Snow Roots (no, i didn't mean routes)

Chicago is getting slammed by a snow storm that didn't just bring snow and wind, it also brought lightning and thunder. This, people, is why I love winter.

People use various coping mechanisms to get through the rough seasons. Sun-tan fiends take cruise ships to Cancun, snow fiends take trips to the mountains or get snowmobiles. Both are fun, and I don't mock those who let their hair down by blowing some cash and getting a few thousand miles away from it all. But I have a different perspective on winter.

Winter, in relation to the other seasons, is the time of death (or rest, depending on who you ask). The ground isn't forced to produce any crops or the trees their fruits. The animals conserve energy and a handful of them hibernate. Some things truly die off to make way for new life. Therefore, in the spirit of such harsh realities as death and decay, I love it when winter throws it's worst at me and reminds me of my frailty.

Tonight I watch from my window as the normally mundane N. Talman Avenue of Logan Square Chicago turned into a surrealist painting. The single light source, high and to the left of my field of vision illuminates a smaller swath of the neighborhood than usual. Flecks of white, moving brilliantly fast, gather and scatter like schools of fish in the ocean - the inky black of night a reasonable imitation of the darkness that resides beneath the deepest of the seas.

What once was a double row of automobiles, one on either side of the one-way street, blurs and transforms into new monstrous forms. Barely recognizable and no longer operable, the weighty precipitation crawls ever so slowly over the morbidly inert family sedans, compacts, and decade-old has-beens. The unnatural joining of snow drifts and four-cylinder imports resemble the horror of a morticians table - the cold, stiff bodies of the deceased partially covered by white cloth - a haunting vision beyond my partially frosted window.

Trees, against such a tempestuous backdrop, abandon their nobility and adopt a lurid and egregious sway becoming limbs of mass destruction, lurching and reeling, directed by the wind. Three seasons out of four a tree bears fruit, provides shade, and is habitat for many creature. With winter the trees flex and bend, reaching and twisting with their scraggly arms for anything to destroy.

It may not be what you see when you watch a winter storm, but this the vision I watch unfold as I look out my window. And it's beautiful to me. Were I Dali, I'd paint you a picture, but I am stuck with my words.

There is something very intoxicating to me about a good winter storm. The sheer power necessary to pull off such a massive feat may be part of the awe factor. I remember standing, stunned to silence, from the summit of Giant mountain in the ADK watching a storm roll over the Dix range of the High Peaks. Huge ribbons of white, moving with seemingly effortless grace, flowing and twisting, visible and unpredictable, containing thousands of pounds of snow.

So many memories, so much bliss. So many opportunities to lean into the bite of the wind, feel it push and swirl around you, cleanse you, scraping away all that isn't necessary and essential, and leaving the soul feeling lightened. Free.

I suppose this is the part of the narrative where I fess up and admit that I was raised in North Dakota and I have soft spot for wicked winters. There, I said it. So shoot me. I guess wicked snow storms take me back to my roots.

All in all, I can't wait for tomorrow. Everything has already closed, no one will be out and about, and a snowbank is already calling my name. If you think of me today, feel free to envision me dressed head-to-toe in winter garb sitting contentedly in a snowbank, peaceful, and at rest.

Emergency Supplies

Growing up in North Dakota I experienced many a rough winter. Tales of cars going off the icy roads and submerging in snowbanks, not to be found till spring (with their occupants frozen within) motivated most residents to carry at least one Emergency Kit with them. They might include some candy bars, candles, florescent streamer to tie to your antenna, a space blanket, a tin pie pan for melting snow for water, etc., etc. There were commercial ones and homemade ones, but you can bet that if the weather was bad I was thankful I had mine (including my sleeping bag, a shovel, and my own person repository of candy :)

But I don't drive here in Chicago and blizzards don't threaten my life like they did in North Dakota. Instead, something fouler and more loathsome threatens my livelihood.

Running out of Milk.

I am the consummate cerealist. Since I was a child I have considered cereal to be the forgotten pillar of the food pyramid and have, ever since, waged a personal campaign to consume such vast amounts of cereal that someone upstairs in corporate would notice and take pause.

