Thursday, October 1, 2009

Super Crock-Pot

I studied the old stained crock pot with fresh perspective. My son had written a moving essay about his memories of the crock-pot and its magical properties for a college writing class. His memories were nostalgic and sentimental. I had never thought of the crock pot that way.

It was a nondescript almond color on the outside, streaked with permanent stains, with a burnt umber colored crockery liner. When it was new, it was cutting edge---there were two temperature settings and the liner was removable to make the odious clean up task easier. Rather an ugly specimen, I thought objectively. However, it was just the right size for a moderate recipe of just about anything, there were no cracks or missing pieces, and it worked. It was a wedding present some 28 years ago and had been used regularly all those years.

Crock pot cooking is to me a wonder of food science. Even the most distracted cook can make something tasty come out of it at the end of the day. With a little planning ahead, a downright amazing meal can be produced. The secret is in the long and slow aspect. Cold, greasy chunks of meat, inelegantly sliced onions, some bottled barbecue sauce, a little pepper, maybe some water to balance things out, all get dumped into the pot. Turn on the heat, put on the lid and go away for a long time and leave it alone. When you come home from wherever you have been all day, the smell of real food ready to eat can make you cry with hunger and anticipation. No need to stand in front of the freezer and ask what on earth you can possibly do with that enormous frozen solid chunk of beef in the next 45 minutes. From the cook’s point of view, the crock pot is a superhero of the mini-appliance world, a rescuer of meals, a deliverer of good and pure things to the table without last minute fuss and worry.

The crock pot concept is a microcosm of God’s work in our lives. We start out raw, rough, tough and unflavored. Through the persistent and gentle warmth of the spirit in our lives, the toughness of our self-dependence tenderizes, the individual flavors of our self-centeredness blend, the aromas of our gifts emerge---and we become a new entity, deliciously balanced, wonderfully flavored, ready for sharing.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Oven Failure: Fatal Error

The beautiful organic Thanksgiving turkey had been rubbed with herbs, stuffed with onions, lemons and fresh sage. It had been in the oven almost thirty minutes, just long enough for the tantalizing aroma to waft from the kitchen to the other rooms of the house. As I relaxed for a few moments before charging ahead on side-dish preparation, I was alarmed by a shrill repetitive beeping from the oven. Flashing in ominous green where the temperature should have been displayed was the code “F1”.

What the heck did F1 mean? I pressed the clear/off button to get the infernal beeping to stop, then I re-set the temperature, upon which the F1 resumed its flashing and beeping. I stuck my hand in the oven and realized it was barely warm. F1 apparently meant something really bad, worse than “reset the clock since the power went out again”.

I did then what I always do whenever electrical things fail around me. I called my ridiculously handy husband to come figure it out. Then I got out the owner’s manual and read the heart-stopping words: Green flashing F+ number or letter means "Function Error." Fatal error. Thanksgiving Feast-ruining error. Trouble-shooting advice from the manual stated “Disconnect power, reconnect after 30 seconds. If function error code repeats, call for service.” I noted with dismay it was the only Problem in the owner’s manual that required an unequivocal “Call for Service.”

Right, like I’m calling an appliance repair person on Thanksgiving Day, if such a person would even answer a phone. My flexible cook’s mind immediately started working on alternatives. I got on-line and looked up recipes for grilling a turkey---possible, but not optimal, as I hadn’t marinated the bird overnight as recommended, and I wasn’t sure we had enough propane. I figured I could still use the microwave and stove-top for the side dishes. We didn’t have company coming so we could eat whenever we wanted. There really was no pressure to have the perfect feast, except that we had an exceptional Turkey that would be a shame not to roast to perfection and serve with the most luscious side dishes.

After tinkering with power switches and circuit breakers for awhile, my husband decided it was indeed the oven at fault and not some external power issue. Part of his handiness comes from his genius at looking things up on-line. He somehow found a compendium of other people’s solutions for how to fix the type of oven we have. Shortly, he had removed the touch-panel on the front of the oven and exposed the circuit ribbons that enervate the control pad. He carefully cut a piece of index card and inserted it in between the two circuit ribbons, replaced the control pad, and turned the oven on. The F1 did not flash; the control pad allowed me to enter a baking temperature and asked me to please reset the clock. Within minutes, the oven was once again heating up. It had been out of commission for 20 minutes.

Apparently, the circuitry had rubbed together and short-circuited itself. The index card fix was an underground (and free) alternative solution for an official appliance repair job. Only a real-world handy computer geek could find the solution as fast as my husband did, whip out his tools, dismantle the appliance and apply the absurd repair with such confidence---and actually make it work.

The turkey had barely begun to cool by the time it was returned to the oven, which happily continued to work all day and has showed no further problems since then. Why it would choose the high-stakes baking day of Thanksgiving to short circuit itself is one of those mysteries of appliance operation. The aromas intensified and eventually lured our three sleeping children out of bed. They had missed the drama and were just a bit skeptical of the absurdly simple-minded repair their father had effected.

