Bean Day

I’m going to make bean dip.

Why is it that when I have tons of leftovers in my fridge that all I want to do is make something new? Usually I try to make things that I know my family will enjoy and eat all of, or at least wouldn’t mind eating any leftovers.

Pinto beans are the worst.

They’re easy to make and pretty delicious, but I always make too much! And aside from eating burritos for three weeks or making a pot of chili that only I will eat, there’s not much I can think to do with them.

So I’m going to make bean dip. I’m going to mash the beans and add cheese and heat it up and then maybe put some sour cream or some spices or something in it, and then I’m going to eat it.

Maybe someday there won’t be any pinto beans in my fridge, waiting to be eaten.

OCTOBIRTHDAY

It’s October. And you know what that means.

OCTOBIRTHDAY

I once asked my friend Matt what his favorite month was. Without stopping to consider, he answered, “October.”

“And why is that?” I followed up sneakily, confident I knew how he would answer.

Make your own basketball for your the Octobirthday/NBA fan
in your life using the recipe for this cake on tasteofhome.com

“Basketball season starts!” he shouted excitedly.

Dumbfounded, I pointed out, “Our birthdays are in October.”

“Eh, who cares,” he answered, “Basketball!”

This conversation occurred when we were 10 or 11 years old, so perhaps this showed not his enthusiasm for sports but his wisdom at such a young age, knowing that we might not always be excited about being another year older. But who knows, maybe today he’s jumping around about counting down the days until the first NBA game of the season instead of remembering that he’s turning 30 (Happy Birthday, Matt!).

October has always been a favorite month for me. Since my Grandma’s birthday is about a week before mine, we’ve always had a family birthday party, where I could be excited that it was my birthday, and the rest of my family could celebrate my Grandma’s birthday while she said it was a party for me. The birthdays of two cousins got added to the Octoparty when I was in junior high, and then when I got married in 2006, I had to head to the calendar to write down my husband’s and mother-in-law’s birthdays in October, too.

October is a GREAT month to be born in, so if your birthday is this month too, here is a birthday high five for you. Happy Octobirthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STELLA!!!

Culinary Wizardry: Sneaky Lasagna

My mother-in-law is a culinary wizard.

Every mother of small children faces the same battle of how to get vegetables into picky eaters. Some kids snarf them up, but most kids, at least at first, will turn up their noses and make faces at broccoli, zucchini, or mushrooms. My brilliant mother-in-law got these foods into her kids with a combination of reverse psychology and subterfuge.

While making dinner, she made sure her three boys knew that they weren’t to sneak anything off of the counter while she was prepping it. They would stealthily approach, observed by their mother out of the corner of her eye. After making off with raw carrots, green beans, or cucumber, they would joyfully wolf down their ill-gotten gains, giggling triumphantly. Occasionally, she would pretend to catch them and say, “get away from there!” and playfully smack their hands. They would retreat, waiting for another opportunity to make off with what was supposedly forbidden to them.

This scene was often played out while she was making her famous vegetarian lasagna, a lasagna so delicious and so hearty that even the most carnivorous dinner guest wouldn’t be able to tell that it’s missing any meat.

The best part about this is that she has bestowed the recipe on me. This mouthwatering dish is extremely time consuming to make, but totally worth it.

First, you need to go shopping. That is, unless you keep dry curd cottage cheese in your house all the time. You’ll also need a variety of vegetables of your choice (current favorites in this household are mushrooms, olives, spinach, and zucchini); these can be found at the grocery store or in your backyard if you happen to have an awesome garden. And of course you need lasagna noodles and sauce and mozzarella cheese.

After all the chopping and boiling and grating is done, layer everything. A little sauce on the bottom of the pan before the first bit of noodles will keep it from sticking when you get ready to serve it. You can put your secret vegetables where you want them, but after each layer of secret vegetables, there should be one with cottage cheese, mozzarella, sauce, and noodles. Top your final layer of veggies off with noodles, sauce, and mozzarella, and bake it at 375 degrees for 35 minutes regardless of whether it is August because it will be delicious no matter how hot it makes your house.

Let it settle for about five minutes before you burn your mouth on it. On second thought, let it settle for about five minutes and then make sure it’s not too hot to eat before you shove it in your face so that you don’t burn yourself. Once these two things have been accomplished, it’s time for the final phase:

Enjoy my mother-in-law’s culinary wizardry.

The Land of Foodchantment

If you’ve never traveled to the Land of Enchantment, you should. They have gorgeous scenery, hot air balloons, and delicious cuisine. I’m talking, of course, about New Mexico: the Land of Enchantment.

All states have those little nicknames. You know, like “Nebraska: The Good Life,” “Washington: the Evergreen State,” and “Vermont: the first place I suggest where someone who is not currently present could be.”

The way that we Americans preserve the memory of places we immigrated from is by naming our new homes after old ones: New York, New Jersey, New Mexico. The difference between the first two and the third is that the former states are nowhere near their namesakes, while in the case of the latter, just on the other side of the southern border sits the country for which it was named.