Yes, I eat mucho cerealoso. And although I love other breakfast foods, there is nothing like the sound of ceramic and cereal clinking into my bowl in the the morning and getting out a heavy jug of cool refreshing milk from the fridge and mating the star-crossed lovers in my bowl. Cereal, O Cereal! Bound to the shelf, to the box, to isolation!! Milk, needing refrigeration, trapped in that cold tomb of darkness!!

K, I'll cut the melodrama...

Anyhow, like I said, I love other breakfast foods, but when I don't even have the option of eating cereal because we've run out of milk my day starts off a little gloomier.

Which brings us back to the horrors of venturing out into the wild during winter. Now, without a car, I must venture by foot or by bicycle. In those circumstances, I am my own Winter Survival Kit. My instincts fuel my hunt for milk, my will to survive heightens my senses, my wits protect me better than any florescent ribbon, and my love of milk and cereal wraps me in a cloak of passion warmer than any space blanket.

Into these perilous climes I sojourn undaunted. And seeing as how there is a blizzard on the forecast for Wednesday, I better make the journey today before the visibility drops to nil and arctic wookies come out of hiding like the Morlock beasts of the night from H.G. Well's Time Traveler.

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By the way, if any of you are wondering why it is I think it's hilarious to turn my everyday misadventures into homeric epics, I can't tell you. I just think it's funny. I'm also inspired by the writings of Andrew Bisharat of Rock and Ice Magazine who writes the Tuesday Night Bouldering feature in every magazine. He molds and crafts his stories into modern epics that always leave my stomach aching from laughter and thankful that someone else pauses to think deeply, if not always seriously, about everyday life.

1 month down, 11 to go.

January is already written, folks. Here comes February.

Though I made a strong blog presence in early January, the last twelve days I've been quiet. Why? No reason in particular. Other things to do, more pressing concerns have been given attention.

So what has happened?

I've started learning Adobe Dreamweaver, Illustrator, Photoshop, and Flash. These are the cornerstones of web media. Gargantuan cornerstones to be sure. So I've been watching videos, doing tutorials, learning everything I can so that I can turn my parent's website for their B&B into pure gold. I'm only slightly intimidated by the scope and scale of my task.

So, there goes a bunch of hours for you...

I've actually been loving it. It's tapping into a creative vein that I haven't let flow for some time and it feels so good. Read that last phrase again slowly, savoring the goodness. IT FEEEELS SOOO GOOOOOOD! It's like reacquainting myself... with myself?

Anywho, it's fun having fun while doing business. Isn't that the dream?

What else, what else, what else....

I've learned that the pet industry of America is hilariously moronic. Yup. Moronic. Put supply companies have this golden opportunity in which the target for whom the product is made doesn't actually buy the product. Instead, an entirely different species does, and not using the same metrics as the target species would. Let me offer a "for example".

Kitty ran out of food. So, off I go to Pet Smart to compare prices with the Kitty food at Target. I arrive at Pet Smart without a clue about which one is good, which is bad, and how to tell the difference. Right away, however, I discover that it's not about the cat. It's about me. About me? About moi?

Yes.

Moi.

How can it be about me? Well, just as humans have designer jeans that are only slightly different from normal jeans, kitty owners have the luxury of choosing from a dizzying plethora of options too. Everything from Science Diet to Blue to Meow Mix to Purina, and these are just a few of the dry food options, not to mention the canned food. CANNED FOOD FOR CATS! Have you ever heard of anything so absurd? Oh, right, kind of like paying five hundred dollars for designer jeans...

Anywho, within all those varieties are an entire world of varieties based on the age of the cat, the dietary needs (and or preferences) of the cat, and so on and so forth. Ingredients, percentages, organics, flavors, ages, diets, and PRICES! Why would I ever pay twenty dollars for Science Diet when I can pay 8 for Purina or 4 for Meow Mix?

(I'm not stupid. I'm sure Meow Mix is four dollars for a reason.... Or maybe I am stupid. Maybe Meow Mix is correctly priced and everything else is gross inflation...)

How am I supposed to know? They all say that they contain a balanced blend of nutrients. So what does it come down to? Packaging. Marketing. How can we appeal to cats when they aren't even the ones buying it. Appeal to the human, not the cat! For CAT food. Ridiculously genius.

