ago, as we were watching television, I saw Miller at the cat flap, but . . . the head wasn't quite big enough, and where were his white markings? You guessed it -- Phantom.
Buddy, who was on the couch, perked up his ears, and then ran to the flap. He and Phantom stared at each other through the plastic, then Phantom walked off, and Buddy followed through the flap. When Mike went out to check on them, they were just sprawled on the patio together. I wonder how often they have met up in the back yard; how many mornings when Buddy jumps down from the window and asks to go out, has Phantom been out there saying, "Meet you in the back yard?"
So, who is the Wraith? A few weeks ago, Mike discovered that another cat was also eating the food we put out for Phantom. He saw them walking up the driveway together, and on another occasion, saw Phantom waiting for the other cat to cross the street. He named it "Wraith" both because it is a grey tabby and because it is nearly skeletal. We're fairly certain that it is female, so I will call it "she." She eats astounding amounts of food, but doesn't seem to gain any weight, so Mike is going to stop at PetCo for some dewormer. She's far too skittish and emotionally fragile to think about capturing and taking to the vet right now.
At first, she would run at any sound from the house, but gradually, she has come to allow Mike to stroke her and now purrs and rubs his legs. She spends at least part of her day under the RAV4 (Mike has put a pet bed underneath), which, of course, isn't being driven right now. She came out when I opened the door to put out some recycling yesterday, then stopped when she say me, and . . . didn't actually hiss, but stared with her mouth open, then retreated under the car. I told Mike that she was waiting to be fed, and, of course, she came running to him.
I think Gollum might have been a more appropriate name.
PLMS -- periodic limb movement of sleep.
According to the NIH, what I have is not RLS, but PLMS :
"PLMS is characterized by involuntary
leg twitching or jerking movements during sleep that typically occur
every 15 to 40 seconds,
sometimes throughout the night. The
symptoms cause repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep. Although
many individuals
with RLS also develop PLMS, most
people with PLMS do not experience RLS. People who have PLMS and do not
have RLS or another
cause for the PLMS may be diagnosed
with periodic limb movement disorder (PLMD). PLMD may be a variant of
RLS and thus respond
to similar treatments." http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/restless_legs/detail_restless_legs.htm
Although, in my case, it causes repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep in Mike, not me, and a king-size bed will take care of that.
Apparently the only way to really diagnose it is to go through a sleep study, which might be kind of fun and interesting, but since it's not life-threatening, I can't see any reason to bother. Mike might not agree.
Although, in my case, it causes repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep in Mike, not me, and a king-size bed will take care of that.
Apparently the only way to really diagnose it is to go through a sleep study, which might be kind of fun and interesting, but since it's not life-threatening, I can't see any reason to bother. Mike might not agree.
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