The Original Iron Chef

Someone once asked me if I’ve ever made Friday Night Casserole. That’s hysterical; I think we all know I’d never do that. But if I ever had to, I bet I could come up with a special Friday Night Casserole meal by using the leftovers in my fridge, like my Mom would have. Of course, my fridge actually has food in it that I want to eat. But there aren’t usually leftovers in my fridge (hello … Jay lives here). Though there are times I look through my cupboards and fridge to survey what I could make a meal out of. Thankfully I always have good stuff like chicken stock, tomato sauce and pasta noodles in the cupboards;  onions, mushrooms, spinach, butter and cheese in the fridge, and olive oil, limes and tomatoes on the counter. Always. These are all some of my favorite foods and I bet I could come up with at least 20 ways to prepare them. But I wonder what I could come up with if I had to resort to some of Mary Ann’s ingredients.

Have you ever seen the TV show “Chopped” or “Iron Chef?” I think Mary Ann created the concept of Iron Chef before the Japanese did. They have to make a meal featuring one secret food ingredient. The chefs on “Chopped” find four random (and often disgusting) ingredients in their baskets and have to prepare dishes with them. Somehow they always make something the judges like. Mary Ann could also take any ingredients and make a meal out of them. Unfortunately it was usually something her judges didn’t like. One time her secret ingredient was turnips. Of course, she told us that big bowl of mashed white stuff was potatoes. And naturally, being the Spud Queen, I piled that stuff on my plate. Big mistake.

Here’s a sample of four ingredients that could be found in one of Mary Ann’s baskets:

Spam

Canned Pineapple

Jar of Marinated Vegetables

Lipton Onion Soup Mix

or

Canned Tuna

Oyster Crackers

Celery

Cream of Mushroom Soup

or

Bell Peppers

Leftover White Rice

Ketchup

Velveeta Cheese

or

Can of Stewed Tomatoes

Pimento Loaf Lunch Meat

White Bread

Water

Okay, it usually wasn’t that extreme, but it’s close. So anyway, there’s no such thing as throwing together a Friday Night Casserole at my house. When I find the leftovers are piling up in the fridge, I’ve found a way to make them appealing. See, Jay loves buffets. Loves them. I hate them. All those glass sneeze-guards that are too tall to block kids’ sneezes, day-old lettuces, rice pilaf ending up in the mashed potatoes, sticky serving utensils, crab that’s never crab, and pretty much just cooties galore. Jay knows the only way he can get me to go to a buffet is this: when one of the nieces or nephews spends the night and we ask them where they’d like to go for dinner, he whispers “HomeTown Buffet” in their ear. Then I’m screwed.

So for times when Jay passes up the leftovers in the fridge, I hold a “Buffet Night.” I take out all the leftovers, which are never disgusting, and heat them up. I place them on the kitchen counter in pretty bowls and plates and add a bowl of green salad, make some yummy appetizer and throw in a bowl of his favorite potato chips to make it fancy. Works every time. I have to be honest: I got the idea from Jay. One time he had to watch our niece for about an hour before I got home. She was about 2 at the time. When I got home, she yelled out, “We’re having a Food Party!” He had put raisins, cheese, grapes, goldfish crackers, pretzels and other kid foods in a bunch of cute little bowls on the table, and my niece was eating every single one of them. See, you just have to make it fancy.

Top Ten List #1

I thought I’d start a series of Top Ten Lists about ‘70s stuff, because the Top Ten thing just hasn’t been done enough. (Who is this David Letterman you speak of?) Of course, on my Top Ten Lists, I’ll offer a little explanation, because, just like when I’m talking, I can’t seem to shut up.

Here’s the first one.

Top Ten Worst Things About Being a Young Teenage Girl in the ’70s

10.  Swim Caps

We had to wear stupid white, tight rubber swim caps in pools – even if our hair was shorter than the boys. And trust me, those things pulled the hair out of your head when you tried to take them off.

Pretty, isn’t it?

from http://www.allswim.com

 9.  Tube socks

They never stayed up.

 8.  No such thing as backpacks for school

At least not for us cool kids.

On Mondays I carried the following to school in Junior High (yes, we walked):

Two or three textbooks, Pee Chee folders, Purse, Bag Lunch, Clean Gym Clothes, Flute, Tennis Racket

On Fridays I carried the following home from school in Junior High:

Two or three textbooks, Pee Chee folders, Purse, Dirty Gym Clothes, Flute, Tennis Racket

And if it was raining, you had to juggle your umbrella with all of it. Hopefully you had one of these fancy things:

from -  http://www.modcloth.com

 7.  The gym clothes

In Northern California, they were light blue polyester shorts and striped t-shirts … I may throw up just thinking about them.

