Tomorrow, the world. No, seriously–Angela at Nice Mommy, Evil Editor had a simple-looking recipe for jambalaya and I will be altering it just slightly–no green pepper, since the kids abhor it, and no shrimp (since I have grow to abhor crustacean cockroach of all forms); but some nice apple-chicken sausage and some Australian lamb roast I got at Trader Joe’s.
I know, I feel horrible eating lamb. (But Liiiiiisa, you said you looooooooved me!) But I had a moment of weakness in the frozen section. I generally eat vegetarian–with the notable exception of Guiseppes from La Bottega.
I’m halfway through revisions and in the long dim slog of a book that Needs Work. Which means one pass through for suggested revisions and big changes, then another pass through for fine-tuning. Guh. Thank goodness everything I have planned to make this week is simple.
In other news, I have become fascinated with spam. No, not to eat. In specific, I’ve become fascinated with the spam that purports to be from an “Internet millionaire” who is offering “this one chance” to “make it big!” It’s just a pyramid scheme like any other, but I can’t help chortling over the breathless prose and typos. I have a little teaser of an idea having to do with spam, you see. Hm.
I’ve also become fascinated with this online flash game. I have to set a timer, or I could lose hours messing with it. For some reason it appeals to me mightily. (Damn the Teen for showing it to me.)
All right. Time to do a little work and then put the jambalaya together. Further bulletins as events warrant.
I am attempting split-pea soup. (Wikihow has a good recipe, very simple, with PICTURES. Us cooking-challenged need pretty pitchers.) There’s a bunch of ham in it, and the onion will be caramelized and added later (because I like the taste browned onions give to a soup.) Plus a quartered potato to take some of the salt out.
The Selkie made caramels again this weekend and gave me some. I have the best writing friends ever.
I have been thinking about cooking lately. The Selkie assures me I can cook, since I can read and am reasonably capable of following a recipe. I was told I was a worthless cook so often growing up that I think I believe it. It’s hard going, trying to figure out how to do a week’s menu and get everything thrown together at the proper time. Part of the problem is the stress–I feel as if I’m being graded on a particularly fierce exam, and failure to perform well WILL mean pain.
This is akin to how I feel about a lot of stuff, not just cooking. The echoes of childhood taunting echo for a long time. It is hard to challenge basic assumptions about oneself that were etched in with acid when one was tender and impressionable.
I’ve started reading Zadie Smith’s White Teeth. I suppose I’m on a non-paranormal kick. I generally read non-paranormal fiction and a good deal of history, but I’ve been noticing lately just how much paranormal romance and urban fantasy there is nowadays. This is a good thing–I think it shows that our cultural vision of the world is changing, becoming a little more inclusive of difference.
Or so I like to think. The cynic in me disagrees sometimes, pointing out that most paranormal hero/ines are crippled by their “difference” and gifts, set against the world in a one-person war. However, that’s a step up from the absolute silence about all things even remotely woo-woo that used to reign in fiction, even fantasy and horror (Derleth and Lovecraft and King notwithstanding.) I think the field is undergoing a renaissance, and I’m curious to see how it will all turn out.
Anyway, White Teeth is very engaging. I read the first few chapters about six months ago, during a slow morning at the bookstore, and couldn’t forget it when I had to finally put it down so a customer could buy it. So, now I have a chance to buy it, and I’m enjoying it as much as I thought I would. In particular, Smith’s hilarious little asides and ear for dialogue are very good.
So. It’s revisions for a few more hours, then I think I’ll reward myself with a chapter or two. Rewards are good. The Muse likes rewards.
I feel almost bad, after bitching yesterday, about the flood of emails and comments I received saying “hang everything else, we the fans appreciate how close together the books are appearing.” I should have known I wasn’t the only one involved. *wry grin* Writing is such a mostly-solitary job (except for signings, conventions, and interacting with one’s agent/editor) that one often forgets everything except one’s own viewpoint.
So, thank you for the support. I had no ideas the larger, usually-silent mass of Readers felt so strongly about this, and I am glad you love the books enough to be happy when they come out close together. I can assure you, they all took a long time to write, and I hope they are all of a quality to suit you. I tried very hard.
