Jet Engines on Pasta Night

Though my Christmas blender has been getting a lot of use lately, I have yet to give its food processor attachment a try. I have thought of making pesto or a good aioli for Wednesday's Pasta Night tradition, but Wendesday is such a rushed night that I barely have time to throw noodles in water.

You see, on Wednesday I have RCIA meetings at 7 pm. I get out of work anywhere between 5:30 and 6 pm. It takes me about 15 to 30 minutes to get home, and about 10 to 15 minutes to get to RCIA. That leaves very little time to make food, and even less time to eat it. Couple that with my current vegetarian stint for Lent, and eating properly becomes a wicked challenge.

To make things a little easier (and healthier) on me, I asked Ben to start the pasta noodles and decided to whip some tofu into my pasta sauce with the use of the food processor. It would be healthier for me, and I doubt that Ben would noticed the pureed tofu.

He noticed, but not because of the taste. He was unaware, as was I, of the fact that our extremely powerful food processor sounds exactly like a full-scale jet engine. I jumped in terror. Ben backed into a corner, eyes bulged in fear. The cats all hid. Once the noise died I had to explain what I did, so Ben didn't think I was trying to kill him.


Ben has not forgiven me, nor has Murray.

Slainte!

Corinne Lopez is a tricky one. She is the director of faith formation at my beloved St. Thomas More Newman Center, as well as being the leader for the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults group. She has tried my cooking a few times to her enjoyment, but my cooking is nothing compared to Laura Thompson Parras, the reigning culinary queen at the Newman Center. No bitterness, I promise.

One Wednesday in February during an RCIA meeting Corinne was giving announcements about what to expect for Lent. I was busy working on a difficult stitch in yet another scarf, so I wasn't paying full attention. I did hear "St. Patrick" and "Irish", but it was shockingly not enough to make me look away from my scarf. That was when I noticed the silence. I looked up and saw both Corinne and Laura staring intently at me with a look that was far too innocent to be innocent.

I think they want me to cook for St. Patrick's Day.

This required some serious coordination. I cooked several dozen of my Guinness chocolate cupcakes the night before (they were finally perfect), woke a priest up early to let me plug in the Crock Pot before work, and fretted during Mass about the timing of the corned beef glaze and boiling cabbage. I had not made any potatoes, and was starting to feel the wrath of my ancestors boiling within my blood.

Everything turned out perfectly. Good friends and RCIA members brought salad, scalloped potatoes, beverages, and the like. Tables were set out for the dozens who attended. The smallish corned beef was somehow able to feed everyone, and the cabbage turned out buttery and delicious.

I would like this to be on record: when I die, this is how I hope heaven will be. I am possessed with a palpable joy when I see people I love gathered in one place, sharing food, talking, laughing, and simply enjoying what the moment has brought us. I was surrounded by RCIA members, priests, my cousin Annie and her boyfriend Lincoln, Ben, my Irish friend Jack, and anyone else who followed their nose to the church. The holiest of holidays continued at our tiny apartment with some beer and Annie, Lincoln, my friend Ari, her girlfriend Allyse, and Fr. Augustine Hilander. I had never invited people over to the wee apartment before, but we all fit in fine. What's more, we were all happy to be there with each other. This sort of joy is all the proof of God that I need.
That, and the expression on Fr. Augustine's face.

The Family Ascends -or- Attack of the Swedes

Please understand that my family is so close-knit it's almost annoying. Where one goes, the rest surely want to follow. If one member has a baby, the rest congeal there to help raise the thing. At least I can count on eager babysitters if Ben and I breed.

My mormor (Swedish word for mother's mother) was very upset that she didn't get to see me for Christmas when my mother did. She wrote to me several times expressing her regret and frustration for not being there, and insisted that she would soon have herself a little road trip from Los Angeles to Eugene, stopping in Sacramento to pick up my mother. I didn't entirely believe that she would pull it off, as our family is known for promising the world and then scrambling to deliver.

Mormor delivered, all right. She and my mother arrived early on the 26th of February, anxious to give my kitchen the Swedish Seal of Approval. It obviously did not, because they insisted on eating everywhere but at the apartment. Sure, I come from a long line of food tourists, but I was a little miffed. The food at Taste of India, Studio One, La Perla, and Sweet Life is all fantastic (and the Sweet Life patrons sang "Happy Birthday" to Grandma on the 27th), but I was eager to strut my culinary stuff in front of my teachers.

I can forgive our dining experience on the 28th, though, because it was my idea. We all got up early to drive to Portland for breakfast at Mothers Cafe (where better to go with your mother and mormor, right?) The ladies oohed and aahed over their food more than they had for all other Oregonian meals combined. If I can't win them with my own talents, I can win them with my good taste.
Ben was nice enough to take this picture of Mom, me, and Mormor from above the waist (as we had just eaten).

We talked about food during the entire drive back to Eugene. Eventually the talk veered toward my small and sad little cooking setup. I was starting to get annoyed until the ladies mused about what they could buy for me that would strengthen my kitchen.

Did someone say shopping?

We hit Target at God-forsaken-o'clock for an electric wok (essentially a second burner in the house) and an eight-quart Crock Pot. I can already tell that these will be powerful tools in my arsenal, and am musing about the time that I will save in cooking pasta with sauces, vegetables with fried chicken, etc ad nauseum ad infinitum.

Thank you, Mom and Mormor. I love you very, very, very much.