 6.  Perverted Teachers

Not that there weren’t great teachers. But there was always at least one creepy teacher. Shudder. (Teresa Z – can I get a witness … )

 5.  Being on Restriction

It was real. And it sucked.  No fancy AM radio. No TV with all the glorious 7 or 8 channels to choose from. No phone. And it typically lasted for one or two weeks.

 4.  No curling irons or blow dryers

At least not in my house. I do remember using pretty pink hair tape to keep my feathered locks in place overnight.

 3.  Chores … without brothers

In my family, the four of us girls had to do boy chores along with our girl chores. Like mowing the front and back lawn. You’re welcome Dad.

 2.  Rationing telephone time

First of all, the one phone in the house was usually mounted on the kitchen wall (at least ours was). So when you finally got your allotted half hour to use it, everyone could hear your conversation. And sometimes your friends weren’t home when you called. Or they were on restriction and couldn’t come to the phone. And sometimes you had to get off the phone because one of your parents was stranded with a flat tire somewhere and had to make an Emergency Breakthrough with the help of the Telephone Operator to try to talk to the other parent at home. And great, there goes your half hour.

And finally, the number one worst thing about being a young teenage girl in the ‘70s:

 1.  Waiting three days for your favorite song to come on the radio

Shepherd’s Pie

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to my Irish family and friends, and to my family and friends that are only Irish today!

Here’s a favorite from two years ago, celebrating my favorite Irish food.

I don’t care what my sisters say, Shepherd’s Pie is Christ in a bowl. On each of our birthdays, Mom would ask us what we wanted her to fix for dinner. My sisters would usually respond with Pizza, Tacos or Cheeseburgers. My request was always Shepherd’s Pie. This probably explains why my sisters always wanted to beat the crap out of me on my birthday (and why on Shepherd’s Pie afternoons, I would find my youngest sister Melissa eating roly poly’s out of the garden).

After hearing the word’s “Shepherd’s Pie,” Tracy would chase me into our bedroom where I would fling myself onto my bed face up in what I like to call the “Younger Sibling Survival Maneuver”… kicking my legs frantically into the air to try to block the left and right hooks being delivered by my older sister. But I could take a pop or two on behalf of my Birthday Dinner, and in knowing that a Donny Osmond album was possibly among the wrapped gifts waiting for me.

When I was nine, I knew I would marry Donny Osmond. He was so dreamy and nice that I knew my parents would approve. My Mom and Dad took me and Tracy to Lake Tahoe to see the Osmonds in concert. It was my first concert ever, and I couldn’t believe how amazing my parents were. (Just think how thrilling it must’ve been for them … and imagine how hard it must’ve been to plan. No i-phone, no internet — just a phone book!)

The thought of actually seeing Donny Osmond was like a dream come true. I remember pulling into the casino parking lot that evening and seeing a stretch limo parked there, and just imagining the Donald sitting in it. (Yeah, that’s right Donald Trump … you weren’t the first “Donald”… take a number.)

I only remember bits and pieces of that night … for all I know, I was passing out left and right at the thought of seeing Donny Osmond in the flesh. Our seats were in the second section … we had a fancy booth with a circular seat. I remember seeing Jimmy Osmond for his first public appearance singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” Yawn … where’s Donny … Then Marie singing “Paper Roses.” C’mon people, enough with the siblings! Bring out the Big Guns! And then it happened. Donny came out singing “Puppy Love.” It was magical. He jumped off the stage and started walking down the aisle shaking girls’ hands. I was excited and freaked out all at the same time. I would’ve killed for Donny to come to our table and shake my hand, but at the same time, I was so nervous I drank three whole Shirley Temples.

Okay, back to my Birthday Dinner Meal and the fancy recipe. Even though both my Mom and Dad have lots of Irish ancestry, our Shepherd’s Pie wasn’t really the delicacy you find at Irish Pubs. I probably wouldn’t touch this version today, but spuds are a main ingredient here, and I love me some spuds.