Speaking of flavors, by the way, I want to know who decided that my cat needs to eat Lamb and Rice? Or Tuna? Or have Oceanspray flavor food? Were I to release my 2 lb. cat into the wild she would never take down a sheep, harvest rice, or fish for Albacore. In fact, I don't even know if she'd show any interest in the rotting carcass of a ram. Nope. Here's what would appeal to me (because it might actually appeal to my cat): Sparrow and Mouse flavored Kitty food. Afterall, when was the last time your cat dragged a lamb chop up onto the front porch? Never? Didn't think so.

So, I got the Purina. Not because of the advertising, but because it was a middle-price option and happened to be on sale.

And don't even get me started on Cat litter.

Litter for multi-cat homes, organic litter, clumping litter, non-clumping litter, and on and on and on and on. I walked away feeling bludgeoned by options.

Hmmmm....

What else happened this last few weeks.....

I set a new personal record and biked to work in 3 degree weather! Wind Chill was something awful but with my handy dandy face mask I was rock solid! Or, maybe closer to Frozen solid. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but delightful to know it was bearable.

Do I qualify as insane yet?

Hmmm...

No new baking adventures, I've been remiss in that department. Although I did create a fabulous black bean stew with a cornucopia of peppers and spices and veggies, paired with aged cheddar and garlic cheese bread breadbowls. THAT was the epitome of comfort food. Oh! I just realized that I made that on the 3 degree day. No wonder that's such a good memory!

Last week Amy and I went to the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. We spent four or five hours there on one of their winter free days and only saw about one eighth of the place, and that might be a generous estimation. It's HUGE!!! Of course, the highlight of the trip was taking a tour of the U-505, the only captured German U-boat of WWII. Unbelievable experience. Second only to manipulating a tornado in their live science exhibit! That was pretty awesome too. Basically, if you've never been to the Museum of Science and Industry, you need to go. And if, like us now, you've been there before, chances are likely you should go again. Because you just can't see it all in one day.

So, it's been busy. I'm getting to teach my Sunday School kids about Abram and God's amazing faithfulness these days and it's been a blast. A real highlight.

Well, as this has been a shotgun blast of topics and no real depth of reporting about anything, you can bet that now that I'm blogging again I'll post pictures from the museum and give a real update on our fantasti-cat Marshmallow.

Until then, sleep better than I do (a.k.a. why I'm writing this after midnight)

The Edible Resume

For the last few weeks I've been trying to find bakeries and cafes that I would want to work at and while coffee shops abound, bakeries do not. Or, at least bakeries that I respect.

But there is one around the corner from where I live called Letizia's Fiore, and it's fantastic! Old-world quality baked goods and pizzas, fresh, modern decor, everything is cooked on a wood-burning stove right in front of you... could it get any better?

So I applied, and met the manager, shook his hand, and made small talk. But I'm not the best at talking myself up and didn't know how to make a stand-out impression, so without further adieu I thanked him for the opportunity and made my exit.

But last night while our friends were over for dinner I was serving individual-size Cranberry Apple tarts and I realized that an application is standard and a nicely formatted resume looks great, but who wants paper when I can give them an edible resume?!

Enter exhibit 1:

Letizia's Fiore specializes in individual size pies and tarts and other such pastries, so why not bring them pure ambrosia? Imagine this... I walk over there with a fresh, oozing, just-out-of-the-oven cranberry apple tart with a deluxe butter crust and latice topping and two scoops of vanilla bean ice cream on the side and say, "I've brought you an edible resume. At the end of the day it doesn't matter where I went to High School or how fancy my references are. Instead, taste this fresh, golden brown Cranberry Apple tart and let it do the talking."

What do you think, blogosphere? Should I be bold? Should I pack a secret weapon next time I fill out an application?

Phobic, in a bad way.

I am terrified of the intrusive powers of the Anti-Cruelty society.

A little over two weeks ago Amy and I returned from ND and found ourselves living in a little apartment in a big city, far far away from family. Sometimes we have friends over, but it's not the same as having a family. So we got a cat. It wasn't completely impulsive... but we might have had mixed motivations. Anyways, I'm not getting into that.

