Pleasure Notes

Snap! Crackle! Pop! via Kellogg's

I wasn’t allowed to eat Rice Krispies as a kid. My mom thought the cereal too sugary. Granola, Grape Nuts and Cheerios were the breakfast options to be found. Occasionally, Shredded Wheat would show up in the cabinet, too, but there was no frosted side included. At my grandmother’s house, however, it was a different story; I could have as many bowls of Rice Krispies as I wanted at Oma’s.

Oma lived across the country from us, in New York. Both of my parents preferred it that way. Every summer, when I was little, I would fly back to visit her, all by myself. My brother was too young, and for a while too fragile, to join me.

My parents would drop me off at the gate, entrusting me to the friendly smile and capable hands of a stewardess who would ensure I had Ginger Ale and plastic wings and paper cups with wet, hot paper towel stuffed inside to hold up against my ears when the cabin pressure got too great. And when I arrived at my destination, Oma would be waiting for me, and she would envelop me in a powder- and polyester-scented hug.

I was the first grandchild so, of course, I was secretly loved the best.

I remember that Oma’s kitchen was blue, though it may have been yellow. I know for certain only a few things: the bathroom wall paper was metallic gold and black, printed with images of giraffes, zebras and other Safari animals; a baby star fish was stuck between a beam and the window screen on the sleeping porch; the single-serving boxes of Rice Krispies cereal were kept in the cupboard by the kitchen sink.

My day was brought to life by Snap! Crackle! Pop!

An overflowing bowl of Rice Krispies greeted me every morning. Oma and I would sit and listen to the melody. Only after consuming every single mushy Rice Krispie would I spend the rest of the day playing in the kiddie pool, or climbing the tree in her front yard, or playing with my dad’s old toys that were stored in the basement next to the ping pong table.

Later, after my pediatrician discovered I was allergic to milk, and I started having to put apple juice on my cereal, I grew to prefer Granola and Grape Nuts and Cheerios (though never Shredded Wheat). Kellogg’s stopped running the ad with the cute little elves– or, perhaps, Keebler absconded with them and forced them into a tree? I started acknowledging that I was never full after just one bowl of Rice Krispies, and that I would rather binge on a 10 oz box of something other than popped air.

I stopped going back to New York in the summers. My grandmother moved states, and then died. I started eating egg whites.

Last night, I ran out of Robitussin. I’d been hacking up chunks of lung (or so it felt) for days and getting very little sleep. I was morose and teary and feeling decidedly put upon, wondering who would attend my funeral and wishing I had the energy to put away my clean clothes before I died. A friend recommended (via text) that I try taking some NyQuil. I knew I couldn’t leave my house. So I pulled out the Yummy delivery booklet and, lo and behold, they had both Robitussin and NyQuil on the menu.

They also had Rice Krispies.

I ordered all three items, and all three items arrived at my door in less than 30 minutes. A cute boy kindly handed them over to me while simultaneously trying not to recoil in horror at the sight of my braless, mucous-spewing state. After giving the kid a decent tip, I immediately downed the prescribed dosage of both Robitussin and NyQuil – first ensuring there were no counter-indicators. Then, I poured myself a heaping bowl of Rice Krispies and liberally doused it with soy milk. Thank goodness the apple juice days are long gone!

I let myself be lulled by the reassuring Snap! Crackle! Pop!

Comfort. Memories. Love. All provided by a little huge helping of cereal.

Needless to say, the puffed rice didn’t solve all my problems, or even take away my cough, but it did make me smile, breathe a little deeper within a flood of memories and give gratitude for grandmothers who ignore the rules.

What comfort food brings memories rushing back for you?

a bowl full of cherries

I’ve never highlighted a food item as one of my Pleasure Finds before, but there is a first time for everything. When I discovered the table full of CHERRIES at my local market, I simply couldn’t stop myself.

Who doesn’t want to celebrate the season’s first batch of this gorgeous fruit?

