So…I lied about being patient and reading and learning before canning. This weekend, Eric and I went and bought the final supplies for our canning adventures.
And then we made peach-honey butter.
I don’t usually do memes, but when I do…
Here are some things we learned:
1. We were given two pressure cookers, which is awesome, but unnecessary for things like jams and pickles. They will be necessary for things like green beans.
2. It is a good idea to have two people working at once. Eric was in charge of jars, and I was in charge of cooking.
3. Canning is really just making a really big batch of something, and then doing the right things to preserve that something. For some stuff, the recipes aren’t that different.
4. Always sterilize more jars than you think you will need! We had to quickly clean and cook two more jars when I realized I had more peach butter than we expected.
We got four jars and a little extra that we have already eaten. That means 4 gifts made! We are taking one with us to Ohio this weekend when we visit some friends.
It was super fun!
And now I’ve got the bug. Eric wants to pickle. I want to make everything and save it. I believe we’ve created yet another monster.
I don’t usually do memes, but when I do…
I am being overwhelmed with craft ideas. And when that happens, I usually end up sitting on the couch doing nothing. Much like I am doing now. Except I have an excuse today.
While carrying the multiple boxes of jars downstairs, gravity decided to bring up an old argument. Luckily I wasn’t carrying jars by then – just one of the very light cookers – but I was, alas, on the stairs. So I am nursing a twisted ankle, sore leg, and bruised back.
It happened again today. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while, the name appears in my inbox, usually because I’ve been included in some mass email. It’s the name that makes my heart beat a little bit too fast, and my stomach feel like it’s trying to escape.
To understand why, you have to understand what happened 3 years ago…
I moved to Washington state for a boy. It was one of those things you get to do when you’re young because you’re young, and the world is just waiting for you to go get beaten by it. I moved there for a boy that asked me to do it before he was deployed, but was too selfish and stupid to think it through.
The boy and I had met in Georgia, while he was on leave. I treated it as a fling; he treated it as a relationship, and he asked me to try a long distance thing with him – nothing too serious, just to see what happened. It became more serious, and I was pulled to join him in Washington, though at the time I didn’t really know why. I took to writing him letters; I even e-mailed his parents, who lived in Peru. And then, of course, I picked up my life and moved. At the time it was exciting! I was moving for love, what could possibly go wrong?
He was no help to me once I got there; I was completely on my own – no job, no place to live, and at first, no car. I got smart, though; I flew back home for my birthday, and my dad and I drove back out together in what has become one of my fondest memories of road tripping. It is, in fact, one of my only memories of road tripping.
On a stop at Couer d’Alene
Amazing time with dad notwithstanding, I sent him home because I had to make it out there. It was like so many coming-of-age tales (Kerouac, I’m looking in your direction); I was either going to make it work in Washington, or I was just failing at life.
One of my first days in Washington, pre-car. As far as I know, there are no existing pictures of me with the boy.
Things continued to disintegrate with the boy, and Tacoma is a rat hole that had very little in the way of prospects. Since I couldn’t count on him to even pay for a fast food meal, I looked up some other folks, specifically friends of my godmother’s. They graciously let me stay in their home while I looked for a job in Seattle.
I got one at Target, as a Presentation Team Member (basically what I do now) at $10 and 40 hours a week. I secured a little studio apartment that overlook Elliot Bay. And I also had a huge, infected cyst under my left arm that I had to get drained. He refused to help me move into my apartment, refused to drive me to or from the hospital. I realized that he was refusing to be my boyfriend, so we broke up just as I started to put a life together. Perfect timing, really.
It was shortly after I recovered from the breakup, which luckily I had seen coming about 3000 miles away, that I met Eric. We met online, then in person at a dive bar near my house. And not long after that, I was frequently walking across Queen Anne hill at all hours, to and fro my apartment and his house.
Queen Anne hill – the view from Highland Ave
And it was not long after that that the phone calls started.
The boy was being deployed in August, and he would call me with his concerns about going to Afghanistan. Not knowing what to do, I listened, trying to be kind to someone who was facing some seriously scary stuff.
But the phone calls didn’t stop. Not even when he was in Afghanistan. They got worse, in fact. 21 phone calls in one day. I had started ignoring them. And then I told him to stop calling. Eventually he did. I breathed a sigh of relief; it had been creepy, but surely he had gotten the hint. Besides, there were more pressing things for him to consider while over there, I thought.
In late August, he came home. He had been injured, and two of my friends had been killed. Again feeling lost, I let him reach out to me, and I again listened. He said “I love you,” and he said that his close brush with death made it real. I felt uncomfortable, so I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him. He got angry; he attacked my character, said that I had changed, had become some terrible person.