Regardless, we have a cat. She's awesome! She comes when we call her, loves to play games, sits on my shoulder like a pirate's parrot, and has an awesome name: Marshmallow. She is incredibly affectionate and her latest new game is to wait under the desk, chair, table, or behind doors and fake pounce on our legs when we walk by. She doesn't attack us, and isn't being malicious, she just likes to play hunt with us. It's absolutely adorable.

But then I remember where we got her from. The ruthless, coldhearted, glorified pound that needs so much help overcoming the negative stigma from having a building that looks like a lab for mad-scientists that it puts the words anti-cruelty right into its name.

The Anti-Cruelty Society.

When I read this I don't think, "Oh, a group of people who care about animals," I think, "Slick advertising - $10 bucks says they sell the rejects to hotdog vendors." Okay, I just made that up. But doesn't it seem a little hokey? "Oh yes, we're the anti-cruelty society! No cruelty here, ho-ho-ho, we're the saints of animal rescue!"

What gives me the heebyjeebies is that when we "rescued" Marshmallow from the wannabe despots they made us sign a form that gave them the right to visit, unannounced, whenever they want. WHENEVER THEY WANT? I just gave strangers the key to my back door? For crying out loud, why don't they just put it in plain English, "Yes, give us your money and take home the kitty but don't you ever let your kitty get hungry or her kitty box dirty or her dish unsanitary or let her shots get out of date because WE'LL KNOW, AND WE'LL TAKE YOU TO COURT AND LOCK YOU UP FOR INFINITY TIMES THREE!!!!"

It's all just a little Faustian if you ask me. Maybe I missed the check box that allowed me to include my soul in the deal...

Anywho, the reason I'm all up in a twist is because little Marshmallow (who isn't so little anymore ever since she actually started eating all of her allotted 1/3 cup of kitty food for kitties her size) came pre-spayed. Quite the convenience if you ask me. Except the stitches weren't out yet and we had to take her home with two little sutures in her tummy. We were told to bring her back at a certain time for them to take them out, but we were busy and couldn't go.

But we didn't sweat it. We figured that we could just call and reschedule, right? Wrong.

Instead, I got an answering machine that didn't mention anything about clinic reschedulings. Still, I persisted, and left my name, number, situation, name, and number again, and then hung up. I had done all I could do, short of barging in with a kitty under my arm and an uzi in my other hand like a weak-sauce impression of Rambo or something. Not that Rambo ever had a kitty emergency...

So we waited and waited and waited. And didn't hear anything back. And waited some more. And I became impatient.

And [GASP] I took matters into my own hands.

I got my scissors, cleaned them up, and went snip, snip, tug, tug. No more sutures.

Marshmallow initially hated me, but after a few hours she realized I'd removed the bane of her self-cleaning regimen and I was her new hero. Trumpet noise: dah-dah-dah-dahhhhhh

Except now I have this nagging spectre of doom stalking me, threatening to play pounce for real. The face of the nagging spectre? There isn't one. It's hooded, and masked, and all that comes from the slits that are vaguely in the right region for nose holes is a vaporous cloud. A haze of guilt and impending doom. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. YOU DON'T HAVE A VETERINARY LICENSE. YOU PERFORMED SURGERY ON YOUR COUCH. YOU WILL PAY. YOU WILL PAY.

Pretty soon the apartment is swarming with Anti-Cruelty undercover agents. Marshmallow is being crated, I'm being dragged off, and Anti-Cruelty agents are trashing my place. I'm hauled off to the Anti-Cruelty Re-education Center (read: Gulag), Amy has to move in with her parents, and Marshmallow get resold under a new name. When her new owners ask about her past, the Society (as the like to refer to themselves) just says that there isn't any on file!

All this and more. And I think she has a booster shot coming up...

Basic White

Found in the chapter Basic Yeast Bread and Other White Flour Breads is found the very first recipe of James Beard's Beard on Bread. And as the beginning is the appropriate place to start any adventure, that is where I have started mine. The Basic White.

Having grown up in the home of a baker I had the privilege to learn much about cooking, baking, canning, pastries, etc., straight from my Mom and therefore was resistant to the idea of starting with the very, very, beginning. Basic White? Seriously? I think I'm ready for Advanced White.

