Deep Fried Therapy (Zucchini and Potato Pancakes)

             The past few days I've bounced back and forth from a state of Zen-like calm and contentment, to a deranged ranting shrew who forgets to brush her teeth or put on deodorant.  Now that I'm finally seeing a therapist to try and resolve some personal issues that manifest in weird physical compulsions, I've become much more mindful of my moods.

              It definitely goes beyond post-baby hormones when the bottoms of your feet look like raw meat all the time due to incessant skin picking.  I know, a lot of people do these nervous little habits, but not many of them make their feet bleed at least every other day.  So, therapy it is.  And while it does feel good to be actively working on said issues, with it comes the ever-annoying challenge of realizing that my life (and in particular the two small insane people running it), are almost completely out of my control.


             That having been established, we move onto the things I can control, one of them being
dinner.  I try to cook often enough so that we're not subsisting on PBJs and Cheerios all the time, yet not so much that the resulting kitchen mess gets overwhelming.  I also like to save money, so in comes two of my favorite filler veggies- potatoes and zucchini.

             We had a ginormous zucchini given to us by my mother, who'd gotten it from a friend at church.  And I had a hankering for something savory and fried, so....Latkes!  And in my cherished cast-iron skillet, because it had been awhile and I didn't want to neglect the poor dear too long.

The most time-consuming part of this was shredding the zucchini and spuds on a mandoline, but putting on Zootopia for the girls helped keep them happy in the meantime.  Some minced fresh onion and garlic, eggs, flour, salt, pepper, baking powder, and that was that.

By now I was half expecting the girls to take turns doing their usual clingy/whiny routine and drive me up the wall, but they were actually...good!  Angels, even! So, feeling like a happy little Southern mama, I fried up batches of the latkes until they were nice and golden brown, and made enough to eat and save for later.

Comfort food can do wonders, and this borrowed Jewish classic is no exception.  A little sour cream and sprinkled paprika, and I was in Heaven.  Even the three-year-old gobbled hers up with ketchup while the baby careened around in her walker and terrorized our bare feet.

For this exact time, on this exact day, I'm doing alright.  Some days will be better, some worse, but there will always be good food and good company to see me through.  I hope these little golden-fried darlings will make you smile the way they did for me!

Zucchini and Potato Pancakes (Original recipe by Joy Wilson)

Ingredients:

4 TB olive oil (I use vegetable because it has a higher smoking point)
1/4 cup finely diced onion
1 garlic clove, minced
2 cups grated zucchini
2 cups peeled and grated potato
1 tsp salt
2 large eggs
1/3 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
sour cream or creme fraiche for serving
paprika and ground cumin for dusting

1)  Place a medium-sized skillet over medium heat.  Heat 2 TB of oil and add onions.  Cook until translucent, then add garlic and cook for 1 more minute.  Set onions and garlic aside in a small bowl.

2)  Place zucchini and potato with 1/2 tsp of salt in a colander over a medium bowl.  Let it sit for 10 minutes, then press down with a clean towel, squeezing out excess water.

3)  In a medium bowl, whisk eggs.  Whisk in the flour, baking powder, and the rest of the salt.  Add the cooked onion, garlic, potato, and zucchini, and stir together until well combined.

4) Place a rack in the upper third of the oven  and preheat to 200 degrees.  The oven will keep the pancakes warm as they're being cooked in batches.

5) In the medium saute pan you used to cook the onions, heat 2 TB oil over medium heat.  When the oil is heated, drop in the batter by rounded tablespoonfulls.  Flatten gently with a fork.  Cook about 2 minutes or until golden brown around the edges, then flip and cook for another 2 minutes until golden brown.  Place on a plate and keep warm in the oven until ready to serve.

6)  Serve with sour cream or creme fraiche and a dusting of paprika and ground cumin.  These are best served immediately, but can be cooked and kept in an airtight container in the fridge.  Reheat in a lightly greased saute pan the following day.

Beach Day

Sleepyhead on Aisle 6!

         I need a beach day.

         I live in a landlocked state with some gorgeous lakes and rivers and mountains, but I need a beach day.  Nothing fancy or wild, just a lounge chair, bucket of cold drinks, a good book, and bare feet in the sand.

         A lot of moms fantasize about this, because location is key.  Think about it, when was the last time you felt overwhelmed or depressed at the beach? Never, that's what.  Something about an endless stretch of sand and waves invites calm and reflection, and boy could this mama use some.