Last but certainly not least, thank you for reading them. I would look mighty funny talking to myself out here, blogosphere or no.
Upward and onward, as Jewel the Unicorn said! Today I have to take the brioche dough out of the freezer and put it in the fridge to defrost. Tonight I make the caramel rolls–two whole pans of them–for tomorrow’s breakfast. Other things on the menu tomorrow are: a half-cloved ham (a ham in dishabille, for two of the three under-18s in the household are not fond of clove), asparagus and haricots verts, mixed-starter bread (from pizza dough starter today) or rye if I cannot manage, baked potatoes which will be scraped out and mashed with plenty of butter and sour cream.
Plus cookies. And two apple pies. Nobody in the house wants pumpkin. Apple is all they want. Good enough.
We’re lucky to have a lot of food. I can remember several holidays when I, as a young sprout, was seriously at risk of having it otherwise. Somehow things usually worked out, but I remember those times with a pain just under my heart, just like Dorothy Allison talks about the hunger of being poor.
There are two different types of hungry poverty. There is the actual grinding physical poverty, which is the worst. It makes you angry and sullen and fiercely ashamed, it gives you pride like a wrecking ball and malnutrition like a gun to the head.
Then there is the poverty of spirit, where food is used to bludgeon you and family gatherings are a means of mass torture. It’s not as bad as actually starving–nothing is as bad as that–but it is bad enough and gives one deep emotional damage.
It’s kind of funny (in that you-have-to-laugh-about-it-or-cry way) how _________’s (name blacked out deliberately, sorry) food troubles parallel my own. We compare notes sometimes about how food was treated as a leash, a chain, a punishment, a double-edged reward in our childhood and teen years. Part of learning to deal with something like this is talking to someone who went through it, who can validate one’s own experiences. Sometimes, just hearing that someone else felt the same way in a similar situation is enough to lift a huge weight from your back.
Learning to bake (and trying to learn how to cook) is helping, too. I feel I am taking control of an alchemical process that has wreaked havoc in my life–the bugaboo of food. I am so very glad the kids seem to view food as barely important–it’s fuel and it’s good, but they don’t have the angst and complex rage I remember feeling about food at their ages. To them, it’s just food…and that’s good.
Maybe this year I’ll be able to see the food as just food, and when I remember the pain and terror of family gatherings during the holiday season I’ll be able to wryly smile instead of cringe. Hey, it’s possible. Anything is possible, and now I know how to bake rye bread and brioche. Which is as much a miracle as anything else, in this world of wonders.
First of all, this is hilarious and I think I went to school with this guy or his soul cousin or something. Or LOTS of his soul cousins, most of which I probably dated for a week or so.
Next up: I wrote about how I am of the firm opinion writer’s block doesn’t exist. Danae West disagrees. While I am willing to further refine my stance to say that yes, neurological damage, head trauma, or other organic things might keep one from writing, I don’t think we should call that writer’s block. When Danae speaks of writer’s block and I speak of it, we’re speaking about two different things. Thoughts, anyone?
The oatmeal cookies I was jonesing for this morning? I walked down to the store with the kids to get oatmeal for them. They are currently baking. Mmmmmmmh. The pan de campagne turned out well yesterday too–so well, in fact, that there is only a heel of it left.
The Grand High Book Weasel sent me some Halloween cards–one lovely one with a crow on it, and a funny one about damnation and candy. Heh. Awesome. She sure knows how to make a girl feel better, does that GHBW.
I am waiting for the acetaminophen to kick in so I can have some relief from this bastard headache, then it’s straight back into the Jill book, damn the torpedoes, etc., etc….
First of all, a big “hello” to Drew out in Guam. Nice talking to you, kiddo!
This last weekend was pretty insane. The DHM is in California taking care of family business, and sad family business at that. I know these sorts of things mean closure to the people involved, but sometimes closure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes even closure hurts.
