Fodder

The stuffed squash held us through the waiting of last night's election. I don't think there's anything better to calm the soul and ease the mind than good food. Thank goodness for the election results and thank goodness for red wine and butter. (I must note here that I actually cannot eat dairy so henceforth read all 'butter' as the wonder that is soy-free Nature Balance.)

I promise to write down a recipe sometime, I just never measure and always go by taste and smell, adding when I need to so it is a bit difficult to document. I will try. Am trying. Just as I am trying to perfect that silly little game hen that mocks me from my plate asking 'Why didn't you brine me? You knew I would need salt". Some day hen, some day. Some day I will set a hen on the table and carefully and proudly replace my recipe card in it's 1950's decoupage box under C. This box will be coveted by my neighbors and my daughters will stand to inherit it. One day when I am gone, my grandchild will pull out a card, smudged with the sauce and love of a thousand dinners, and ask, "Mommy, is this how you get those silly little chickens to taste so good?" Until this time, the ingredient list remains in my head, and my grandchildren live in a future of bland and dry poultry.

Moving on, sigh.

Today I went to work in a red cardigan I believe was designed to hide the stomach I have grown from so many impulsive, warm, and completely necessary meals. The cardigan is a knit that hangs lower in the front and ties around my waist in a nice neat Christmas bow. I feel fatter in it and need to get rid of it. Why are there days when you leave the house knowing, with all your senses, that today you made a fashion faux pas and yet you still walk out the door? These are the days I am reminded of mulleted people.  

The Mullet Theory: Looking in the mirror, thinking, "This looks good, I can pull this off" and walking out the door. Also applies to red cowboy boots on men and skinny jeans on pear shaped people (like me).

Tonight we eat what has now become a favorite of mine on crappy days. I have no idea what to call it. I was craving enchiladas, hominy, and chicken and I made a stew of it. It works out great, has chipotle and tomatoes so it helps ward off the chills from the fall and bad days at work. The chicken has been defrosting as I write this, I must now go brown it and add the onions and peppers. Perhaps the red enchilada sauce and chipotle peppers will negate the terrible choice of sweater and the spice will melt away the day.

                                          Nothing like tortillas in Mexico

Flavor Fidelity

In our little world, there are no certainties. There are however, spices. I know for a fact that if you mix sauteed onions, garlic, red wine, and sage the world is right and good. I know that lavender, butter, and carrots lead hearts to sigh over unexpected side dishes. Rice cooked with chicken stock, sea salt, and rosemary will make even the non-believers ask for seconds.

There are things I do not know, and am willing to admit. I do not know why sometimes tapioca flour turns gravy to snotty, clear grossness that I refuse to acknowledge at my table as a food item. (Actually, I do know why it does that, I just seem to have faith that one day, when the cornstarch is gone, that the tapioca flour will pull through for me.) I don't know why eggs sometime make me think of chicken babies and I get sad and eat too much of them in omelette form with goat cheese and banana peppers. I don't know why these sad little omelette death orbs taste so much better rolled in blue corn tortillas. I also don't know why I start thinking of dinner at 11 in the morning and am distracted all day until I decide what to make. I do not know why everyone's day is not centered around food.

Then, in the midst of this angst, there is the daily come and go of everything. The waking, the working, the cleaning, the boyfriend, the dog, the family. These things can make or break anyone in a day. In my world, the boyfriend and dog are saving graces akin to baked apples on a rainy fall day. I am blessed that my love will always allow for crazy meal ideas, the turning right-side-up of his sandwich (so he eats it the right way), and teasing of his ketchup affection. He knows I have clout, he trusts me and I feed him well. The dog is one of my own heart: lover of secret salmon bites and sticky goat cheese fingers.

As daily life continues to be a dubious foe with the constant catch up and dishes no one wants to do, I do have faith in flavor. I have faith in myself to present a meal to friends that will beg to be oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over. I have faith in the knowledge that food is love.

Right now, however, there is squash roasting in the oven, waiting to be stuffed and covered in goat cheese. It's a favorite dish of mine, perfect for the day I'm having. It always comes out right and I've been thinking about it since last night.