        Until that day comes, I am doing my best to take little vacations where I can find them.  Drinking coffee while the baby sleeps and the preschooler watches cartoons? Heaven.  Both girls asleep while Daddy and I watch a grownup TV show? Bliss.  Dinner and a movie with no kids in tow? Parent nirvana.

        Yesterday my mom and the girls and I surprised my little sister on her 5-year sober anniversary.  I was exhausted, the baby was holding a low-grade fever from teething, but I was determined to get my butt out of the house and have some fun for a change.  She and her girlfriend have a tropical Hawaiian hand soap that smelled like coconut, fruit, salt water, and I swear sunscreen.  For a blessed minute, I was on a beach baking in the sun with a fruity drink in my hand. 

         And then we went to Chuck E. Cheese.

       I haven't been there since the late 80's, and all I remember is the creepy robot animals in the stage show.  We had a good time, aside from the pervasive smell of cheap cheese and grease.  The games are a LOT more sophisticated than the ones I remember, but it was still fun to see Evie going nuts and making friends with every kid she ran across. 

      You know what they still have there? Skee-ball! I sucked at that as a kid, and I am AWESOME at it now.  I could've done it for hours, feeding token after token into the machine like a slots junkie in Vegas. 

      But eventually the kiddos got tired, and I had to leave my beloved Skee-ball and start the hour and a half drive home.  The first 30 minutes of which were dominated by a screaming tantrum from the little girl pictured above. (Trust me, she wasn't nearly this cute.  I wanted to slap her multiple times across the face.)  In the middle of my exhaustion and frustration, I went numb.  I wanted to pull over, get out of the car, and sit by the side of the highway until things got better. 

     It's not the single meltdown that gets to you when you're a parent.  It's the accumulation of days, weeks, months of it, until finally one just beats you down to nothing.  Hence, my need for a beach day.  No kids, not even my husband, just me, my thoughts, and sandy toes.  But since that would require at least 12 hours of driving, the best I can do for now is hide in the bedroom and confess all this to you. 

     If you're reading this, that is. 

The New Normal

           Hello, dears! It's been an eventful couple of weeks for Team Norris.  Not only is the three-year-old almost fully potty trained, but my favorite railroad hunk managed to get himself a job working in a small yard about 50 miles south of Mena.  This means we've been fortunate to enjoy two relatively smooth weeks of regularly scheduled days. 

           Why is this such a big freaking deal? Because up until now, our "normal" involved calls at any time of the day or night, and a fair bit of anxiety trying to predict the completely randomness of railroad jobs.  The yard job is one of the very few exceptions, and usually these jobs are dominated by guys with more seniority.  However, this smaller yard is a pretty long distance for most of them, and luckily nobody else bid on it.  So instead of middle-of-the-night calls and constantly checking train lists, Jon gets to wake up every morning at the same time, drive to work, and come home in the afternoon or sometimes early evening. 

             It's been a metaphorical acid trip, getting onto a routine that most families take for granted.  We get to have dinner together every night, spend time with our girls, and *GASP* actually PLAN fun stuff for his days off! 

             You have to understand, until now, even birthdays and holidays were up in the air.  We were in a state of constant readiness and flexibility, and it can get damn frustrating.  But now? I can actually plan my day out, plan dinners for the week, and rest easy knowing that the man I love will be pulling into the driveway before the sun goes down.  Usually with an ecstatic three-year-old bombarding the door to get a hug from Daddy. 

              It's been an interesting experiment, shifting our sense of "normal" to this 9-5 life.  But, praise God, I can already see a positive difference.  We're both still tired all the time, of course, but now we don't get as stressed or snippy with each other.  We can plan the future a little bit more, because there's no guesswork as to whether or not he'll be bumped off a board.  And those two days off? Oh, baby, is it gooood!

               We've been at the mercy of the railroad for so long, that I almost don't know what to do with this blessing of Normal.  Enjoy it, I suppose, even though it may not be permanent.  Many railroad families still struggle with the odd hours and long separation, and not all of them can take the strain.  In fact, this whole thing feels almost too easy compared to the old frantic pace. 

                My point is, it's given me more of those precious moments of genuine happiness.  Moments where I'm not pining after who I used to be, or things I'd rather be doing, but really savoring the sights and sounds of my growing family.  I still have tough days, and most mornings I'm still the walking dead. 

                But at least I know he'll be home.

