concoction

Last night I cooked supper for Steve.  I had been trying a recipe I didn't have time for during the holidays, so I decided since I had dessert, I would really shock the s**t out of him and cook a main course.  I am a simple person when it comes to cooking.  I believe in using the fewest pots possible to make a meal.  I measure my success in cooking in the amount of dishes I DON'T dirty...weird I know but since I have never had a dishwasher, there is a method to my madness.

I looked in the fridge and saw some leftover cheese dip I had made.  Aha! I thought to myself, I'll make a concoction and save pots and be thrifty at the same time (i.e., using leftovers and not throwing them away), in effect killing two birds with one stone.

con·coc·tion

kənˈkäkSHən/

noun

1. 1.

   a mixture of various ingredients or elements.

   "a concoction of gables, shingles, stained glass, and towers inspired by English medieval houses"

   synonyms:

   mixture, brew, preparation, potion "a concoction containing gin and vodka" blend, mixture, mix, combination, hybrid "a strange concoction of folk pop and Gregorian chant"

So I took the cheese dip out (it had ground beef in it, always a starting point for any concoction), boiled some noodles (it was either noodles or spaghetti pasta, and I felt egg noodles would be more aesthetically pleasing).  Then I tossed them all together in the same pot I had boiled the noodles in (after draining off the noodle water of course).  Voila, dinner and dessert and I didn't even break a sweat.

As I made the concoction, I thought about how the word came into being in our family.  It is a word my sisters will understand the moment they see this post.  What does this word mean to me?

It is how I learned to cook.  When I was about 13 or 14, my mother was on a journey of self discovery.  She was a good cook, but never wanted anyone helping her in the kitchen, and so I knew nothing about cooking.  Somehow, when mom and dad divorced and mother went to work, I chose the task of cooking for my sisters and I.  Don't ask me why, because it was long before I knew about Julia Child.  In fact, I didn't even know how to boil water.  That was the first thing I learned to do, and it was about that time I started drinking tea.  I had tried coffee with milk and sugar but mom had told me that if I was going to drink coffee, I had to drink it black.  So that stopped my coffee drinking cold, and I fell in love with tea.  Milk and sugar of course, which for some reason didn't offend mom's sensibilities.  It's a habit I still have.  

After I learned to boil water, I began to think of ways to cook something we could actually eat.  I decided to started with ground beef.  That was almost always the base for my concoctions.  After that I tossed in whatever we had in the pantry.  But the magic began the first time I spotted the spice rack and decided to "spice" it up.  I knew spaghetti had spices, and so did a lot of other recipes.  I wasn't working with a recipe, so I decided to just let my imagination guide me.

My sisters will say straight up that my imagination caused epic failures much of the time. There were times what I cooked was delicious, or at least palatable.  Then there were the times the girls thought I was trying to poison them. 

I can hear them laughing as they read this.  What started out as an experiment in learning for me, brought us all closer.  Along the way, we learned to rely on ourselves, and that we could do anything we set our minds to.  An attitude that persists to this day in all three of us.

What a memory.  What marvelous times we had, and we didn't even realize it at the time.

See you soon Vix and Dooj...and I'll make you a concoction while I am there.  I've improved just a bit over the years. xo  

...life is so very good. ~cath 
find me @jonesbabie on Twitter

hog heaven

I was a city mouse.  Steve was a country mouse.  And never the twain shall meet without something going awry.  It was true forty years ago, and it remains true to this day.

About a year into our marriage, we had scored a small cockroach infested apartment.  The cockroaches actually belonged to the neighbors next door.  The husband was a trucker, and his wife and baby had a penchant for going on runs with him, and just coincidentally forgetting to clean the food off the table or wash the dishes before leaving.  So when that happened, the cockroaches, being neighborly Alabama cockroaches, would pay us a visit.  But I had a crawling baby and that made my skin crawl.  So I spent a lot of time on cucaracha search and destroy missions.

One day Steve asked me to make butter beans again.  Yes, again.  I had learned that butter beans made your gut look like it was inflated by a tire pump, so we never wanted to eat them more than once or twice in a row.  That was how I measured butter beans to cook.  One handful, one day of gut filled gas, two handfuls, two days of gas, and so on.  So I  was in  my comfort zone with butter beans.

Then Steve asked for ham hocks in the butter beans.  Now I had heard of ham thrown in with beans while they cooked.  Mom used to cook them with navy beans (the butter bean's more refined bean cousin), but what the hell was a ham hock?  Was he making fun of me and telling me to throw a hammock in the beans?  I looked at his face carefully.  Even after a year I hadn't learned to tell when he was lying.  But he was serious.  Ham hocks.  I told him he would have to go shopping with me to buy them, since I didn't really know what part of the pig they came from.  He agreed, and I was trapped.

Turns out that ham hocks aren't much ham at all.  They are actually the ankle of the pig.  And those ankles are ugly.  They reminded me of something the crew of Star Trek would eat in outer space.  When I looked at those, I almost became a vegetarian on the spot. 

But at this point in my marriage, I still wanted to please Steve.  And I was still naive enough to think the way to his heart was through a pig's ankle.  So we bought them and took them back home to my kitchen.  It was the next day I decided to swallow my bile and cook the ugly things.  Steve had told me his mom just boiled them with the beans, so with barely a glance at them, I dropped them in the pot with a couple handfuls of beans.

They actually started smelling good.  They were smoked after all.  And had been connected to somewhere on the pig close to the ham.  This wasn't that bad after all.  I made cornbread, and while I was cooking, Steve's sister Jean called.   She was working in Birmingham at the time, so I invited her over for lunch.  Steve and Jean arrived not far apart from each other.  Our apartment was small, so our table was actually in the kitchen.  I was proud that I had actually made something southern that was edible (my triumphs in southern cuisine were rare at that point) so I dished up the butter beans and ham hocks,  cut the cornbread in generous slices and we all sat down to lunch. 

We were all sitting there chatting, and eating.  Suddenly I looked at my ham hock.  I mean I took a really close look at it.  I hadn't really looked at it until then.  And I saw it.  These little prickly stiff things sticking out of the ham hock, just a few.  Enough that I poked at them with my fork, then in curiosity I laid the fork down and poked them with my finger.  And while I was poking I said "what are these things sticking out of this ham hock?"  Steve and Jean had paused eating and were looking at me.  As suddenly as I said it, it dawned on me what they were.  And I said the fateful words:

"Oh my gosh those are hog hairs!"  I was fascinated by them.  I had never seen that part of the pig before.  It never dawned on me to check the pig to see if it needed a shave before I dumped those hocks in the water.

Did I mention that Steve and Jean share the same affinity for vomiting when they are grossed out?  We only had one bathroom. and I think Jean ran for the bathroom, which meant Steve dived out the back door of the kitchen at the same time.

What did I do?  I scraped the hair off the ham hock and pushed it to the side of my plate and finished lunch alone.  The ham on the hock was actually quite tasty, and the beans were perfect.  (Did I mention nothing grosses me out?)

I guess I don't need to add that Steve didn't want leftover butter beans and ham hocks the next day.  He also never asked for ham hocks in butter beans again.

Score one for the city mouse.