In that fleeting moment when I slip one into my mouth, and bite into its tart lushness, everything is A-okay. I can forget about drizzle in the forecast, financial stress, life questions, oil-coated sea turtles, illiteracy rates in Afghanistan, and the pile of dust bunnies under my bed.

Summer is coming, and LIFE is good.

On my way home yesterday from something forgettable, I was tired and hungry. I knew I should swing by the grocery store but I just didn’t want the hassle of parking and people. I was despairing at the idea that I would have to pull out one of the cans of soup I’ve had in my cupboard since the ’90s, for lack of anything else to eat, when my brain did some sort of magic trick and I morphed into A CHEF. Perhaps I’m exaggerating the level of skill and insight that was granted me in the moment, but the outcome was truly remarkable. I COOKED for the second time in two weeks.

Let me repeat that so we can all pause in awe…

I cooked for the second time in two weeks.

There is no hyperbole to match my astonishment at this new behavior. I feel like Jane Goodall. Except, I’m also the chimp under observation. And chimps’ use of tools to obtain food probably requires more finesse than mine.

What happened, you ask? Here’s the tale, step by step…

1. I suddenly remembered that I had eggs in the frig. I’m happy with breakfast at any time of day so my flagging spirits were lifted at this recollection.
2. Then, my brain started connecting dots, as it is occasionally wont to do.
3. I had some sort of mystery, flavored rice in the same cupboard as the soup; I’d tackled my fear of cooking rice only a few short weeks ago and had a new-found confidence that those little long grains would not be the death of me after all.
4. Also, I had some freezer burn-defying chicken tenders that could be plunked into the toaster oven to broil.
5. I decided to combined everything into a piece de resistance.

I made chicken fried rice.

All in the pan

Without the fried part.

Or any other part that goes into making chicken fried rice except the rice, the chicken and the eggs.

Okay, fine. Basically, I just mixed up more than one ingredient in a pan. ON THE STOVE.

The result was even more ugly than my first cooking venture this month. And, to be honest, not nearly as yummy.

In fact, the eggs were kinda mushy. I kept forgetting they were in the rice mixture. Every time I bit into something squishy, I had a momentary gross-out until my brain picked up the dots and reminded me I’d put scrambled eggs into a pile of colorful rice.

Close-ups aren't flattering, are they?

I’m now thinking the FRIED part of chicken fried rice is kinda important.

But it was edible. And when you’re tired and hungry, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

I lived in Brazil when I was eighteen, as an exchange student. I spent many hours in the kitchen with the mother in my host family my Brazilian mom. I learned to speak Portuguese in that kitchen. I learned about the family. I learned about Brazilian culture. I shared hopes, fears and dreams with this amazing, tiny, feisty woman who had welcomed me into her home for a year. I watched as, every day, she cooked amazing mid-day and evening meals from scratch – no boxed mixes or frozen dinners or prepped salad fixings. When I had to return to the United States, I left a piece of my heart in that kitchen. And I took with me a book I’d started, of my favorite recipes.

the recipe book

I’ve kept this recipe book for 22 years, but I’ve never used it.

Until yesterday.

I have no idea why I was suddenly struck with the impulse to open it up and make my favorite Brazilian dessert.

Partly, I think it was because I have a book club meeting this afternoon and needed to bring a dish. I don’t normally make anything; I rely on Trader Joe’s to see me through the potluck experience while others in the group out-do themselves with culinary masterpieces. I’m getting a little irritated with my own status-quo, however. I no longer get any pleasure from the “non-cook” moniker. In fact, I secretly resent it now. Also, after not eating chocolate for three years, I’m letting it court me again. Then there’s the little issue of not having read the book we’re supposed to discuss today. Is it wrong to try to distract everyone from that tidbit of news with a coma-inducing sweet?

Or did I do it because I’m feeling nostalgic about my care-free, travel-heavy, debt-free youth?

I have been making an attempt to act on my impulsive, fleeting thoughts. Perhaps that is why I opened up the book – the idea entered my head. Could it really be as simple as that?

Regardless, I DID pull out the receitas and found the recipe I wanted:

YUM!

BRIGADEIRO. Little balls of sin.

