No more farmshare

I canceled the farmshare yesterday.

I enjoyed the vegetable boxes I got in the summer. They had an interesting variety of produce, and sometimes contained more than I could eat. The winter boxes have been disappointing, containing a reliable supply of dirty potatoes and weird prepared foods (I mean -- a ziploc bag of sauerkraut? Really?), and there's less in the box even though they're charging me more.

Last week, Daniel and I were doing our weekly grocery shopping at the Market District Giant Eagle, and while we were buying our apples we noticed a display of turnips, a root vegetable that had been included in a recent farmshare box. "Hm," said Daniel, giving me a significant look. "99 cents a pound."

The turnips were lovely, fat and firm and gorgeously purple and white. The ones in the farmshare box had been whithered and fading, still edible but in their last hours of viabilty. A vision of those flaccid, dirt encrusted turnips taunted me. They and their similarly undesirable brethren (moldy onion, wrinkled beets, and rotten potatoes) had cost me $19.50 the previous week. I looked at Daniel in disbelief. "I'm getting raped."

"I didn't want to say."

"Why not? I kept asking you if you thought the farmshare box was worthwhile!"

He shrugged. "I wanted you to draw your own conclusions." I gaped at him. "It's your thing. I didn't want to tell you whether to keep doing it."

I glared and turned back to the bin of turnips. They fairly glowed there on their bed of plastic moss. "Well, I want to support local farms," I muttered.

Daniel spun the plastic bag of apples to close it. Turning toward the produce scale, he said, "These are local."

Thus it came to pass that the farmshare operation made me feel like a fool, whereupon I cancelled my subscription.

Clafoutis ("Gesundheit!")

clafoutis!, originally uploaded by nonesuch.

I found this delicious recipe from Ceres & Bacchus via smittenkitchen. Naturally, I had to improve it a bit with a little rewrite, because that's my way.

From wikipedia, I learned that clafoutis is "originally from Limousin" (in the heart of France) and that "the dish's name comes from Occitan clafotís, from the verb clafir, meaning 'to fill up' (implied: 'the batter with cherries')." The article also stated that clafoutis is basically pancake batter fancied up by French cooks, and that clafoutis madness spread throughout France during the 19th century.

(Okay, it didn't say clafoutis madness; that is my own invention.)

I am a big fan not only of pancakes but also trendy recipes, so this recipe was a natural.

The first time I made the dish, I used cherries as recommended by smittenkitchen. The second time, I used plums because they were so much cheaper than cherries.

Both times it has been delicious.

Plum Clafoutis (kla-foo-tee)

* 3 eggs
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 1/2 cup butter, melted
* 1 cup flour
* 1 cup milk
* 1/2 tsp vanilla
* 2 tsp rum
* 2 cups of plums, pitted and halved

Preheat the oven to 400 F.

Beat the sugar and the eggs with a wire whisk until they turn lighter in color. Add butter gradually, whisking to incorporate. Add flour all at once, whisking until batter is a homogeneous mixture. Add milk gradually, mixing well. Add vanilla (and rum if you are using it). Mix well. The batter should be very smooth and shiny.

Butter a glass or earthenware baking dish, 9- or 10-inch cake pan, or oven-proof skillet. Place the fruit in the dish. Pour the batter over the fruit.

Bake approximately 30-40 minutes, until slightly browned and almost completely set in the middle. (I prefer it to be a little custardy in the middle, so I rarely bake for more than 30 minutes.)

Let sit at least 15 minutes. Turn out onto a plate; sift powdered sugar on top if desired. Serve warm or at room temperature. Store in refrigerator. Leftovers are excellent for breakfast.

Robert Rodriguez Teaches You to Cook in Ten Minute Segments

How sexy is this?!?

10 minute cooking school Sin City breakfast tacos

Crazy sexy. Especially when he says, "Get some low-fat cooking spray... naaah, just kidding -- use butter." Ooh. Talk about sinful... you're killing me softly with your song, honey.

6 degrees of cupcake

6 degrees of cupcake

So, not to freak you out or anything, but these cupcakes were baked by the mother-in-law of a person who is famous.

(I know! Exciting, right?!)

Well, not famous-famous, like your mom would recognize his name, but famous like he made a black-and-white indie film that inspired many young adults to quit meaningless McJobs and strike out on a quest for creative fulfillment. Or like, to wish they could, you know? If it weren't for all the bills.

The reason the cupcakes have great personal meaning for me is that I once asked this famous person to marry me and he said YES (I have a witness), but then he reneged and ran off shortly thereafter to marry a hot journalist whom he had been dating. Men are so fickle. Bastards.

Anyway, having obtained one of the cupcakes via mysterious means (actually, it's fairly straightforward, but I'm keeping it a mystery for the romance of it all), I have done the obvious thing and enshrined it in my office as a tribute to lost love. It rests in state on my windowsill in a clear plastic bakery sarcophagus. All alone. FOR ETERNITY. Or until something starts to grow on it (ick).

the illusion of control

the illusion of control

My big achievement for January was to make a tupperware drawer. (I know it sounds like I'm bragging, but if I can do it, you can do it!)

I had to displace a shoebox full of door hardware; 12 kinds of adhesive (seriously); some flashlights with dead batteries; a bag stapled shut which contained a remote control, warranty card, and owners manual for an air conditioner; many kinds of outlet covers; a broken scissors; picture hanging wire... the list just goes on and on. I mean, do those things belong in a kitchen? No! So I ruthlessly dumped them all into a Target bag, wiped the drawer clean, carefully lined it with adhesive cork liner (which has always suggested the height of kitchen drawer luxury to me, as if the housewares therein were of such fine quality that they had to be tenderly cushioned against the stress of *sitting in a drawer*), and arranged my tupperware in the drawer so that it could still close. And took a picture.

Now, ignore for the moment that the bulging Target bag is hanging on the doorknob of the closet in the hallway, where its numerous sharp corners graze my leg daily, and the broken scissors are slowly emerging from an enlarging hole. Disregard the fact that as a single person living alone, I rarely cook, and when I do cook I have no leftovers because I have a dog who has perfected the canine facial expression that means, "I am adorable... and STARVING!"

The important thing about this drawer is that it exists. Clean. Tidy. There is a container for every purpose and a lid for every container. Superfluous, stained, lidless, or hard to clean containers have been banished. And if it should ever happen that I have too much of a good thing (Pennies from heaven? It's raining men?), then I will be prepared to store some of it for later.

So although life itself remains a series of random and scary events over which I have minimal control, I have struck a small blow against the chaos. Or at least distracted myself momentarily from the chaos, which is equally good, I'm sure.