Hi, everyone.
Grey and rainy day here, dampish with a bit of breeze. However, it's comfortable and dry under the carport. Today is Sunday, arthritis medication day, aka The Day Of Our Discontent. Nothing much ever happens here on Sundays. Gail falls asleep when the medication kicks in, so quiet is the order of the day. Not that she is tyrannical about it, but we believe in letting her get as much rest as she can.
Grilling is NOT a guy thing. Beer ads like to make it look that way. A man looks manlier with a long-handled spatula in one hand and a cold brewsky in the other, they purport. I don't buy it. A lot of guys who can't make toast for themselves without setting them on fire resort to grilling to make up for their appalling lack of proficiency in the kitchen. Like a woman will find her man more attractive after grilling some kind of beast. Mom told them not to use sharp knives because she was afraid of them herself. There was not a sharp knife in that kitchen to start with and she didn't want a 9-fingered little moron running around the house. Also, she didn't want to clean up after little Johnny, Jane or Theodore either. Those 2.7 average kids (Theo was not all there) grew up knowing where the kitchen was, but not knowing what to do in it. Good moms let the kids lick the beaters. Very good moms stop the mixer first.
Growing up, my grandmother did all the cooking because my mom wanted a career as a cashier in our local savings & loans bank. Sadly, mom had no discernible cooking skills that I could ever observe, either. I was 9 years old when grandma died. The quality of the food degenerated rapidly. That's when I started cooking. The rules were simple: burn nothing, waste nothing and eat what you make (no matter horrible it is). We wuz poo'. And I forget about the most important thing of all: clean up after yourself. I was sharpening knives and honing them by the time I was 10. They were like razors and even mom was afraid to use them. I still have all of my 10 fingers. I am missing a toe, but that was an infection gone horribly wrong, not the result of dropping one of my knives while wearing flip-flops.
I still recall my dad's reaction when I started cooking. When mom tried to calm him down, he answered: "Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a tricycle, Murielle, where did you go wrong? Should I get him a doll and a frilly apron, too? Don't you dare tell anyone about this. I'll be the laughing stock at the Knights of Columbus hall. Where did you go wrong?".
Just for the record, dad knew we owned a charcoal grill. He knew where it was, but he had no idea what to do with it. But he's sure lip-smacking glad I cook now. Last week, he told me he would make his own toast. I almost got me a case of the vapors and like Scarlet O'Hara, I told myself: "Prissy, open that there yonder windaw and fetch me mah smelling salts, Ah may faint". Ten minutes later, he was reading quietly and no toast had been eaten. I decided to investigate. He got 2 slices whole wheat bread and inserted them into the toaster; so far, so good. And he walked away. His toaster in Montreal lowers the toast automatically. Now if you ask me, that's quite the technological work saver. So, he didn't push down the little lever on ours. So there sat his 2 slices bread. I pressed the little lever, pulled out the butter and the caramel spread and finished getting his breakfast together. But his heart was in the right place. He gets an A+ for effort, but an F for results. I demonstrated the use of the little lever when he was done with breakfast because I figured there was no sense trying to teach someone about the intricacies of toaster operation on an empty stomach.
Lucy has climbed all the way to the top of her jungle gym and is giving me the eye. Gail might want to handle her a bit. And then I may take her outside for a bit. Lucy likes sniffing the breeze with her little tongue. I like sitting outside with Lucy draped behind my neck. Snakes make awesome pets.
Tonight's dessert will be homemade apple pie. I have no idea what I'll make for a main course. Let's hope Escopia will bring a bit of inspiration. I'd like curried goat, but that dish is forbidden in our house. Gail can't stand the smell, or sight of it and only heathen eat goat meat, I am told. I beg to differ. Too bad, because I learned to make, grind and bloom my own garam masala from whole spices and it is SO good. That would make an awesome dinner with some coconut rice. I wish there were an Indian restaurant around here. As far as ethnic dining is concerned, South Florida is a dismal desert: Italian, burgers, Chinese and that's about it. How I miss that little hole in the wall of an Indian restaurant in Montreal where you walked in, sat with strangers at the first available chair and were served the day's dish in a stainless steel 3-section tray. It was heaven for $5.95/person including dessert. No chance of seeing that anywhere in these parts any time soon.
Take care, everyone.
Sylvain.