Then he apologized. Then he went away for a while. But he would always come back. First with a plea to go back to him (you don’t love him the way you love me, he said. And he doesn’t love you the way I do. You can’t really be happy), then with a request for an address to send some things that I had give him. First I told him to leave me alone, then I stopped responding.
The final straw was the day he showed up at my office. I panicked. My boss went out with security to escort him off the premise. I called the police, and I got a protective order.
And then two years to the day that I had filed for the order, when I was living in Arkansas, he called me. I told him, in no uncertain terms that he was never to contact me again, and so far, I haven’t heard from him.
But I still get emails from his mother. They are always mass emails, sent to everyone on her list. But every time I see that name, I feel the cold grip of fear in my chest. 3 years later, and I still look over my shoulder, still watch dark blue SUVs warily. I moved out of Washington because I was afraid of being found; two moves later, and I still live with that fear.
It is strange to wake up on some days and think that there might be someone out there who is looking for me – someone who I would rather not find me.
Eric is never home when these things happen. I used to get angry. But now I think it is because this is my burden, my lesson. Each time I get through one of these moments, I feel a little bit stronger.
But I had to get it off my chest. And I had nowhere else to do so, so sorry for the strange, out-of-character post. Next time: canning.
Most mornings I wake up at 4am. I know what you’re thinking: WHAT?! Why would anyone ever wake up that early? It’s not even really morning yet! Morning doesn’t start until 5 at the earliest.
You are correct. Everything you’ve just thought is correct. Alas, my employer feels that, to be productive, those of us working Planograms need to be in the store no later than 5am. When I did this very same job for another employer many moons ago, our shifts started at 6. This has been a lesson in expectations, specifically not having them.
Today, however, I have a day to myself.
I have a pile of canning supplies to my right, a wooden skeleton on the coffee table in front, and bundles of fabric and paper upstairs. I certainly do not want to venture out of the house and go to my place of employ to purchase any supplies, so I am staying here. But with so many options, I feel paralyzed!
I need to work on birthday gifts; Christmas is already seeing some progress, but I’ve got three five special days betwixt then and now, and I’ve got f-all to show for it.
The challenge is actually choosing an activity and doing it. Without getting sucked into another Doctor Who marathon. Which reminds me: no TARDIS update. It seems my plan of crafty living with a part time job is failing. But, honestly, who feels like crafting when they’ve been awake since 4am and must get to bed by 8?! Not me. I’m just exhausted and confused most of the time.
I mentioned in my last post that I made a fresh meal for my mother-in-law yesterday, and I also promised to post about the ravioli I made. Before I do that, though, I have to explain why making ravioli is so important to me.
My maternal grandmother, Margaret, was, above all else, a very loving woman. She was also an insanely talented cook. I grew up on the East coast, and during that time, she lived in California. I can count on one hand the number of times I met her, and I can count on one finger the number of times I had her ravioli. But to this day, that ravioli haunts my taste buds. For years, I listed “ravioli” on my favorite food choice in surveys, though the truth was that it was specifically her ravioli that I desired. No store-bought or chain-restaurant-made ravioli has ever come close.
Mine didn’t, either, but I’m willing to chalk it up to years of being tortured by the lack of her ravioli. She died 11 years ago, and the recipe went with her, so I am left to try only what my infantile culinary skills can put together.
Earlier this week, I made cannelloni for Eric, and because I only made half of the package of the shells, I still had a good amount of the cheese mixture left over. While prepping the pasta for his mom yesterday, the thought struck me to make ravioli! My birthday present this year included the pasta maker and the ravioli press, so it only seemed fair to try it.
Since Eric’s mom doesn’t eat cheese, I still made some spaghetti, as well. I also made the sauce. But I used frozen veggies because, I mean, c’mon. How much work can one person really do these days? Also…I had forgotten to buy enough produce. Oops.
I learned from last time, when the pasta didn’t dry long enough. So this time, I started the dough around 9am, while talking to my mom on the phone. I let the ball of dough dry for about 3 hours (some people say to wait a whole day!), and then I ran it through the pasta maker, and used the ravioli press. Our guests arrived almost half an hour after I had finished with the pasta maker. We then went about going to garage sales and what not, and the pasta had about 4 hours to dry on its own. We put a fan on it, just in case.
It came out great! And so did the ravioli. There were quite a few compliments, which is awesome for a person who is hungry for a good ego-stroking, like myself. The sauce was the best yet.
