Das Deutschdiner

I have finally come to terms with this apartment. I still hate it, but I have accepted that I will not get to live elsewhere for some time. Much like buying a pair of jeans in the hopes of fitting into them later, I must stop being delusional and stupid. I have to embrace what I have, harsh consequences be damned.

I am going to start inviting friends over.

My first dinner guests will be the famed Father Augustine and Jennifer Gubbe, who will both forgive Ben and my modest circumstances. Jen and I were in RCIA class together, but didn't really converse until the church gala almost two weeks ago. Like a triple bonded carbon atom it took a lot to bring us together, but now we're stuck and happy with it. She also lives in the dorms at UO, and is in need of a home-cooked meal (even a cave-cooked meal, in my case). Jen was thrilled with the invitation and suggested that we schedule dinner for tonight.

Unfortunately, Father Augustine is not available for dinner until May. Even more unfortunately, he didn't tell this to Jen. I received a text from her today asking what I was going to make for dinner, since she took his silence as tacit compliance. As Ben says when he is short on answers, that is an excellent question. I was unprepared, but it is not the way of my people to turn away the hungry.

In the midst of trying to find common ground for my shy boyfriend and equally shy new friend to bond over, the Idea Fairy sounded a little chime in my head. I would make them German food so they could meditate on the glory of their people and pity the poor Irish cook (who speaks better German than both of them, so ha.) I quickly threw together chicken schnitzel with roasted potatoes and sautéed Brussels sprouts, which was the best I could do on short notice. I personally love schnitzel, especially when there are leftovers that can be diced and put into the next morning's omelet (but Ben never, ever leaves a schnitzel behind). It was enjoyed by all, even if it lacked that certain "Ich weise nicht was."

Keyword: Coconut

Poor Ben has no decision-making abilities when I am around. He had to have some in the years before I moved here, as his exes did not cook and he had to eat somehow, but my presence apparently raises a white flag in his brain. This isn't the worst situation in the world for an alpha like me, but when I am tired or distracted by support mobilization strategies pertaining to international community development, nothing is more infuriating than a hesitant silence.

Did I forget to mention that he's very picky? And extremely xenophobic when it comes to food?

He does have his moments of brilliance, though. Just last Sunday we were watching a "Survivorman" episode filmed in Costa Rica, which involved surviving off of delicious coconut milk. Ben's eyes became fixated to the television, to the point that his computer game grew impatient with him. Ben loves coconut; I'm thoroughly convinced that he could eat his weight in haystacks in a single sitting. After a minute or so he asked, "Can we have dinner with coconut in it?"

Sure! I whipped out my laptop and went straight to Epicurious's Advanced Search to look for dinner, keyword: coconut. Coconut shrimp it is!

"I don't like shrimp."

Of course he doesn't. I am sure that there are plenty of Thai dishes that I can use.

"I'm not so sure about Thai food."

I am getting closer to throttling him. At least I found a delicious-sounding crab sauté with spicy coconut sauce. He has eaten crab several times before without complaint.

"I don't remember if I liked crab."

You bastard.

At this point I decided to just plan the coconut-based dinner for midweek, and just use my own judgment so he could neither protest nor convince himself that he wouldn't like it. To tame the experience I radically gutted the recipe. Goodbye turmeric, chiles de árbol, cloves, coriander, anise, and cumin. Crab legs were exchanged for crab cakes (partially for a more innocuous look, but mostly because I am poor). I also threw in a tablespoon of curry powder and a little hot spice blend of my own for some kick, and some diced green onions for color.


Everything turned out beautifully. The spice was punchy enough to distract Ben in case he didn't like the crab (he loved it), and the end result was neither Thai nor shrimp-laden. The coconut was unfortunately too shy a presence among the spices, so tweaking is definitely in order. It was a grand first try, all the same. I personally had a difficult time putting my leftovers away once I got full, but it was almost as good as an early lunch the next day.

Hopefully now Ben will remember that he likes crab.

Bougie Food

I hope I am never one of those women that cooks for her cats. I come from a long line of obsessive pet-mothers, so the odds don't look good for me. My mother has slapped me away from chicken on more than one occasion because it was made for her fluffy, effeminate old codger of a Siamese cat. (Believe me, nothing is quite humbling as falling short of the pet.)

While three of our cats are quite content with some dry food and a tummy rub, my three-legged kitten has designs on me becoming my mother. Bougie (aka The Bouge) is a clever little monster, capable of rendering men into minions with a single squeak. She was also a top-shelf hunter back in California; despite three legs and a bell on her collar, she would frequently bring in squirrels, rats, and birds that were bigger than her and stare intently at me as if I was expected to dress the thing and serve it with roasted potatoes. My apologies to the greater Sacramento zoology, but it doesn't speak well for the gene pool when a three-legged bell-wearing kitten can best you.

Oregon has been hard on The Bouge. As our studio apartment lacks a pet door and the Lane County animal control policies are barbaric, Ben and I are reluctant to let her outdoors off of her (extremely degrading) leash and harness. When she isn't peeing on the bathroom floor in defiance or wrapping herself around my neck as I try to study, she stares out of our one and only window, longingly growling at the birds and squirrels that strut by.

Recently I discovered that I have an excess of bread crumbs in the pantry. I left a few crumb piles on the back patio, partially to watch the wildlife come nearer but mostly to screw with the cats. It worked, and it worked brilliantly. The whole cat family had their whiskers pressed to the window, barking and clacking as stellar jays and squirrels amassed. They were shy at first until they became certain of the window's thickness, and then flaunted their security with a full swagger. The Bouge was, in a word, pissed.

If she had a thought bubble right now, it would involve a white wine butter sauce.

When I Go to Vegas

This post is not about cooking; this post is about sweet, sweet plans come to fruition.

Last weekend I went on a trip that was a month in the making. Ben and I flew from Portland (stopping at PDX Rogue before our flight, of course), my best friend Cortney flew from DC, and Fr. Augustine drove from LA all to meet in Las Vegas for the Muse concert. Sure, Cortney got trapped in Dallas overnight because of a delay and Augustine didn't show up until we were all poolside, but the best possible combination of people were in one place for one awesome show.

I say that we were the best possible combination because all of us absolutely love food. We could have easily spent the entire time restaurant-hopping like I did the last time I was in Vegas. We did manage a few great stops while we were there, actually. Ben and I had 2 am pizza at New York New York (it's a can't-miss if you're a night owl).


Once Cortney arrived, we had breakfast at Studio Cafe in MGM Grand. Also a great spot, but the orange juice is sinfully overpriced.

It was once Fr. Augustine arrived that we really went nuts. Guster Bunny can put away food like no one else, which is a startling feat for such a skinny guy. Behold the madness that ensued at the More Buffet at Luxor Hotel; not only did he have more plates of food than all of us, he also put away twice as many desserts.


The first, a cream puff to which he obviously holds great reverence, died in one fell swoop.


The look of fear on Cortney's face only got worse when she realized that there was no stopping him. At that point Ben just put the camera on the table and started taking pictures of Augustine in different stages of gluttony.


Between the concert (which was life-changing), the company, and the food, it was a delicious trip. I am already looking for excuses to travel with these three again, mostly to see what else we can get Augustine to eat.

Special thanks to Augustine, Ben, and Cortney (my ABC), MUSE, and SFO airport for having the best airport food in the country (it was a delightful layover thanks to that!)

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.