You might have noticed how my creativity waxes and wanes. Apparently my muse is pretty directly linked to my finances. That is to say, when I'm in the position where I gotta make do, my old-timey social worker resourcefulness kicks in and the ideas start comin'. When I'm a little more flush, I actually tend to do more nibbling -- like, on trail mix -- and less cooking.
Today's answer to the low-blood-sugar dizzy spells? Gnocchi and tunafish.
Now, I know gnocchi is gettin' pretty fancy. But I couldn't resist the other day when I was buying a jug of my favorite Middle Eastern yogurt at the Phancy Phood store. Gnocchi is inexpensive and super filling, so you can gnosh gnocchi till your belly's bulging.
And not "tuna", as in steaks. But tunafish, as in from a can. And to top that off, it's the kind in oil. Do you know anyone who still uses it? Do you remember when tuna in water became all the rage? (That would be your middle age showing...) I still keep both kinds around. There are some recipes that just cry out for a touch of fishy oil. This is one:
Gnocchi & Tunafish
one small can tuna in oil
one small avocado, diced
one small tomato, diced
1/2 cup chopped almonds
2 tbsp salad dressing (I used some Greek vinaigrette that's been in my fridge for over a year)
some gnocchi, cooked like the package says
Combine the first ingredients in a bowl. Stir all together until the dressing gets all over everything. Put some warm gnocchi on your plate and glop the tunafish mix in the middle.
I
first heard this song months ago on the radio. I go in and out of
country music phases. Mostly it's genetic. But I really am drawn to
the story-telling
that goes on in country music, and it's been heart-warming to hear so
many young women songwriters getting so damned much airplay in recent
years. Nothing can tell a story as well as a country song by a girl.
So
I heard this song in the
usual style, while
I was shuttling Christine between Da Hood and Da Burbs to fetch Da
Boy. Or maybe it was during one of those leisurely drives to
Everytown, USA,
to interview folks for my
work. Anyway, it
caught my ear, and for good reason. I bet you can figure it out from
listening to the song.
We're
in another transition phase over here. (And just to clarify, lest you
be thinkin' that's the Royal 'We' – when I refer to myself in the
plural, it's out of sheer deference to what I don't know. That sounds
cryptic, I know, but if you ever want to engage me in a chat about
some of my thoughts on the brain, the mind, and the self, you'll find
it ain't so easy to put into words on a blogpost. Read Michael A.
Singer's book – it's listed on the right of this blog – for a
short-book-length explanation.)And of course,
“we” can also include my four-legged dependents. The Boy, he's
fine. Transitions-R-Us is his motto. (I count that as a Parenting
Gold Star on my Scout vest.)
The
Editor moved his belongings out several weeks ago. Well, most of
them; some dribbled out as late as last night. We'd been mappin' this
route since last summer, but it's apparently a surprise to some
folks. Guess we were kinda good at acting like friends while coming
unglued. (Another Gold Star...) So
the past few weeks have been filled with feelings of change,
expansion, a little bit of “what the heck do I do with this
space?”, and plenty more sleep. And just like Mr. Singer talks
about (kinda, sorta) in his book, it's really all just impermanent
stuff, these things and creatures that we attach to, and the bottom
line is that we really don't know – and likely never will know –
who's driving in our heads. True
story: Many, many years ago, when I was approaching My First Marriage
at the ripe old age of 19, I said to my mom (who had already in her
polite-but-nevertheless-very-honest style – it's a bit more British
than Southern – told me she didn't “approve of child brides”...),
“The only thing that I worry about is how do you keep from being
bored living with the same person for the rest of your life?”
[Stop
me if you've heard this one. But I'm gonna keep writing the rest...]
There
was a trace of silence on the line, then a little 'whiff' of a laugh,
and finally: “Well, honey, your father's not the same man I married
back then.”
My
parents met in junior high and have been married since the 50s.
SHE
is The Bodhisattva. Dog
toys are a little like that. If they are loved well, they can't help
but change. But what do we do? We try to keep them The Same As When
We Got 'Em. The same as when we first laid eyes on 'em and fell in
love with 'em. But they won't stay
the same. They
don't. They can't.
Should
we shelve what we love, try to put it up high and out of reach so our
interactions of passion and devotion don't hurt it, because we think
that will make them last longer? Quick, quick, find a place to hide
and bury it, cover it all up with what we think will protect it,
because we think it will always be there when we want it again
someday?
Or
do we just let 'er rip and love every second while it's there, paying
no mind to the false solidity that we call “the future”?
A blustery
afternoon and I'm in a part of Swamp City that's cherished for its
original old cottages amid damned pricey world-class
shopping. Except for the high-end cars and occasional high-rise, the
gray skies and swirling oak leaves would fit right into the Hundred
Acre Woods.
A red door is
papered in freebie stickers that belie someone's penchant for
donating to Native American charities. It opens to reveal a small
woman who immediately requests to be “let off the hook” because
she's 90 years old. But she's okay with answering two minutes of
questions and lets me in “out of that wind!” to her world.
Each question
ignites a new story. She's the sole resident, but her husband “up
there comes to stay in [her] heart.” She's “white, white, white”
because “that's the only way Hitler would have it. Otherwise, I
would be ground up...” she said with an accent while rubbing her
palms together. She was relieved that my Federally-funded handheld
screener found her ineligible for the lengthier survey, and suggested
that I should celebrate later – “Two – no – three drinks!”
as she tipped an invisible martini to her lips. I opened the door and
she touched my arm. “Aren't you freezing, baby?” Then she said
with a laugh before closing the door, “I wish you better luck than
you had with me. Go home! After all, it's Saturday!”
It was Tuesday.
I sat in my
Christine, parked in the street near the curb, tapping the necessary
notes into my screener, and looked up just as the back-end of a
minivan rolled dead-on for my driver-side door. I stopped writing and
blinked as the collision occurred. Then I finished my note and got
out to calm down the frantic young woman who stood wide-eyed with
insurance info in hand. If any damage was done, it blended in well
with Christine's existing blemishes. The mirror popped right back
into place. I patted the woman on the arm, told her to forget about
it. No harm to either car or human. Nearly in tears, she said I was
“so kind!”
It's all so
good. Coffee time.
[and later, for dinner... Sorry, no photos. (Anybody got a camera they wanna sell me for cheap?) Trust me: This is beautiful and exquisitely tasty.]
1 14-oz can diced tomatoes (with sweet
onions this time)
1 small sweet potato, peeled &
cubed
¼ can of water
half a large onion, chopped large
handful of fresh parsley
1 tsp kosher salt
most of a bottle of oatmeal stout (or
some other plain ol' beer)
Mix together – with a fork, a whisk,
whatever – the flour, chili powder, and rosemary.
If the beef isn't already chunked up,
cut it up in bite-sized pieces. Sprinkle the spiced-up flour over the
beef chunks in a bowl and stir until all the meat is coated.
Heat up the olive oil in a big pot –
about medium heat – and dump in the meat. (Once you see the oil
start to easily slip and slide around, it's hot enough to add meat.)
Stir, stir, stir over low-to-medium heat until it all starts to turn
a little brown.
Dump in the whole can of tomatoes
(DON'T drain it – you need the juice, too.) Stir a little to mix
the tomatoes and meat.
Add everything else. Cover, cook on low
about half an hour to an hour, until the beef is tender and the
potatoes are softened.
Somewhere between a van down by the river and the mansions of River Oaks lies a trailer park in The Republic.
That's where my karma got stuck.
I'm good with it.