Ingredients

• 1 pound of hamburger
• ¼ cup minced onions – or chop up an actual small onion to make it fancy
• 1 big can of peas and carrots
• 2 cups of prepared mashed potatoes*
• Gravy: I don’t know what my Mom used (or what she considered gravy for that matter), so you’ll need to improvise this ingredient. I liked whatever she used, but I’m fairly certain I don’t want to know what it was.
• 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
• Salt and pepper to taste

Directions

*Peel and cut up about 6 potatoes. Boil them until tender, about 20 minutes. Mash them up in a bowl with some milk and butter (I mean margarine! Save yourself about 50 cents here!)

Fry up the hamburger and onions in a skillet with a little salt and pepper. When almost done, add the canned peas and carrots. Add “gravy” and Worcestershire sauce.

Pour the beef and vegetable mixture into a baking dish. Spread the mashed potatoes carefully over the top.

Bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the potatoes are golden brown.

Reward your efforts in the kitchen with a pint of Guinness. I mean, crack open an Oly. Serve up to your little leprechauns … the Shepherd’s pie, not the beer.

Watch one child devour the dish as if she lived in Ireland during the Great Potato Famine. Watch the other children either: fill their cheeks like chipmunks with the entrée until they are excused to the bathroom, or sneakily push the contents under their plates, or “accidentally” drop spoonfuls onto the floor for the dog.

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, here’s one of my favorite Irish Blessings, or Irish Curses — whichever

from zazzle.com

Good Housekeeping’s Casserole Cook Book

I found this handy cookbook at an estate sale and obviously couldn’t resist … even though it cost a whopping 25 cents as you can see by the fancy sticker. It was copyrighted by the Hearst Corporation in 1958. I don’t know if it’s that Hearst Corporation, but you may need a hearse after trying one of the recipes inside. What intrigued me about the particular recipe I’m making fun of tonight was the name, and naturally the ingredients made me shudder:

First of all, what is Ham Ling Lo supposed to mean? I could make lots of jokes about it, but they probably wouldn’t be politically correct. Second of all, why in the world did people eat “canned luncheon meat” back then? I remember my Mom often kept cans of deviled ham in the cupboard. I also remember never wanting to eat it. It was in a little metal can, wrapped in paper — paper that had a picture of a devil on it. It’s like they did everything they could to keep you from getting to that deviled ham inside. That was very noble of the deviled ham-maker’s, but apparently it didn’t work in my house. Of course, any deviled ham sandwich I found in my lunchbox during my childhood was quickly tossed into the garbage can at school. You couldn’t trade deviled ham sandwiches. Or liverwurst. I think they’re the same thing. Anyway, see that little brown drop on the recipe page? That’s the 50-year-old tear of someone who had to make this recipe.

So, deviled ham, pineapple, pineapple juice (hurl), peppers and celery. Well that just about covers everything I hate. Yes, I saw the potatoes, but even they can’t help this recipe. Not even this fancy picture of Ham Ling Lo can make me change my mind:

Well, that’s part of the Ham Ling Lo in the upper left corner. You may not have noticed it because you were fixated on the fancy casserole topped with deviled eggs in the upper right corner, or the green gooey casserole that looks like it’s topped with plastic toast. I won’t even try to find those recipes for you; I’m not that heartless.

Oooohhh, there’s obviously something wrong with Johnny. But wait, what’s that “P.S.” at the bottom? Ketchup? Nope, I’m fairly certain even my Dad wouldn’t eat that sandwich …

Duck, Duck, Gross

Back in the late ’90s I worked for the Coppolas. Yes, the Francis Coppolas. Nice, nice family. One afternoon, Francis and Eleanor wanted to get some of their favorite foie gras for a dinner party. And when you’re Francis and Eleanor Coppola, you simply call up your friend Andrew Sutton, Executive Chef at the world-class restaurant, Auberge du Soleil, and ask him to make you some. And you have your lady servant, Lisa, go pick it up.

I arrived at Auberge du Soleil early that same evening, sliding my bitchin’ 1993 240sx into a parking space between a jaguar and Mercedes. When I approached the front desk, the hostess looked at me like I had an alien protruding from my chest. I imagine she thought I was lost. But once I mentioned Francis and Eleanor Coppola, Andrew was immediately in front of me with a big smile and handshake.

Though I’m no pushover for celebrity-type nonsense, I thought it was really cool (or, potentially a health code violation) that Andrew was leading me through his kitchen at Auberge. Yes, in Napa we referred to the five-star resort as Auberge only. It was one of our rights as Napans. I had never been there before, I only knew that the rich folks wined and dined there and people with money to blow would stay there and get exclusive massages and what not. While walking through the kitchen, the staff were eye-balling me—they must’ve figured I was some kind of honcho, so they smiled, but I knew they were secretly telling me to “Bite It” in their heads.

