The two foods you are guaranteed to find in our pantry are peanut butter and jelly. It’s as natural as salt and pepper or ketchup and mustard. Seldom will you see one used more than the other. From breakfast toast to lunch sandwiches and sometimes even as a side for dinner, these two condiments must remain in constant supply for those rare occasions when dad has to ‘cook’. Yes sir, to the kids in our household and the chefs that feed them, PB&J are staple ingredients.
Nothing in the glutenous world beats freshly-baked bread. If you’re yearning for that homemade taste, store-bought frozen bread dough will do in a pinch, but I have to say, nothing beats mom’s homemade bread recipe.
If you’ve never witnessed the making of homemade bread, it’s quite a process. I remember the long hours mom spent mixing all the ingredients in her large black kettle; how she covered it with a flour sack towel (or heating pad) waiting for it to rise; and the violent punching and kneading that was necessary to work it over before forming it into little loaves and buns. All that work she put into it was well worth it and our reward for being ‘helpful’ was a sampling from the first batch.
Us kids would wait patiently near the oven for the first loaves to come out. As soon as that oven door opened, the intoxicating smells of yeast filled the entire house. After sternly reminding us to stay safely away from the hot pans, she would take a paper towel, swab it with butter and gently rub the golden brown tops of the piping hot bread. Waiting for the bread to cool was the hardest part so we often risked burning our lips to taste what had been teasing our taste buds for so long.
It’s not often that we get to enjoy mom’s homemade bread but we can usually count on Thanksgiving to get a taste of those incredible buns. They’ve become so popular that she usually doubles her normal batch (half of which always seem to go home with someone very lucky). Maybe, just maybe, we can hope to have homemade buns for Easter this year.
The microwave is an awkward appliance. It falls into that murky area between necessity and convenience. Sure, I could boil water in seven minutes on the stove, but wouldn’t it be convenient if I could boil it in three?
I remember when this ubiquitous culinary hardware made it into our household when I was a kid. It rivaled the size of most console television sets and had mechanical dials much like the conventional oven. It also boorishly owned it’s space on the counter-top. When the ‘Nuke-ro-wave’ was in operation, us kids were advised not to go near it. My parents were hoping to protect us from the mystical microwave energy that was sure to penetrate our fragile little bodies, forever altering the genetic makeup that would some day be their grandchildren.
Appliance salesmen the world over boasted the miraculous wonders of this ‘little’ device. The cookbooks that doubled as an operator’s manual for the ‘must have modern convenience’ convinced mothers everywhere that an entire Thanksgiving meal could be prepared in the microwave (attachments required, of course). If you’ve nuked anything grander than a Swanson TV dinner in the mic you know this is not true. Inside every dish’s scalding hot exterior hides a frozen surprise.
Our mic gets used a lot by our boys when they get the itch to make experimental snacks – usually consisting of crackers and anything that melts. It’s harmless cooking as far as I’m concerned – as long as they don’t stand right in front of it. Hey, for all I know the genetic altering effects of microwaving may skip a generation. I don’t want my grand-kids to be affected.
I couldn’t help but notice the Schwan’s catalog this morning on the kitchen table. My wife flatly stated that he was coming tomorrow and began leafing through it. She wasn’t frantic, but I still detected a slight tone of purchase obligation; like we owed the Schwan’s man some business because we asked to be on his route. I realize that Schwan’s sells more than frozen treats, but part of me doesn’t exactly think “let’s get Schwan’s” when it’s -35˚ outside (the goods are probably warmer in the truck).
Getting something from Schwan’s was a premium purchase that happened occasionally when we were kids. In fact, rather than deal with the guilt of turning down the Schwan’s man, we chose to hide behind the couch when he drove by. It’s like the Schwan’s man was some kind of professional beggar. A beggar who forewarned of his panhandling with a slick full-color brochure and handy bright yellow calendar sticker announcing his visits.
Not much has changed, though this routine is a little too fresh to effectively teach the kids how to make it look like no one’s home. Hey, the stuff’s expensive and we live only blocks from a grocery store, so if we did buy something it would only be to help the poor guy having to drive around in this cold, going door-to-door peddling the Schwan’s processed food line. I’d just as soon see him when it warms up a little, but if I come home tomorrow to ice cream drum sticks or orange push-ups I won’t complain.
My kids hate breakfast. Well, at least cold cereal. There isn’t much, besides Frosted Mini Wheats, that they’ll tolerate. At first I thought it was because our line-up included bland fare like Cheerios and Oatmeal Squares, but they don’t even get excited about Froot Loops or Trix! As a kid, we lived on cereal. It was the one meal that we didn’t need any prodding to eat. I can appreciate the fact that it’s a low maintenance, quick meal. I just wish my kids would reconsider – I get tired of preparing granny omelets and french toast every morning.
Ridiculous, I know. Especially since I don’t even drink coffee. I thought if I did, this would definitely be the kind of day that would warrant downing a five-cup pot myself. If you are a coffee drinker, I hope you enjoy your 100% pure Columbian, premium Arabica, freeze-crystaled, freshly-ground java juice.
Aaah, I hate coffee. But I found I recently developed a fondness for cappuccino. Sixteen ounces of sugary goodness.