Food, Fast and Slow

Last week, I spent 48 hours touring the Fast Food belts of Greenville and Spartanburg, South Carolina. While the small Southern cities are beautiful excerpts of America, quaintly nestled under the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, I spent most of my time getting to know strips of the South that looked a lot like their counterparts up North: landscapes, congested with fuel stations and more quick service food choices than ever.

I was there to scope out my Burger and current project at work. The sandwich, boasting preservative free, fresh toppings is being tested in two regions to find out if it merits national launch next year. On my visit to region #1, I ordered, investigated, tasted, and photographed the Burger dozens of times. I cross referenced a thick corridor of competition. And I watched customers in action - how they ordered, paid, ate, and went on their frenzied way.

Just when I thought I couldn't look at or taste another burger, I found myself calling Peter and asking him to pick up some ground beef at the Elburn Meat Market on his way home. I wanted to try something. I wondered how much better a Burger could taste in slow motion - when I wasn't in a hurry; when the job was done.

Theory confirmed. The best Burger I had all week.

The weekend progressed in a similar manner: I continued studying food, fast and slow, focusing on paced preparation while reflecting on the haste my restaurant group is known for. It was a weekend where I didn't feel the need to hurry. Sure, there was stuff to do - closets to organize, floors to clean, beds to weed, errands to run - but I kept turning a blind eye to my chores. This weekend was about the pool, bike rides, long runs, good books, bubbles, pin wheels, folks, fun, and really good food. 

It all worked because I was serving customers in a similar mindset. They had time, so the food could go as slow as I wanted it.

In contrast, last week I witnessed hundreds of people that had big, hard jobs to do - construction, road work, landscaping, hair styling, nursing, teaching, studying, and parenting. I saw people who had a couple minutes and couple dollars to spare. And I saw them trade in their time and treasure for meals that produced a whole lot of satisfied smiles.

There's no doubt that food tends to taste better on holiday weekends - when life hands you time to spare. But when the weekend ends and America starts its engine again, the nation's workforce can count on the consistent quality, value, speed of service, and perfect French Fries available under the Golden Arches.    

Lo.

Grilled Zucchini Caprese Salad

Ingredients: 
3 medium zucchinis, thinly sliced length wise
Olive oil
Red wine vinegar
Fresh Mozzarella, thinly sliced
Two big leaves of Basil, chopped
Salt, pepper

Directions: 
Drizzle olive oil over zucchini. Season with salt and pepper. Grill over charcoal until tender and starting to char. Let cool.

On a small platter, layer grilled zucchini with mozzarella. Drizzle olive oil and red wine vinegar over the platter. Sprinkle with basil and finish seasoning with salt and pepper to taste.

Good Eater

Mary has a tint of red in her hair; it actually looks strawberry blond in certain lighting. When I mention it to my Mom, she tells me that my Grandpa 'Red' would have loved her. Of course he would have. And it makes me think of her other qualities that would have made him smile: her chubby thighs, her translation of hugs and kisses, and the fact that she is already a good eater.

Growing up, he classified me as such. With the exception of meatloaf, I didn't discriminate against meals - especially the heirloom recipes served at family gatherings. Sure, I had preferences, but with the promise of dessert on the other end, I always carried the badge of a clean plate.

Aunt Dee's annual St. Patrick's Day dinner was no exception. Injected with a quarter dose of Irish blood, I was a champion chewer when it came to corned beef, cabbage and Irish Soda Bread. Following dinner, I'd find a seat next to my Double G and gloat about the head of cabbage I polished off as he laughed with loving approval. 'That's my girl. Always a good eater.'

As soon as Mary got her chompers, I had sensed that she was going to be a good eater too. But after this weekend, one of the most delicious ones we've had in a while, I feel like she cemented her claim to the title.

Our household theory is that Mary eats what we eat; and she sits down to dinner when we do. So far, she hasn't refused a thing. She ate all of her mushroom risotto on Friday night. She was likely showing off for Tess, but on Saturday she nearly ate a whole breast of chicken. On Sunday morning, she showed our friend Jess how she brunched. And on Sunday night, she would have made her Irish Grandpa very proud as she noshed on her first slice of corned beef. Definitely a good eater.

I'm pretty sure my Grandpa's Irish eyes were smiling down on Mary, his little leprechaun yesterday.

 Lo.

Corned Beef

1 3-pound Corned Beef Brisket, brined.
1 can beer
1 onion, cut in eighths
2 carrots, cut in thirds
2 celery stalks, cut in half
1 shallot roughly chopped
Enough water to submerge corned beef
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 small head of cabbage, cut into eighths
8 small red potatoes

In a large Dutch Oven, combine water, beer, vegetables and corned beef. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for 4-5 hours.