Andrew made interesting small talk and acted as if we were old friends. He didn’t think I had an alien protruding from my chest.  But one of the prep cooks must have; he made me nervous with his fake corner smile and twitchy stink eye. He kept that stink eye on me as Andrew took the freshly prepared foie gras from the large refrigerator.

Now, I realize most foodies would give their left pepper mill to have this opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, I was soaking in the soleil all throughout the beautiful restaurant , kitchen and grounds. It was a pleasure meeting and talking with Andrew. I knew it would be awhile (if ever) before I could afford to come back to this famous Napa Valley resort just 15 minutes from my own house. It was an exclusive experience that budding chefs would die for. But very quickly, I was wishing that what Francis had really requested was Alaskan king crab legs or chocolate mousse torte.

Instead, the foie gras was presented in a nice to-go container and Andrew wanted to be sure I saw the goods before I took them back to Francis. In fact, he wanted me to taste the foie gras before he packaged it up, kinda like a drug dealer who makes sure his clients take a hit of the good stuff before they exchange money and brown bags.  I began to sweat. I mean, it was … duck liver. Maybe goose liver .. I couldn’t be sure. Andrew was persistent and wouldn’t take no for an answer. And why would he … an exceptional chef who had prepared an incredible, highly desired gourmet treat. You have no idea how much I wanted what was in that container to be anything else on the glorious Auberge menu, instead of foie gras.

Oh, I did politely refuse, a few times. I should’ve said “I’m too full,” or “I’m allergic to duck innards,” or “I’m frightened,” but in any case, he was handing me that tiny fork with that a big hunk of smushy pâté and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Now, you all know I am a discriminating eater, and you would be correct to assume I do NOT care for liver, therefore I do not care for foie gras. It doesn’t matter how fancy, how lovingly prepared by how famous a chef … I did not want to get it anywhere near my mouth, let alone eat it. But I was trapped. It was an honor – thrilling for most people — and I couldn’t deny this kind culinary master. Smiling, Andrew looked adoringly at his special foie gras prepared for the Coppolas, and at me as he anticipated the joy I would experience once the delicacy reached my palette. So, I tried to get it over as quickly as possible. I shoved the fork in my mouth. I breathed through my nose while Andrew awaited my reaction. I smiled and shook my head up and down. Then, like a miracle, Andrew turned away, while at the same time I saw a garbage can to my left. I was THIS close to hawking that mouthful into the garbage—until Twitchy Prep Cook moved closer and raised his eyebrows. Son of a BITCH. Yeah, I swallowed it. And I have never wanted to barf so much as I did at that moment saying good-bye and thank you in the kitchen of Auberge du Soleil to the friendly, renowned chef, Andrew Sutton.

Here’s Johnny!

I love cooking shows. I love to cook and I like to find inspiration from all the shows on Food Network and all the others. I certainly don’t find inspiration in the dishes I post about on this blog. When I was a kid, the only cooking show I remember was “Julia Child.” But I wasn’t that interested in Julia Child, until the Dan Aykroyd version on Saturday Night Live. But my real favorites are sitcoms. “Modern Family” is the best. That show makes me laugh out loud. That hasn’t happened since Frazier ended its last season. If you haven’t watched Modern Family, do yourself a favor and tune in to ABC on Wednesday nights.

I’ve loved sitcoms since I was a kid … a really little kid. It was kind of an extension of family dinner—we’d all eat together then sprawl out on the couch or the floor and watch TV together.  When I was growing up, we had just one TV. That’s right all you youngins  … one TV. And guess what? There was no remote. We were the remote. And we watched what our parents wanted to watch. Oh yeah, I’m not kidding. If we were lucky, we got to watch comedy shows like “Laugh-In” or “The Flip Wilson Show.” (“Killer!!”) Other times we had to watch “Gunsmoke,” or “Dragnet,” or “Perry Mason,” or something just as riveting. Of course Mom and Dad indulged us on Friday nights so we could watch “The Brady Bunch,” ” Nancy and the Professor” and “The Partridge Family.” Hey, sometimes we didn’t watch TV at all. Maybe we played Bingo for candy; Dad took great pride in being the Bingo Caller. Sometimes we’d play another board game. Sometimes we’d just hang out on the living room floor and give each other Indian burns while Dad slept on the couch and Mom piddled around in the kitchen. Or sometimes we actually went to our rooms to READ A BOOK or something insane like that.