So what’s the difference between York and New York, and Jersey and New Jersey? Well, the obvious, of course, would be that the “New” versions are all stars in America’s flag while the originals are counties in England. They are separated by an entire ocean, and while I’m sure you could find similar characteristics, they are most likely nothing alike, aside from their names.

What about Mexico and New Mexico? Because of their proximity, they share the same breathtaking landscape, weather and temperature patterns, and culinary tendencies. There isn’t much to separate them land and climate wise, so the big difference comes in the style of sustenance. And the main difference between Mexican food and New Mexican food? Green chilies.

Photo taken by Cindy Petrehn at the 2012
Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta

I’m not joking. If you go to Taco Bell, you can order a burrito. If you go to Taco Bell in Albuquerque, there will most likely be green chilies on it. New Mexicans put green chili in everything. Places it belongs, like breakfast burritos at Dos Hermanos, to places that you wouldn’t expect to find it but you’re glad you did, like in bagels at Einstein Brothers or as a topping on pizza at Dion’s.

The fact that the entire world does not have an appropriate amount of green chilies in its food is a travesty. It is the second best thing about visiting the Land of Enchantment (the best thing being that my husband’s awesome family lives there), and one of the greatest things about marrying into a family of New Mexicans.

And when you marry into a family that loves NM cuisine, there is a lifetime of green chilies ahead of you. Like this dip that my husband makes that has only garlic, sour cream, and green chilies in it, and it’s sooooo delicious...

I highly recommend a visit to New Mexico. Come for the fun and the sun, stay for the food. Just don’t forget that the green chili dip is usually spicier the next day.

MEMORIAL Day

Today is a day to stop and remember all those who have gone before us. To remember their lives and how they lived them, and to thank them for the impact they had on us.

It’s also a wonderful day to rest and think about the great things you have in your life. Like family, friends, and a newly varnished dining room floor.

If you work hard every other day of the year, it’s nice to have a break once in a while to enjoy life and maybe have a nap.

Enjoy today. Go for a walk. Take a nap. And remember that there are many people who make sure that you can live the way you do, and be thankful for them.

A Fine Day for FareBall

Some people dislike major holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... they don’t like them because it usually means that they have to go home and spend some time with their parents and siblings. Some people are judgmental and competitive and like to compare their lives to those of their extended family, and determine their own self worth by how well they are doing and how well their family members are doing.

Not my family. We recognize that we all have different strengths and abilities. One of my brothers can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of a sonata. The other can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of mechanics. And I’m always inflicting historical knowledge on my family members, like reasons why my dad’s ancestry DNA test came back 38% Scandinavian (VIKINGS!).

We have a good time when we get together, and it doesn’t always have to be on national holidays. We hang out, talk about stuff, make arrangements to hang out some more or watch each other’s kids when we want to go on a date with our spouses (or when we just want to chill with our siblings’ awesome kids). We also eat together (DUMPLINGS!) and partake of our parents’ wisdom.

Easter isn’t usually gorgeous and sunny, but this Easter was. While I was slaving in the kitchen to produce enjoyable food (a fusion of my mother-in-law’s culinary wizardry and the deliciousness that is my grandmother’s cooking), my brothers and husband escaped with a frisbee to the backyard. When I was finished, I looked around and found no one in the kitchen; my sister-in-law was feeding my nephew and my parents were playing with my daughters in the other room.

I went out in the backyard. “Hey!” I shouted. “Nice job leaving me to do all the work!” My husband objected with the observation that if he tries to help I shove him out and tell him he’s getting in the way anyway, which is a valid point, so I shrugged and joined in their game.

It was kickball. Sort of. It was “every man for himself” kickball. If you could get all the way around the “bases” (corners of the yard), you’d get a point for yourself, but if the guy in the middle got a point if he was able to get you “out,” either by catching the ball when you kicked it or by throwing it at you and hitting you with it. Oh, and there was no pitching, just the person who was “up” kicking the ball out of their own hand.

My nephew finished his snack and my sister-in-law brought him outside to enjoy the sunshine. My mom came out to watch the game, and sat on the bench under the tree making sure my three year old wasn’t getting into too much mischief. My dad watched from the driveway, with my one year old all bundled up in her jacket.

The rules of the game kept changing. “So if you kick it on the roof or over the fence into the driveway it’s a home run,” one of my brothers said, “and don’t chase the ball down the stairs because if you go too fast you’ll break your ankle,” the other added. “And if you kick it and someone else gets in, then you get half a point,” my husband decreed. “And if you hit a baby you’re out!” my mom shouted, as my one year old toddled across the middle of the yard.

The ball was terrible. It sat out in the yard all winter and was lopsided and half deflated and didn’t go where you wanted to when you threw it, even if you were a foot away from your fleeing husband. Kicking was problematic because of the tree branch that hangs across one side of the yard, not to mention the electrical wires that stretch from the pole on the other side of the fence to the house next door.