But oh, were we all rewarded with the results of that repair: a succulent turkey, roasted to perfection, happily oblivious to its near-fatal function error.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Mulberry Pie

Mulberries are a much maligned and under appreciated berry. This is probably because the mulberry tree grows along fence-lines and in farm ditches, in odd spots mixed in with other desirable and purposely planted shrubs. It is not a pretty tree, being scraggly and having a nasty habit of uneven branch growth. Because of its propensity to root itself in borderline places, the berries seem to always be underfoot. In our area in the spring, where recreational trails have been cut through woods bordering farm fields, the trails become slick and smeared with the deep purple juice. The mulberry tree is definitely a nuisance.

During the first spring in a new house, we determined that the ugly tree growing awkwardly at the foot of our driveway was indeed a mulberry. It didn’t bear many berries that year, as a late frost had decimated almost all the fruit bearing trees in our area. The berries it did bear were small and quickly snatched up by birds and deer.

The second spring, however, the tree burst forth into gorgeous purple-black berries, some an inch long, sweet and juicy. I watched with dismay as the berries fell onto the driveway and left dark stains that would get on our tires and our shoes. Bees, ants and flies, attracted to the oozing juices, swarmed around the tree. I spied deer in the middle of the day nibbling on the lowest branches. The birds fought over the berries, knocking more to the ground. I finally decided to take action: I would harvest the berries and make pie.

Some people don’t know what to do with a mulberry. I am one of the lucky people who does. I have rich memories of gathering mulberries from trees that grew in the ditches along the gravel road near my grandparent’s farm in Kansas. On summer visits, my mother, sister and I would gather the berries in small bowls and present them to my grandmother who would effortlessly produce a culinary miracle---a mulberry rhubarb pie. The combination of the dark sweet berries with the tart rhubarb was a perfect yin and yang. Somehow, Grandma concocted a custard filling that baked to creamy sweetness with the fruit. It was the best possible kind of pie---fruit and cream, flaky homemade crust, an occasional stem from the mulberry testifying to its home-scratch origin.

Of course, no recipe had been written down to document the wonder of Grandma’s rhubarb-mulberry pie. She never had a recipe outside of her own head. It seemed such a simple thing to accomplish that none of us thought to make her tell us her method. So I set about doing what the new century cook does---I got online. I searched through several recipe databases, and found recipes for mulberry pie: Mulberry-strawberry, mulberry alone. None of them definitely matched what I remembered, so I decided to combine a few recipes and see what happened. The result left my family groaning and speechless with pleasure at the table. The rich, sweet mulberries combined with the tang of the strawberries I used, and the creamy custard filling evoked my Grandmother’s magic.

We enjoyed a couple of pies that summer, and one in the fall from berries I had frozen. Then, one weekend when my husband was home alone, he cut the tree down. It had been on his list of things to do. I knew it, and had agreed that it needed to be done. It obscured the house from the road with its ugly, variably growing branches. Several large branches had died and lost their leaves prematurely. Still, rational though the decision was, I felt a tug of loss, like a connection with my past had been loosened. For a brief time, those nuisance berries had revived memories of my girlhood and of my long-passed grandmother, and of a time when recipes were remembered and all I had to do was turn over the berries with my purple stained fingers and be rewarded with a pie.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Care Package

Lost, somewhere in the New York City Postal system: Care Package

Near the end of her 9 week stay in NYC this summer, I sent a box of my famous and much-requested Scotcheroos (modified rice krispy squares topped with a layer of melted chocolate and butterscotch chips) to my daughter. I also slipped into the box a beautiful handmade necklace I had found at an art fair. I knew both items would bolster her flagging energy and enthusiasm for her challenging job as a dorm RA for a ballet school.

The box never arrived. I felt somehow that I had let her down. I couldn't decide which was the greater loss: the necklace or the treats.

Receiving at least one package of scotcheroos while away at summer camp has been a tradition for my kids. I'm sure they arrive melted and squished, but the recipient always assures me they are edible and delicious. They are somehow evocative of home and loving care. They are a special treat that I make for long road trips and holidays, as well as care packages. I suppose it's silly to reserve them for only certain occasions, as they are inexpensive and easy to make. But that is what has made them special.

When my daughter arrived home from her summer away, I made sure to have a pan of scotcheroos ready for her to make up for the egregious neglect. A couple of weeks later, she moved back to campus for her second year of college. When she had been gone for about 4 weeks, she called and informed me that she needed a care package. I knew what partially motivated this demand---I had mentioned that her sister was having friends over on a Saturday morning to work on a float for the upcoming Homecoming parade, and that I had offered to make cappuccino muffins for the group.

Cappuccino muffins (coffee/cinnamon flavored muffins with chocolate chips) are another special occasion treat---reserved for Mock Trial competitions, dance dress rehearsals, holiday brunches---and care packages. So I doubled the recipe and sent her a box, which she received a couple of days later. I was sure they would be squished and crumbly when they arrived, but if such was the case, she did not complain. She said they were great and that she had rationed them out so that she had one last muffin to reward herself after a long Friday evening dance rehearsal.

People don't send me care packages. I'm not at the stage in my life where I am far from home and in need of reminders of family love and care. I know someday my kids will no longer need those boxes of favorite treats from me, because they will have made wherever they are Home. But in the meantime, I will continue to box up the occasional special treat to help them through a rough time or just to reassure them that I am thinking about them.

Including a handmade necklace is optional, but the homemade treats are not.