True to form, I chose therapy by baking this past weekend. Three pumpkin pies. Pan de compagne that just didn’t work out the way I wanted–I think I need to fiddly with the whole-wheat/rye flour ratios, because the first loaf was just awesome but the other loaves have been nothing to write home about, really. Maybe I’m making the refreshments too dry.
And a whole TON of sugar cookies. I did a triple batch and got a biscuit-cutter to cut them, so they all have lovely scalloped edges. And they are lovely–just a touch of browning on the bottom, and full of yellow buttery sugary goodness on top.
We also picked up pumpkins for the kids to carve. The Princess, of course, wanted the biggest she could find. The UnSullen One wanted the most deformed. And for the Little Prince, it was all about how much he could taunt his sister while making his choice.
Kids. Can’t live with the arguing, can’t taser them to make them behave…
Yes, I’m sure my weekend sounds boring to you. But since I’m still hacking and coughing up interesting bits of my lungs, boring was what I wanted. No excitement like Jill, who is now in a big pickup with a fellow hunter–a man who has a disturbing habit of closing his eyes while he drives at high speed. It’s the kind of excitement I could do without.
Anyhoo, I’m off to take a shower, then it’s time to sink back into the manuscript and see what more trouble I can get my friendly neighborhood hunter in. Sorry to be boring, but even us madcap writers have boring stretches. And are right damn glad for them, too, I reckon–as my grandfather used to say.
Heaven help me. I started a brioche recipe today. There will be two loaf pans full of it and some cinnamon rolls.
Seriously. No, stop laughing, dammit. If it gets ruined I’m only out a few eggs.
Incidentally, if Marie Antionette ever said “Let them eat brioche” it might have been meant kindly, as the only kind of bread the princess knew. Or, Rousseau might’ve been talking about Maria-Theresa instead. A little bit of history makes a recipe go down…smoothly, eh?
So we’ll see how this goes down. I’ll probably be refrigerating the dough and doing the loaves, then the cinnamon rolls. OMG. Brioche cinnamon rolls, won’t that be FANTABULOUS? But still, a 4-6 hour refrigerated proofing? No wonder bakers get up early. And I swear, I have never before done an egg wash. I don’t even have a pastry brush. Never fear, for Lili the Seat Of The Pants Baker is here.
Good Lord, did I just type that? I am going insane.
In other news, the kitchen creativity is going hand in hand with fiction creativity. (In case you’re wondering, the bread yesterday turned out to be lovely. It was beautiful.) Jill is moving right along. We’ve gotten through the tete-a-tete in the car and are about to go hunting more scurf. The fun just never ends when you’ve got a character like this.
I just hope the baking binge doesn’t keep going. For Chrissake, I’ll be fat as a partridge by the time I finish this book. The Muse is doing some odd things–I was even thinking of croissants.
No, dear Readers, I have not fallen off the face of the Earth, nor has anything dire happened. As I type this it is raining steadily; we have had a day of thunderstorms. The house is warm, the Little Prince is watching cartoons (we spent a week without the telly and it has been wonderful) and I have two loaves of white bread in the oven–
Hm? What’s that? Well, I blame Doug Hoffmann. He had a post not long ago about challah bread, baked with the help of Julia. Not long after that, I remarked that I’d like a copy of Baking with Julia. Some Kind Angel sent me one (bless you, you know who you are) and all of a sudden baking started to take on reasonable dimensions. I mean, more reasonable than the quick and dirty bread recipe I’ve been using for years, and far more reasonable than the cookies I’ve been making for years as well. All of a sudden EVERYTHING starts to look doable, even brioche. And ganache. And puff pastry. And…
That’s the thing about Julia Child, she makes it seem reasonable that you’d want to make a fish mousse. Next on my list is The Way to Cook, which the bookstore will kindly order for me. I want to know how to cook meat–seriously, thanks for all the advice everyone gave last time, but I need pretty picshures. *grin*
Anyway, I haven’t just been baking. I’ve been…well, what have I been doing? Finishing compression, mostly. Today the next Jill book broke free. We trashed the car and are moving along the major plot arc with, if not wild abandon, at least sheer glee. I now know three-quarters of the plot and am pretty certain the other aspect of it will come into focus in the next scene or two.
