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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT March 2nd What kinds of things do you like to cook or are good at cooking? What are your comfort foods? I can honestly claim to like food, most food. I gag to type this, but I detest cucumbers. Just the smell never mind the yucky flavour turns me off. I mention this because I also like dill pickles and they are created from cucumbers. Dill is a wonder that disguises the objectionable 'cucumberness' I dislike. This represents my style of cooking I suppose. I love to cook with spices, seasonings, enhancements. If it wasn't for sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and their ilk I could claim to never ever eat fruit. In a dessert whether that be a cake, a pie, a cheesecake, or whatever fruit is palatable. I suppose I should qualify my statement with most fruit. Melons cannot be made edible. Now veggies and I get along. I will and do eat them without hesitation. My motto is ' an onion a day will keep the doctor away.' Sure the prepping of a fresh onion provokes tears, but other than that I believe they boost my immunity. My only ongoing health issue is a pair of cantankerous knees and they have proven impervious to an onion's charms. My father taught me to cook and he never found an onion he didn't like. His motto varied from mine and as a daughter I prayed it wasn't true. 'An onion a day puts hair on your chest.' So far, I've swallowed a great many onions and I can attest that they don't contribute to the noticeable growth of anything on the chest. My dear old Dad liked to experiment with ingredients and spices. Not once did he hesitate to substitute, or fret over a lack of supply. If he did peruse a recipe, he considered it a suggestion. He once garnished devilled eggs with cayenne pepper instead of paprika and I lived to recall it. If a teaspoon of chili powder was listed as an option, he considered a tablespoon to be better. If a ham could be enhanced with a handful of whole cloves, why not stud every inch of that meat? Dad's chili failed to erode my digestive system and that is a blessing. It once burned through the bottom of an aluminum pot though. Gasping and swigging water after each mouthful meant the chili 'had a kick.' There may have been steam or smoke wafting from our ears, I never noticed. The fierce tears blurred my vision. All of that eating trained my stomach to become as tough as cast iron. To this day, I love spicy, hot food and I've never experienced heartburn or indigestion. With my cooking background, I taught my three children to like and eat a variety of spices, onions, garlic and peppers. We love Italian food / pastas. My son, Chris, has become a bit of a renegade and he's decided that green peppers are "too vegetabley". He prefers red peppers now. My hubby hails from British ancestry where if anything has a flavour, it must be boiled some more. He has adapted quite well. My cooking weakness is barbecuing. There's something about a flame and a grill... Hubby would tell his co-workers that the wife was 'bbqing' because he could see the black smoke billowing miles from home. I will admit I once presented my starving family with a platter of blackened chicken legs. They poked at it and made the "I dunno" faces. I encouraged them to " just scrape off the black bits." I'd succeeded in cremating that chicken. Even the bones were brittle and crumbling. Cooking is a process. Not every dish is a winner. Not every attempt is repeated. Some efforts flourish in family lore and remain inexplicable. We still puzzle over the turnip that refused to surrender its raw state. For hours it boiled in a pot of salted water only to remain raw. It is referred to as the petrified rutabaga. A chocolate cake once metamorphosed into a spewing spitting volcano in the oven. Molten chocolate bubbled everywhere. I've lived to cook another day with my taste buds and my culinary skills intact, so, I suppose I'm still cooking with gas. |
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