We had a great time. I’d kick the ball and take off as my brother or my husband went after it, and as I ran for the nearest corner of the yard that we’d designated as first base, I’d scream, whether my pursuer was nearby or not. My husband would make fun of me, making faces or taunting gestures at me. My brothers would pose dramatically before each kick, pointing off into the distance where they expected the ball to majestically arch, even though they knew it probably wouldn’t. Sometimes they’d point in two different directions. Mostly, we ran our butts off and had an awesome time.

The next day I sent my brother a text message: “HOLY CRAP I am so sore!” He texted back, “Me too, I have to keep stopping to stretch.” I responded, “We either need to never do that again or do it all the time.”

My family has a great time when we get together. Sometimes we sit and watch a movie, sometimes we hang out and talk about electric vehicles, and other times we make up a game and run around in the yard getting muddy and displaying how out of shape we are. It doesn’t matter what we do, we always enjoy hanging out with family, even on days that it’s yucky and cold out.

But it’s always more fun when it’s a fine day for FareBall.

To Bean or Not To Bean

My husband grew up with his New Mexican parents and grandparents, and as a result we eat a lot of New Mexican dishes: we transform dry pinto beans into burritos, and ordinary dough into homemade tortillas or mouthwatering Navajo fry bread. (I’m telling you, my mother-in-law is a culinary wizard, and she has passed down her delicious magicks to her son.)

One of the things you have to deal with when prepping dry pinto beans is sort them and make sure there will be no foreign substances in your burritos. My husband sorts them meticulously, pulling out any beans that look too yucky to be eaten.

My experiences with sorting dry pinto beans are different than his. My parents and grandparents are all Nebraska born and bred, so there was no Navajo fry bread in my childhood. My first job, though, was at a fast food “Mexican” place, which made huge batches of pinto beans in gigantic ten gallon vats. Since there was a lot to do, there wasn’t a ton of time to take out the beans that looked slightly wrinkly or weren’t precisely the same shape and color as the rest of the beans. You had ten minutes to sort the beans, and then you had to go help in the drive thru. I could sort through a ten pound bag in that time period, and customers would never be able to tell if I left one in that was a bit wrinkly or smaller than the rest. I was focused on making sure no kernels of corn or soybeans or rocks got dumped into the pot.

A pile of delicious pinto beans on my kitchen counter waiting  to be sorted

It’s hard for me to watch my husband pick out weirdly shaped beans, because I can tell with a glance that there are no exotic ingredients mixed into our dry pinto beans. And it doesn't matter how it's shaped; as long as it’s a pinto bean, your taste buds won’t be able to tell the difference.

Besides, I’d be able to finish sorting a whole bag in ten minutes.

Meh-kfast

There are those who worship waffles, who exhalt eggs, who savor sausage. There are some people who would order breakfast food for every meal of the day if they didn’t stop serving it at 10:30 to make way for the lunch menu. Some people even wake up extra early in the morning to make a feast that looks like one of those “complete breakfasts” that they claim that marshmallow cereal is a part of in the commercials.

I am not one of those people.

Don’t get me wrong, I am of the opinion that bacon is the food of the gods, but I could do without all that other stuff. I’ll eat eggs, but only on the rare occasion. I’ll gnaw on a pancake or waffle if it’s offered to me by a host and I don’t want to be rude. French Toast is right out.

Maple syrup is disgusting. I never liked it, but the first time I was pregnant, it became one of those smells that I just couldn’t stand. The one thing I liked maple syrup in was my mother-in-law’s sweet potato casserole, but now I can’t be in the same room with it.

Some people only drink at parties or with a certain group of friends. I am a Social Breakfaster. When left to my own devices, in the morning I will eat cereal with milk or an English muffin smeared with peanut butter. But if a big group of friends or my family comes to visit and everyone else wants to go out for breakfast, I will go along and have some too.

I like to order Chicken Fried Steak & Eggs. Toast instead of pancakes, hashbrowns, and I could do without the eggs, but that would be like ordering Chicken Fried Steak & Eggs without the chicken fried steak. I cringe when the server brings the syrup caddy for my husband, who has inevitably ordered a waffle or french toast smothered in some kind of fruit, which he then douses in maple syrup.

He wonders why I’m not overly excited about buying him a waffle iron. It’s because I know what will happen: every Saturday he will wake up early to make most of a “complete breakfast,” and he will want to bring maple syrup into my house. So far we have been able to compromise with blueberry syrup, which is still too sticky and sweet for me but at least doesn’t make me want to flee the room.

To conclude, I can sum up my feelings about breakfast foods with one word: Meh. I don’t judge you for hating mushrooms (which are totally delicious. More for me), so don’t judge me for my dislike of breakfast foods (it’s just more for you)! And I will continue to live a fulfilling life without constantly eating scrambled eggs and waffles; a happy life, completely devoid of maple syrup.