Which is absolutely fabublous, dear Reader. I can’t wait. I’m past the icky part and into the sheer joy of creation now. So, uh, posts might be a bit spotty. For a while.
Wish me luck or Godspeed, whatever seems most applicable. Now I’m going to go see what other property my protagonist can destroy. Fiction is a good outlet for antisocial impulses, or even just plain exuberance.
It’s looking like Tuesday and Thursday will be busy days, full of dropping people off for classes and trying to keep the chaos to a minimum. I’m trying to get some writing in as well. Silly Lili, when will I learn?
Anyway, I think I see the shape of the rest of Redemption Alley lying under the cover of my subconscious. So far I’ve been obsessed with one little problem, which is: how exactly does one blow up an orange mid-70s Impala? I must find the proper way to do so and get it done in the barrio, so Jill can go home and find a nasty surprise waiting for her. *ebil laugh* I really do put my characters through the wringer, don’t I.
So it’s teatime and I’m sipping my chai, smelling the soup (chicken rice with vegetable stock and caramelized onions) and hoping the bread (I threw together an egg bread) will not come out too badly.
About the bread. Since you all seem to like cooking posts so much, I’ll mention the bread.
I took a cup and a half of warm water, a third of a cup of sugar, and dumped them in the KitchenAid bowl. (All hail the great dough hook!) After that came about two teaspoons of yeast (the yeast we bought is strong stuff, and I don’t need the extra quarter to half teaspoon that supposedly equals a packet) gets dissolved, and I toss in a half tablespoon dollop of room-temperature butter, turn the mixer on, and start adding flour. When the bread is still a sponge and everything is mixed, that’s when I dump an egg in. Once that’s mixed, more flour until the batter is sticky and soft but pulls away from the side of the bowl.
You let that rise forty five minutes to an hour until doubled, then it’s time to proof it. My method is simple: I run clean water through the coffeemaker. (This is how I make tea since I don’t have the patience for a kettle and I drink espresso in the mornings anyway.) That goes in a saucepan on the bottom rack, steaming, and I close the bread dough–now in its baking pan, which should be greased with Crisco, Pam, or whatever’s your pleasure–in the oven.
A note about Crisco: don’t overuse, don’t put your oven on too high, and for God’s sake flour the pan if you are forced to use the stuff. Believe me, I’m talking from experience.
I usually proof bread for only a half-hour or so with this method. The steam from the hot water makes a nice damp warmth for the yeasty little buggers in the dough. If you are equipped with a bit of foresight and use a baking pan for the water, you can leave it in the oven for the first ten-twenty minutes of baking to get a nice crust.
However, if you are like me–lazy–and use a saucepan, take it out before baking. (TRUST ME on this.) I usually bake bread at 350 for soft whites and egg bread, 375 for hard whites and wheat bread. Again, I set the timer for thirty to forty minutes, but I check the oven frequently after twenty-five and can smell the doneness of bread. Also, you can open the oven and carefully tap the top of the loaf. If it sounds hollow, it’s done, get it out of there.
A wire rack is your best friend when it comes to bread. Cool the pan off for a few minutes and then dump the bread out–it should come out easily. (All hail cooking spray!) The wire rack will make sure the crust doesn’t get soggy, because well, who wants that?
Tomorrow I’ll probably bore you to tears telling you about soup. But I figure there have got to be people out there as cooking-impaired as I am, and whatever I can share to make the chore of preparing comestibles just a little easier also contributes to world peace.
Or at least, peace in my little corner of the Internet. Which is all one can hope for, I guess.
You may well suspect I’ve lost my mind, dear gentle Reader, for this afternoon, for no discernible reason, I baked a pie.
It’s just your basic garden-variety apple pie. I’ve found the easiest and quickest way to do it is just to buy frozen pie shells. (I do NOT have the patience for piecrust or the space to roll one out.) Turn your oven to 380-400 (more about that below.) Take them out to thaw while you quarter, core, cut the quarters into thirds, and peel the thirds of four to five good-sized Granny Smith apples.