(does ANYONE still not get the correlation between chocolate and sex?)

The recipe is written in Portuguese because that was the only language I was speaking by the end of my stay in Brazil. My handwriting reflects the exaggerated bubble print many teen girls adopted in the ’80s. The cooking instructions fail to mention the temperature at which everything should be cooked or the best way to create the finished product. The quantity of each ingredient is vague because my Brazilian mom didn’t measure anything.

Of course, you already know this is going to be a disaster, right?

the recipe

This is my translation of the recipe:

BRIGADEIRO

Ingredients: 3 soup spoons of chocolate powder, 2 soup spoons of butter, 1 can condensed milk.

Instructions: Put everything in a pan and mix it with a wooden spoon until you can see the bottom of the pan. Let cool. Roll it and pass it in granulated chocolate.

Um… Okay…

I have a pan. I have a wooden spoon. I have all the ingredients.

Except I think I put only two spoonfuls of chocolate powder in the pan instead of three, but I made them heaping because I wasn’t sure whether they were supposed to be measured or not and I’m not sure my soup spoons are the same size as the ones we used in that Brazilian kitchen 22 years ago.

I mix constantly but I can see the bottom of the pan from the very beginning so I have no idea when I’m supposed to stop stirring. I put it on medium heat because, well, it’s medium. I know I’m going to have to roll the stuff into little balls after it cools and I know what the finished product is supposed to look like but the chocolate liquid starts to boil and OH MY GOD CAN CHOCOLATE BURN?

I make a completely uneducated guess as to when to stop. I take the pot off the stove, even though the recipe doesn’t say that, because I’m thinking there’s a better chance it will cool that way and the recipe says to let it cool.

I wait half an hour.

I stick a spoon in the mixture to retrieve enough to roll into a ball and WOW IT’S STICKY. I realize the bottom of the pan is still hot. I stick it in the refrigerator. It then occurs to me that condensation might form which would make it MORE liquidy rather than less so. I pull it back out of the frig and stick it back on the counter.

I wait another hour.

I try to make a ball again from the mixture. I ignore the fact the it is the same consistency that it was an hour previously. I refuse to be defeated by the fact that the stuff seems to prefer to remain on my fingers than form a ball. I begin dumping blobs of it into a bowl of chocolate sprinkles.

Blobs are similar to balls, right? (do not even THINK about making a correlation between that question and how long it’s been since I’ve had sex!)

I use up FOUR BOTTLES of chocolate sprinkles in a vain attempt to give the substance some structure.

I end up with monstrosities.

shabby brigadeiro

And I suddenly remember the hostess of this month’s book club only eats a macrobiotic diet.

I eat one of my brigadeiros in despair.

Revelation! Ugly is GOOD.

Excuse me as I slip blissfully into sugar shock…

What was the best tea of the year?

by gguillaumee/flickr

Well, clearly this question was devised by a tea drinker. Alas, I am still a coffee junkie. That being said, I love tea, particularly the ritual of it.

I am taking baby steps toward incorporating it more fully into my life, too. I’m just saying a VERY PROLONGED goodbye to the bean. I only drink decaffeinated coffee now. And I have seven different teas in my house. The water kettle is always on the stove.

Perhaps 2010 will witness my transformation on this level along with every other.

If I could drink my favorite tea every day, the change might come about more quickly. But I have not, in fact, found my favorite tea in 2009. I actually found it in 2003, and then promptly lost it.

The tea of which I speak is a magical brew with floating… stuff… in it.

I had it in the tea garden of a park in Beijing.

I don’t remember the name of the park, though I spent hours in it and have photos of retirees playing Mah Jong to prove my presence. And I can’t articulate the taste, really… only that it was sweet, but not too sweet; strong, but not too strong; soothing; refreshing. But I just know it was perfectly delicious.

Without that tea from China as a choice now, I usually opt for peppermint.

Tetley is my current favorite of the bagged variety. I suppose that can count in answer to the question, right?

Not revolutionary, but safe and predictable. This year, I kinda prefer that.