It got me all excited and confident to try out the canning supplies I got.
Since moving here, I have been increasing my desire to make things from scratch. I am quickly becoming addicted to the idea of saying “I made that,” and I am always looking for ways to make a meal just a few, if any, preprocessed ingredients. It was with this goal in mind that I asked my mother-in-law for canning supplies for Christmas. I figured that, even though they would be late, I could start canning things next year.
Well, Christmas came early this year.
We had Eric’s mom and her boyfriend over for dinner tonight; I made homemade pasta again (I have another post coming up on that) and my homemade sauce. The sauce came out great! I used a bit more cornstarch this go around, and it was nice and thick.
Anyway…she brought me all of this:
This isn’t even all of it
There is another box of jars, as well as a jar holder, a funnel, and two magazines with canning recipes. The pressure cooker on the far right belonged to Eric’s grandmother!
I have never canned. I should have mentioned that at the beginning. I haven’t the slightest idea what I am doing. But I am really excited about this! There is an old strainer (hand crank!), two pressure cookers, and an ungodly number of jars.
This will help a lot on my quest for an all homemade Christmas. I see a lot of tomato sauce, jam, and pickles in my loved ones’ futures. I will be taking requests!
Much like my cross stitch, this will be an ongoing (probably uphill) battle, and I will keep you posted.
I made almond milk! I am excited about it, too. My mother-in-law had been talking about her cutting out dairy products, and she is coming over this weekend, so I wanted to try it out before she came over. Eric and I are also working on avoiding some dairy, but we are cheese fanatics, so it’s been rough going. We’ve been buying soy milk, but they put a lot of extra crap in that stuff; mom gave me the basic recipe, and I soaked my almonds last night.
So now I am planning on making some almond meal/flour! I don’t have time to bake this stuff tonight, so I’ll throw it in the fridge for now and do it tomorrow, but my ultimate goal is to bake something using both the flour and the milk. I’m thinking cookies.
There is something so gratifying about making your own food.
Well, I am about 8 hours…I think…into the cross stitch/needlepoint project, and this is where I’ve gotten:
One carafe and a few lines…
I appreciate that there is actually one complete(ish) shape done. And I appreciate that I’ve already gone through two of the very long strands of thread that they supplied.
But 8 hours! And this is all I have to show for it. I should have started with one of the easy, colorful, annoying ones. I may not have liked the image, but it would have gone faster. Maybe.
I remain convinced that finishing this will be like completing a triathlon.
Eric specifically requested some sort of baked pasta this week for a dinner, and in the interest of doing something new, I decided to make “manicotti.” Of course because it is a weeknight, and because I have been feeling a bit lazy lately, technically what I made was cannelloni, but who’s keeping track, am I right?
This was amazingly easy. Mostly because I cut a lot of corners.
I boiled the pasta for about 7 minutes, just a little under cooking it. I only made half the box.
I beat an egg and mixed ricotta, mozzarella, and parmigiana in a bowl while the pasta cooked.
I stuffed the pasta shells with the cheese/egg mixture, added some broccoli to the pan, and covered it with canned tomato sauce.
Baked for about 45 minutes while we went out for a run, and DONE!
I give it a B+. I have a lot of leftover cheese mix, so I might make some more this week and give them away. Or something.
I woke up this morning with a craving for that almighty Dynamic Duo: chocolate and peanut-butter. Knowing that Eric and I are both trying not to become as wide as we are tall, I felt the best way to get my fix without overdoing it was to make something that he could take to his coworkers! I decided on peanut-butter and chocolate cookies.
It was, ah, an experience.
So the recipe I decided on seemed pretty simple. Here are the ingredients:
One and one quarter cup all-purpose flour Three quarters all-purpose flour and 2 quarters wheat flour
Half cup cocoa powder
Teaspoon baking powder
Half teaspoon baking soda
Half teaspoon salt
Half cup butter Half cup applesauce
Two-thirds cup brown sugar
One third cup granulated sugar
Two eggs
Two teaspoons vanilla extract
One cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
Half cup peanuts
Coarse salt for sprinkling
From there, it reads like a normal cookie baking recipe. Mix stuff together, then bake.
Here is how it actually happened:
I gathered my ingredients, along with my delicious Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale.
Mmmm! Cookies-to-be!
Not an ingredient, but it helps.
I whisked together my dry ingredients, less the sugar. I combined my two types of flour, the cocoa powder, the baking soda, and the baking powder. This was easy!
This is a familiar shot, no?