Watch Out For Flying Mortars

              Today has been one of the roughest I've faced in a long time.  After only about 2, maybe 3 hours of scattered sleep last night, I slept nearly all morning.  That is, while being woken every couple of hours to feed an infant.  It was like a perfect storm of exhaustion, stress, and no way to change the fact that my husband's work had kept him tied up for almost 2 full days with me running point on the house and kids. 

               I haven't had kid-free time in awhile.  More than a week since I've been in my garden alone, even for half an hour.  My quick 10-minute trips out there to water and scan for problems don't count.  And I can feel the strain, my obsessive mind taking over telling me that if I don't move my ass and get ground prepared soon, I will lose those beautiful tomato and pepper plants in the greenhouse.  Having been planning this shit since before Christmas, it frustrates me to no end to think that my work might be for nothing. 

               Now, I've already eaten some decent salad and used herbs out of the garden this year, but it's far from over.  In fact, the main event is just getting underway.  But I'm very limited in my time and ability to knuckle down and really bust sod when two small people are constantly needing me every moment.  No, literally.  Every.  Single.  Moment.  Every.  Day.

              I keep sacrificing over and over because I think it's the right thing to do, but now the stakes are getting high.  After Jon got back from errands with McDonald's for me (which I ate at 3pm, because I hadn't had a chance to get away from the baby long enough to eat yet.), I couldn't stop crying.  I was crying nonstop and trying to eat my cold french fries and double cheeseburger, all the while mad at myself because I knew he has to go back to work.

               The best way I can describe one of these days is a violent inner battle.  Not all cute like Inside Out, but with blood and guts spraying in the wind, bullets whizzing past, and mortars flying around. 

                I told my husband this was going to be my new code phrase for a hard depression battle-

"The mortars are flying."  

            Dear readers, depression is REAL.  And it is a BITCH to deal with when people are counting on you.  All you want to do is hole up and hide somewhere, eat and do whatever you have to in order to feel like a human being again and not a piece of trash.  I know I usually try to end on a more positive note, but I do not have the mental capacity or the energy today.

            So hopefully the next time I post something, it will be a little more happy.  Probably a good recipe, or cute pictures of my kids, or tips on how to save money with one income and multiple kids.  Something useful.  But for now, I need this space to be in my own head, to fight the battle until I feel I can continue for awhile longer. 

            Until then, I hope you can forgive my somber tone. 

Human Boppy Pillow

Butter king lettuce, garnet rose lettuce, and nasturtium from the garden.

           It's probably some complex algorithm, but lately things have a tendency to pop up in my Facebook feed right when I need them.  Recently it was a list entitled "19 Reasons Why I Can't Possibly Lose the Baby Weight Right Now" (http://mom.me/baby/30202-reasons-i-cant-possibly-lose-baby-weight-right-now/) 

Another gorgeous salad shot!

           Some were funny, others deeper, but the one that stuck with me was #2 "My spare tire provides a nice cushion for the baby, like a human Boppy pillow".  Much as I hate my fat pouch, it does seem to fit perfectly when Katie and I get our snuggle on.  Which is often.  Insomnia still wreaks havoc on me some nights, and she makes a wonderful human teddy bear.  Anyway, the point is that having the weight on is okay for now, but sooner or later, it'll have to go.

           To that end, I'm cranking out as many veggies and fresh herbs as possible in this year's garden, and I'm proud to say that my first real salad harvest was beautiful AND delicious.  And I didn't even come close to stripping the lettuce plants bare!  Just took a few leaves from each, and before I knew it, I had me a basket full.  The nasturtiums weren't quite established enough for me to pick more than a few leaves, but I couldn't resist their unique peppery taste. 

 

        And what could be better for a fresh, home-grown salad than a homemade dressing to go on it? A few weeks ago, Jon and I stopped at a specialty olive oil and vinegar store in Hot Springs, where they infuse different flavors into the oil.  We bought a little bottle of blood orange oil to try, and I used maybe a teaspoon in a third of a cup of regular EVOO.  A little red wine vinegar, dijon mustard, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and WHOA NELLY.  It was light, delicious, with a taste of cirtus that blooms on the tongue a half second into a bite.  Forget ranch, forget thousand island, it would be sacrilege to do anything more.

As for the main course, I had a few sirloin pork chops I'd bought that day, and decided to keep it simple.  A little salt and pepper, then I dipped them in egg and breaded them in panko crumbs before frying 'em up in vegetable oil.  When they turned a nice golden brown, I put them on a cookie sheet and finished them in the oven for 10-15 minutes.  You could get them cooked through in the skillet, but the breading would be dark, almost burnt.  Hence, the oven.