But, I knew deep down that my hubris would be undoing and that if I really wanted to learn the ropes from James Beard I needed to buckle down and just bake whatever he told me to bake. But don't worry, I still brought the heat.

Basic White turns out to be just that - basic. Granted, there really isn't a whole lot that goes into a simple bread. A little flour, a little water, a little yeast, a little salt, and maybe some sugar if you want. Other than that all that's necessary is some butter to grease the pans. But as simple as that description just was, I quickly realized I was dealing with a baker writing to an audience from 1973!

Apparently, back in the days of yore, good flour products were hard to come by and so Mr. Beard wrote this recipe for those who couldn't get a hold of bread flour, whole wheat flour, rye flour, etc., etc. The Basic White of James Beard calls for All-Purpose! Is this blasphemy?!?

Nevertheless, I followed his instructions. As he says, "I have chosen it as my first recipe here because I think it will provide any beginner with the basic techniques of breadmaking." Again, I cringed a little. I am not a beginner.

Then again, maybe the constant mantra of "I'm always a learner" in essence expresses that I'm always a beginner.

So we began.

By far my favorite aspect of his writing is the degree of detail he puts into describing the process. It doesn't feel dumbed down at all. Rather, it feels like he's just in the kitchen explaining what's going on as it happens, explaining what should happen next, what texture the bread should have, and what consistency you're looking for.

First thing I liked about Beard: he proof's his yeast with sugar. This is something I remember my mom teaching me but was decried by The Joy of Cooking. I never understood why Joy would spread such heresy, so Beard's praxis was a comfort indeed. Chemically speaking, yeast, the leavening agent, is a bacteria. And bacteria feeds on sugar. Therefore, if you want to know if your yeast is still active (i.e. able to make the bread rise) you put it in a bowl with some warm water and a little sugar to see if it will react. If it does, you're golden and ready to add it to your flour.

Second thing I like about Beard on Bread is the diagrams. Even though I have a good deal of experience, it's still nice to see a picture from time to time of what it should look like.

Now, I do feel a little guilty about this, but I made the bread last Saturday, so all of this is going off of my memory of the bread. But this is what I remember.

A) I had to use a little more water that the recipe called for. Not a big deal. A number of factors could have caused this to be the case. Humidity, quality of the flour, etc. But I did find that at the ratios given in the recipe the dough was tough and difficult to fully combine without more water. In hindsight, I could've probably used even a little more water, but it turned out fine.

B) The dough did not rise as much or as fast as expected. This could also be attributed to the temperature of the room, the rising environment, etc., but it wasn't a major concern. Also, I got lazy with my loaf. This is not to blame James Beard or the recipe, I just got lazy when it came time to form it. Oh well. So it wasn't even. Whatever. It still tasted awesome :)

C) The loaf did not brown as I expected and so was difficult to judge by sight for doneness. I followed the recipe in every way and gave the loaf only a cold water brushing rather than an egg yolk wash or milk wash. As a result I turned out a very light colored, dense loaf that had a firm crust. It was perfect with soft butter and turned out very well.

Just as he said, it was easy, simple, and a good starter bread. Additionally, he gave several examples of kneading technique. I read them, but prefer the method that I've formed over the years.

All in all, Basic White was a great bread. I expected that it would be a nice beginner's loaf but nothing I'd ever want to make again, but I actually liked it enough that I would definitely make it, and enjoy it, again.

Julie and Julia Pt. 2 - Jonathan and James?

Either last year or the year before a movie came out about a girl who worker her way through the entire Julia Child's cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It was a fun movie and a great story about life and the adventures of kitchen mishaps, upsets, and disasters as well as the occasional and extremely satisfying success.

Well, I like to cook and would love it if someone bought me Julia's cookbook, but I love something else maybe even more.

Bread.

And as Christmas present I received James Beard's Beard on Bread. Check it out here.

This man loved bread even more than I do. The book is filled with 100 of his favorite recipes and although I already know a little more than the average joe about bread, I decided today to work my way through and make every recipe in the book, cataloguing the experience here for all to enjoy!

I am stoked. While I have plenty of friends who enjoy the fruits of my labor, James will be my first official bread mentor. This is going to be awesome!