Remove the Corned Beef from the Dutch Oven, scraping away any larger chunks of fat that might remain. (I had to do this on the underside.) Set the Corned Beef aside, covered in aluminum foil. Strain out the vegetables and fat from the liquid.  Add cabbage and potatoes to the leftover liquid, bring to a boil again and then reduce heat to low, simmering at a gently rolling boil for 45 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, about 10 minutes before ready to serve, heat oven to Broil. Cover the top of the Corned Beef with brown sugar then broil on high for 5-7 minutes. Careful to watch it because the sugar will caramelize and then burn quickly. Cut on the diagonal grade and serve with potatoes, cabbage and Irish Soda Bread.

Laboring

At 5:30 PM, my Mom picked us up from Extended Day. At 6:30 we were shoveling plates of linguini with clam sauce in our mouths. And at 6:45, my Mom, still dressed in her power suit, and I were on our way back to my grade school to attend an after school meeting entitled, 'Becoming a Woman.' It was a mandatory mother-daughter session for all fourth graders at my school. The boys had to go to their own version of evening awkwardness in fifth grade - when they were a little more mature.

Mrs. Goetz, our hostess for the night, encouraged everyone to sit in the first three rows of the auditorium. I sat front and center; my Mom was to my right, my best friend Katy was to my left. The screen came down, I heard the projection machine warming up, Mrs. Goetz made some introductory remarks, and with that the audio visual part of the program started. About five minutes into the presentation, an enormous picture of the male anatomy filled the thirty foot screen. I turned to Katy, who had simultaneously turned to look at me, and we both started laughing hysterically while our moms shushed us into some semblance of maturity. The giggles didn't stop though. They were my uncontrollable form of embarrassment / discomfort / shock relief, aided only by the Giant Eagle chocolate chip cookies that Mrs. Goetz was passing around.

Besides opening our eyes to a topic that had previously been avoided in many of our households, the goal seemed to be to ease the minds of the one or two early bloomers in my class, and to let them know where Mrs. Goetz kept her secret stash of tampons. As a much later bloomer, my takeaway was to always look for solace in big cookies and laughter when presented with something as uncomfortable as a mammoth urethra. 

***

On Sunday, while watching in all its graphic glory, an Asian and a hillbilly with the worst stretch marks ever painfully expel babies from their bodies then receive bloody little bundles of joy on their chests, I had a flash back to my introductory course on womanhood. Except this time, there were no cookies and the visuals were so disturbing that I actually ended up closing my eyes through parts of the presentation.

I did find the chance here and there to giggle away the discomfort though. The awkward, note-taking, scientific question-asking partner (not husband, just partner) of the woman who came to class in her pajamas, and whose happy place was Branson, Missouri provided ample opportunity for stress relief. And thankfully Peter's commentary made the giggles turn to full on hysterics by the end of the class.

Honestly, despite the up close and personal shots of babies crowning, it was a very informative class and I feel a lot more confident, knowing what to expect. I also came away with many more valuable lessons than I did in the fourth grade:

1. Labor, and delivery for that matter, is definitely going to suck.  
2. Nurse, it's great that you keep the Popsicles in there, but why are you stocking your unit with my husband's favorite snack instead of mine? 
3. For the first time ever, I think I'm going to have control of the air waves, and show tunes will be blaring as my means of relaxation. H-e-l-l-o Dolly! 
4. I will make sure to go to the bathroom several times at home before going into 'transition' in the hospital. I refuse to be part of the soiling stat that they shared.
5. I'm thinking that I won't want to do all the paper work associated with getting an epidural, so that option might be out. 
6. I by no means want to see the baby actually leaving my body. And for that matter, I want Peter up by head the whole time.
7. It would be great if the doctor cleaned up the baby before putting it on my chest. 
8. I do not want to examine the placenta like it's a Morton's steak. I'm sure it's fine. 
9. I can do this.

When we were driving home through the icy rain, never did the staunch words of Auntie Mame ring more true in my ears. I most definitely needed a little Christmas. And now! So to take my mind off thoughts of the cute little girl bouncing around in my stomach having to come out from her secure hiding place someday, we put on Christmas records and finished decorating our house for the season.

I even got to open my first Christmas present. Straight from Seattle and her book signing tour, our friend, Jess, sent me her very own cookbook, Dishing Up Washington. We used it immediately.

I started feeling a lot better. But that evening, as Peter and I sat under the tree, looking up at the memories captured in our collection of ornaments, the twinkle of the tinsel, and the soft glow of the lights, Peter said, I wish she could see it.
Aw, I do too. 
Which means I'm going to have to push her out. But the pain will be so worth it.

Lo.

Recipes for simple baked chicken, roasted beans, and carrots can be found in Jess Thomson's new cookbook, 'Dishing Up Washington.'