As for a side, I immediately thought we needed potatoes, but I was sick of the ordinary mash.  Plus, this was supposed to be a slightly healthier meal celebrating my awesome home-grown salad, so sweet potatoes were the key.  Of course, I did put a generous amount of butter and cinnamon in there, but that's beside the point. *wink wink*

Not to tease, but I usually make a cream gravy with fresh sage to go over the chops.  With so much going on, there wasn't a need this time, but I promise to try and include it in the future.  Even without gravy, this turned out to be a delicious Southern-inspired meal that my Texas-born husband and mother-in-law heartily approved of.  Not bad for a Yankee from New Hampshire, am I right?

I suppose I could knuckle down and get on a gluten-free diet kick, or Slimfasts, or Weight Watchers or something like that.  But honestly? I barely remember to brush my teeth and take my medication most days, let alone count carbs and calories.  Besides, it seems kind of silly to diet while breastfeeding.  I mean, come on, I have to feed a BABY with those calories! The baby wants chocolate, not me!  Seriously, we moms are too hard on ourselves when it comes to weight.  But once in awhile, we can still indulge a little without feeling too terribly guilty.  So get yourself a little Southern comfort food, and throw away the bathroom scale.  Life's too short to spend it sucking down diet drinks and nibbling kale. 

Sorry for the lack of a measured recipe, by the way.  This is one of those meals I've done so many times, I don't measure anymore.  But if you have questions or comments, give me a shout on the comments section.  It's been too darn quiet around here anyway.

Bread, Part Two

          I almost forgot about the post I made awhile back about bread.  With the weather getting warm, I haven't been as inclined to fire up the oven as I am when it's cold outside.  But there was a portion of dough in the fridge, and Evie was at her grandma's for the afternoon, so I decided it was time for fresh bread with dinner.

          This is also the time of year when my late father-in-law is on my mind a lot.  Mike was a wonderfully kind, loving guy who always seemed to be smiling or laughing about something.  He was also one of those few individuals I've mentioned who radiate Christ's love like a holy wood stove.  He also died in the spring of 2012, a week before I discovered I was pregnant.  Every time I see spring flowers, I remember the way I first saw them after Mike had passed; fresh, saturated with color and scent, and so damn beautiful it was like they didn't know he was gone.

This was one of Mike's favorite Bread songs, and it's still one of ours.  I always feel like crying a little when I hear it.  Not a painful cry, but a good refreshing one.  I really would give anything to have Mike back in our lives, but until we do meet again, there's the comforting power of music.  And good food. 

Chicken piccatta, minus the capers, with fresh oregano.

The second half of bread making is as easy as the first, using the method I started outlining in the first Bread post.  This one picks up where that one left off, after the initial counter rise once the dough has had some time to chill out in the fridge.

It's not essential that the dough be cold, but it is a lot easier to handle and shape that way.  So first you pull the dough container out, sprinkle flour liberally on top, and dust your own hands with some flour as well.  Then, for a medium-sized loaf, you take out a grapefruit-sized hunk of dough (if it's stretchy
and hard to tear, just cut it with scissors).  



Here's the tricky step, called cloaking.  You hold the dough in one hand, then use your other to gently sweep the doughy surface out and under, from the top on down.  Rotate the ball a quarter turn, then do it again.  You repeat this for about 30-45 seconds, then rest the loaf on a prepped pizza peel.  I use cornmeal on mine, but you can use flour if you like.  The main idea is to have enough on the peel to keep the loaf from sticking when you go to slide it off.

 Once you've got the loaf shaped and on the peel, it needs to proof, which is just a fancy word for rising.  While it's rising, go ahead and heat the oven up to 450 degrees Fahrenheit, with two racks inside; Top one for the baking stone, bottom for a broiler pan or similar metal pan. 

After about 30 minutes, the dough will be ready to bake.  Dust the top liberally with flour, then slash it with a serrated knife.  You can do a simple cross cut, or a tic-tac-toe pattern or scallop it, it doesn't have to be fancy.  Then, get a cup of water ready nearby.  First, slide the loaf off the peel and onto the hot stone (this takes practice-believe me!), then dump the cup of water into the hot pan and quickly close the oven door.  The pan will hiss and steam, but you want that.  Steam helps the crust to form. 


 Set the timer for 30 minutes, and watch the magic! After 30 minutes, check the loaf by thumping the crust.  If it sounds kind of hollow, it's done.  If not, let it go another 5-10 minutes.  It's always better to overbake and get the crust a little more brown than to be chewing on a doughy, half-gooey bread. 