Following the directions on the recipe, I used my $5(?) hand mixer from the ole Dollar General in Redfield to mix together the peanut butter, applesauce, and sugar. I drained the applesauce first because that is the latest baking trick I’ve learned when substituting it for butter, and I took out the granulated sugar because, come on, how sweet does it need to be?
Applesauce…minus the juice.
These will soon be a congealed goop.
I added the eggs and mixed with the wet ingredients one at a time.
Dumpty is about to join Humpty in there.
I added the vanilla. Alas, I had just under 2 teaspoons. Looks like I need more baking supplies.
What?! Not enough vanilla?! NOOOOO!
I began adding the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients. I remembered that the last time I used the hand mixer, it was a little crazy, so I did a little hand mixing first, to get it started.
The hand mixer decided to be an asshole, so somehow, in the 10 seconds that I had it on, it managed to whip up the entire batter onto itself. Literally.
This is what happens when you skimp on kitchen equipment.
I gave the hand mixer the finger, pried the batter off of the mixer, and went outside to finish my beer, so it could think about what it’d done.
I considered throwing the mixer away or donating it to Goodwill, though I am not cruel enough to wish this hand mixer upon anyone else in the world.
The battlefield: mixer, 1, me, 0.
Did I mention that this “7 speed” hand mixer really only has one speed?
Once calmed down, I hand mixed the batter the rest of the way. It was relatively mixed.
I missed some bits…
I added the chocolate chips and, since I didn’t have peanuts, some extra peanut butter.
I scooped up the batter into little cookie bits, dropped them on the pan (greased by Eric), sprinkled salt on them, and I put them in the oven for 12 minutes.
It’s not their fault…
I cleaned everything thoroughly, except for the ungrateful mixer attachments. Those I rinsed and then threw in the dishwasher because I was not about to give them the care that I gave to my mixing bowls.
When the cookies were done, I took them out of the oven and scooped them onto my cooling rack.
There they are. The luckiest cookies ever.
The Debrief
Eric is a fan. I am a little a disappointed with this recipe. I don’t think the peanut butter has a strong enough presence in the over all taste. I am a fan of the sea salt sprinkled on top because it brings out the peanut taste a little bit. Maybe adding peanuts would have helped, but I’m not sure.
I did learn something useful about my hand mixer – namely that I got what I paid for.
And I guess, since I am not eating them all, I can be secure in the knowledge that there are other people out there who might enjoy them. And good for them.
Wednesday strikes again! I don’t know what it is about Wednesdays lately, but they have just been nitpickingly (new word – just go with it) bad. They’ve been made up of all the little things that drive me absolutely mad.
If my work is questioned minutely on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, or Friday, I simply prove that I am doing it right and move on. If my work is questioned on a Wednesday, my soul has been crushed under the heavy weight of self-doubt. If I have to peel stickers off of a shelf on Tuesday, it is what it is. If I have to peel stickers off of a shelf on Wednesday, I want to shatter that metal POS with my bare hands.
By now, I’m probably just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. But it started before I noticed the pattern, I swear.
I am starting to question the sanity of taking a part-time retail job to “reduce stress” after teaching. Logically, I realize that the stakes are not so high if I don’t put Item A in the exact correct spot compared to, say, a group of 160 students moving onto the next grade and forward through life as productive citizens. I realize this, but that only makes it more difficult to handle coworkers for whom the aforementioned problem is a monumental failure.
What’s worse is that I get angry with myself when I start to fret about the planogram I am setting or the boxes from the truck. I am not the kind of person who can just not care about a job, and for the most part, I am able to come home (at 10 in the morning) and not worry about it the rest of the day. Except for my exhaustion, both physical and mental, I have an entire day to do as I will.
Welcome to Wednesdays.
So, since it is Wednesday, and that means that I deserve to treat myself by default, I did some baking when I got home.
Eric and I bought a zucchini the size of his forearm at the farmer’s market this weekend, and since I couldn’t use all however many tons of it in my Athenian pasta the other day, I had to find away to use it before it went bad.
Enter the chocolate zucchini bread.
I am really big on healthy baking right now. How can I reduce the fat or the sugar and still make a delicious baked good? This seemed like a happy medium. This was also my first time ever using baking chocolate. I haven’t tasted it yet, so I can’t give you a true diagnosis, but what I know so far is that, even after baking for about an hour and a half, it seems a little squishier on the inside than bread normally is. Granted, I’ve never made zucchini bread, so maybe it’s supposed to be like that? I didn’t want to burn it, though, so I took it out.
The grated zucchini was pretty wet…great. Now I’m going to be stressing over it.
You say Polymath like it's a bad thing... 