Now, some like Golden Delicious in pies, but the only apple that will do for me is Granny Smith. Red Delicious and Golden Delicious turn too mealy, and the Red Delicious that is not mealy is meant for immediate consumption, not baking. Fujis and Braeburn might do in a pinch, but they’re just too sweet. Granny Smith are tart enough and hold up well enough, even if they’re a bit old, to be consistent bakeable apples.
You need to dump the peeled slices into a bowl of water with three or four generous squirts of lemon juice added to keep them from browning. (Incidentally, the way to keep your hash browns from turning gray and mooshy is to put the grated potatoes immediately in a bowl of cold water with some sea salt.) The kids love this part, because the Little Prince’s job is to put the slices in the water and the Princess is kept occupied making sure each slice gets dipped so it doesn’t brown. (Also, the Little Prince is on cleanup duty for whatever bits of apple peel escape to the floor. Hey, we don’t have a dog. The boy doesn’t eat them, he just throws ‘em away.)
Anyway, when the apples are soaking, you want a cup of sugar, a couple tablespoons of flour or cornstarch, five or six VERY generous shakes of cinnamon (I love my cinnamon) and a bedewing of nutmeg. I even occasionally do half and half with brown sugar and white sugar, if I’m feeling exotic. Stir the sugar and spices, drain the apples, and dump them into the sugar mess. Stir with wooden spoon or rubber spatula until the slices are all covered in sugary goodness. A few more squirts of lemon juice or a teensy bit of vinegar may also go into this mess to provide a little added bite and tang.
Prick the bottom pie shell gently a few times with a fork. (Even if you’re not prebaking this is a good idea.) Add a few small dabs of butter to the bottom, spoon your sugary apples into the shell (I use a ladle) and make sure they’re even. You can dump the syrup form the bowl into the shell too if you like your pie juicy. (I do.) A few more dabs of butter on top of the apples–it helps the crust–then you turn the empty pie shell over the full one(remember to loosen the edges gently from the tin pan first) and voila, you’ve got your pie.
You need to gently press the edges of the two shells together with a fork. The crust will look messy and that’s OK. Pie does not need to be perfect.
Now you need to vent it–some people prick the top crust with a fork a few times, others make two to four decorative slits with a sharp knife. Either’s fine, but don’t forget to do one. Steam from the apples has to escape, and the vents will also make the crust sink down and conform to the apples.
You can put a pie shield on, which is a ring that fits over the edge of the crust to keep it from burning. If you are cheap and lazy like me you can line the edges of the crust loosely with tinfoil. (I like the nonstick stuff.) You stick your pie in the oven and bake anywhere from thirty to fifty minutes.
You need to know your oven, which is why I’ve given ranges for temperature and time. My oven works best for this at about 395 degrees and about thirty-eight minutes. Ten minutes before it’s done, take off the pie shield or the tinfoil. This will brown the pie all over. Some ambitious people brush the top of the pie with egg white at this point. That is entirely too much work for me, but it does give a nice “glaze.” The fanciest I ever get is scattering some white sugar over the top of the crust before sticking it in the oven.
Once you’ve baked a few pies or cookies you can smell when something’s done. It’s a very discernable change in the aroma, maybe caramelized sugar (for cookies) or hot shortening (for pie crust.) Follow your nose instead of the timer. You’ll be glad you did. In any case, the worst that can happen is that the apples will still be firm, which is no bad thing.
Cool the pie on a wire rack. I like to let mine cool completely. Some peeps like it while still warm, but I’d say at LEAST let it cool and “set” for fifteen minutes. Then, enjoy with whatever you like on your pie–cheddar cheese, vanilla ice cream, Cool Whip, whipped cream, or (the way I like mine) naked as the cook created it.
Mmmmh. Pie. *wearing a look of glaze-eyed contentment*
I could get to like this cooking thing. I suspect I have only recently acquired the patience to do it, as well as enough distance from the hellish experience of trying to cook dinner pretty much every night since I was eight years old. *shiver* When your parents love Velveeta, there’s not much a girl can do.
Now if I could just figure out how to cook meat I suspect I’d be okay. Any tips, anyone?