When it's finished, take it out with the peel (again, this takes practice!), and put it on a rack to cool. Then grab a bread knife and some butter and honey, and Cut.  That.  Sucker.  Open.  I promise you'll never eat store bread the same way again, ever.  That, and this will make your house smell amazing. 

This is the regular white artisan bread, but there are hundreds of variations involving different types of flour, herbs, nuts, you name it.  For more information from the Artisan Bread in 5 website, click here:Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day

The best part, is that homemade bread is good with just about anything you can think of.  Soups, salads, roasts, pasta, or even by itself.  We've spent many an evening making passes through the kitchen to snag another slice of jam-covered goodness! 

When things are going well, or poorly, or only so-so, bread is a wonderful constant.  It not only fuels us, but keeps us grounded to the earth, our family, our foundations of life.  As a kid, I always imagined the manna from heaven must be sweet like cake, but I think it was probably more like this.  You'll have to decide for yourself.

Much love from the kitchen!

Simple Gifts

          I was going to post something else tonight.  I was going to post about the usual family stuff, along with photos and a recipe for the panko-breaded pork chops I made for dinner.  And I will, another time.  But my heart is pulling me in another direction, towards a man and a particular brand of faith in God that has influenced my spirituality since childhood.

         Let me back up and explain.  After my mother left my father when I was six, we lived with my aunt and uncle and five cousins for a year before moving into a tiny 1-bedroom apartment in Milford, New Hampshire.  We'd been attending a couple of churches before then, and now started going to First Baptist Church there in Milford.  It was different from the Baptist churches I've been to in the South, closer to the roots of American Christianity.  A little more "old school".  It didn't sport fancy screens to display worship lyrics, or even really have a worship band.  It had a grand, beautiful pipe organ that reached all the way to the ceiling, wooden pews with long, dusty-smelling cushions, and a giant teddy bear of a man for a pastor.

           Especially from a kid's perspective, Pastor Miller was huge and dignified, almost stern looking.  My sister Mandi told our mom she couldn't invite him to dinner because he was too big to fit through the door.  But the first time I ever heard him laugh put those preconceived ideas to shame.  He didn't laugh; he boomed with a deep, rich laughter that almost matched his singing voice.  He'd once served in the Marines, and sang in their choir.  So every Sunday, you could hear his opera-worthy voice accompanying the joyful tones of the pipe organ in worship.  He was also a police officer, and would always smile and wave from his patrol car when we saw him in town.

            Like pretty much everyone at that church, Pastor Miller never failed to give me and my sister big bear hugs at church.  As a child of divorced parents, I savored every single one, because I knew without question that this man loved and accepted our family, regardless of where we'd come from.  He wasn't a man who flaunted his clergy status, but went about his ministry with a simple brand of love and kindness that I'm still chasing to this day.

            He spoke the same words of welcome and benediction nearly every Sunday, but always with the same intonation of goodwill to the people he was praying over.  I distinctly remember one funeral service he performed, the father of my best friend Shana.  He was a Hindu from Ghana who'd converted to Christianity and then died of kidney failure.  I wasn't sure what to think of his relatives who'd come to mourn; they were mostly Hindu, and a couple of them liked to wail really loudly as part of that mourning.  Pastor Miller offered a communion service that day, as always saying that we were free to partake or free not to.  But here's the thing; he always said it with a gentleness of spirit that said you were welcome regardless of whether or not you took it.

           He was so warm and understanding that day, that the memory has become a gift in my heart.  I've only met a precious few examples in my life of genuine Christlike love, and only one or two of those have been pastors.  If you've ever met these people, you've seen this pure, unfettered love and compassion pouring from them like spring water.  To Pastor Miller, it wasn't the formal trappings and rituals of a church that mattered, or how many people he converted, or even how much got put in the collection plate.  To him, it was people who mattered.  And he was so like Christ in that respect, that I find myself wishing I'd paid closer attention to what he said from the pulpit.

           I hadn't seen or spoken to Pastor Miller in 16 years, but when I heard he'd died today, I still felt like crying.  Even though he's home with the Lord now, I feel bad for the people still here on earth that they don't get to hear his belly laugh or know the profound words of love, mercy, and grace he gave to the people around him.  Hopefully he can read this from Heaven, and know that I'm thankful for the love he showed us and the spiritual wisdom he imparted.

             Now I have a feeling I'll spend the rest of my adult life trying feebly to do the same.