I remember our first TV in Vallejo. It had rabbit ears on top. No children, not actual bunny ears, but an old antenna that had a box with a dial that you would turn to try and turn the antenna on your roof so you could get one of those THREE local TV stations to tune in a little better. Sometimes it would only work if a kid stood there and held one of the antennas. You’re welcome, Dad.

Kids today are so spoiled. I guess every generation thinks the younger generation is spoiled. I imagine my Grandpa B.K. sat around thinking, “These damn kids … they expect me to buy two radios so they can go listen to “Inner Sanctum” instead of the “Grand Ole Opry.”

I’ve always loved TV. My Mom said I loved it from the beginning. Apparently when I was a baby, Mom would have to sleep on the couch, waiting for my baby self to be tired enough to go to bed. She said I would lay awake in the playpen (which for whatever reason she’d prop in front of the TV) and watch “Johnny Carson.” I would lay awake and take in every second of his show, and once it went off the air, I dropped off to sleep. I guess I loved good comedy even as an infant. So why I’m watching Andrew Zimmern eat a 100-year-old egg on “Bizarre Foods” right now is beyond me. Jay won’t touch seafood but he is zoned in on this show like Andrew’s about to read off our lottery numbers. And he’s even giggling. I’m breathing through my nose and waiting for Jay to drop off to sleep so I can revisit my Netflix copy of ” The United States of Tara.” It’s like getting five TV shows for the price of one.

Take Two Aspirin And Call Me In The Morning

My friend Debby posts fun vintage stuff on Facebook, and recently posted this:

Wow, check out those ingredients.

Sore muscles? Check

Hangover? Done

Coma? Definitely

It’s amazing that product actually existed. Of course, those ingredients aren’t really that surprising. Well, the chloroform frightens me a bit. You know, when I was little, it wasn’t unheard of to give a kid a few teaspoons of brandy for a sore throat or cough. And apparently there was once actual cocaine in Coca Cola. Well okay, maybe one-millionth of an ounce, and that was probably back in the early 1900’s. But hey, don’t you dare eat Pop Rocks while drinking a soda or your insides will explode.

In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, you’d typically find these standard items in a medicine cabinet:

Rubbing alcohol

Noxema

Mercurochrome

Vick’s VapoRub

Bayer Children’s Aspirin

Notice that nothing on that list is preventative. Just some fancy ointments and pills to treat something that could have been prevented, for example, Noxema. Ahh, I remember Noxema. That cool, refreshing feeling of white goop slathered all over you. It was nice, until you rubbed some in your eye. It reminds me of playing at the beach and scorching the crap out of my skin. Ahh, I remember Mercurochrome. It reminds me of long summer days riding my bike and wiping out on the asphalt. Ahh, I remember baby aspirin. It reminds me of rolling down the grassy hill at my grandparents’ house. Grandma would warn us not to do it because we’d end up itching like crazy. But we’d do it anyways. And we’d end up itching like crazy and running into the house to find relief from Grandma. She didn’t always have those yummy orange-flavored baby aspirin though — or Benadryl. None of those fancy antihistamines existed back then, at least that anyone could afford. She’d have to crush an adult aspirin into a spoon of sugar water and feed it to us while saying, “I told you so!” Just think, we took aspirin as little kids and didn’t end up dying from Reye’s syndrome.

Thank goodness today we have all kinds of modern medicine to cure our ills. Of course, it takes me about 10 minutes to find a standard-size bottle of ibuprofen in the grocery store. There are about five aisles of pain relief products out there. I remember back in the day there would be maybe one single shelf dedicated to aspirin, cough syrups and chest rubs. Same for cereal these days. I still can’t find Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. It’s like “Where’s Waldo.”

Back in the ‘70s, people actually smoked in grocery stores. Little kids would stand up in carts. Yeah, we wouldn’t even clean the cart handles with a sanitary wipe. Yes sir, it was a circus in there. Which is probably why my sisters and I liked to go grocery shopping with my Mom. Wait, I mean, HAD to go grocery shopping with my Mom. It took two carts to stock our kitchen, and Tracy had to navigate one cart with Melissa in the seat and Mom navigated the other with Coleen in the seat. I guess I was just there to supervise and beg for Skittles and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

There was no going to the grocery store every other day. You went the day after payday, which was usually once every two weeks. And you stocked up. And if you ran out of something, tough. You ate what was in the house. Ahh, I remember … Spam.