Well, maybe Coal Township and Brady, too. I dare enough to share my first recipe on H&H. And check out the calorie count ... Apologies in advance for TMI.
INGREDIENTS
2 chicken eggs
1 Tbsp. 2% milk
Semi-oily pan spray
1 Tsp. light margarine (I use Oliva)
1 slice Velveeta cheese (yes, you heard me) or scant ounce, shredded
Seasoning of yer cherce
1. I wholly recommend a non-stick pan. Spray that stuff on it. Place over medium heat while you proceed.
2. Whisk the eggs and milk in the proper vessel. Boldly. Jacques Pepin is right--this does not toughen the eggs. When you pick whisk up, the product should fall in a steady, unclotted stream. DO NOT SEASON YET!
3. Pour your perfectly whisked eggs into pan. Swirl to distribute. DON'T GO ANYWHERE. Have at the ready a proper whisk for pan.
4. As soon as some curds begin to form, pull pan from heat and whisk madly. In the next couple of minutes, move pan off and on the heat. You do not want the eggs to scramble too quickly. Keep whisking as necessary to produce the smallest possible curds.
5. While the eggs are still somewhat liquidy, toss in the cheese, which you have previously ripped into dainty shreds. Do not wait too long to do this; the eggs will be cooked and the cheese might not have melted. Whisk again, with vigor, to mix cheese in.
6. Right before you think they're done, add the margarine. Yes, whisk.
7. If you're a hard-core, hard-curd scrambler, please try it my way. I take eggs off the heat when they are very soft, but not runny. Now season; whisk one last time. Place onto a warm plate (I use a silicone spatula to get all the goodness out). Use fork. Ingest. Go nuts. Get back to me with the tons of praise I am expecting.
NOTES: You may laugh at the Velveeta, but it melts divinely. If you don't mess up, you will see no cheese in the final product; everything will be incorporated. I use Tony Chachere's Cajun seasoning blend.
THE GOOD NEWS:
Eggs: 140 calories
Milk: 9
Cheese: 60
Margarine: 15
= 224 CALORIES!
Q. E. D.
Next: Baba and Maga's mac salad to kvell over
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
17 Things Every Man Should Learn
… about women. This screed was inspired by this outstanding article from Emma Gray. Strap it on, buck up, and get with the program.
1. Stop thinking with your willy. If
all you expect from a partner is Sealy Calisthenics, you are proving
your shallowness. You'll never find out the true depth and beauty of
a woman by wrangling her onto the percale as soon as possible. Let it
be her idea, and then you'll both feel the magic. Addendum: If you
need it that badly, go to the Bang Kok rub 'n' tug.
2. Listen. This does not mean “obey.”
Especially when she wants to talk about the relationship. Turn the
game off (see # 9). Hold her close and let her talk. In the end,
you'll have a stronger bond. And, Mr.
Macho-Six-Pack-Hung-Like-Hillshire-Farms, this is what you really
want.
3. Appreciate the bifurcation of the sexes. Women are different than us, in myriad ways. Instead of
lamenting this, celebrate it. For instance, only women can say,
“Awwwww.” If you were down in the dumps, from whom would you rather
receive consolation (see # 14 ): your mega-farting buddy Sully or
the woman whom you love?
4. Ask her. Out on a date. For a kiss.
Her opinion. Not only will she appreciate this, but you'll find out
quickly whether she has sentenced you to Friend Prison or
not.
5. Lose the hoodie. Enough said.
6. Employ the mini-compliment. Lay off
the “you're the most beautiful, gush, gush, blah, blah” shit.
This is hyperbole. Notice the earrings, the hair (ESPECIALLY the
hair), the shoes. And yes, you like them. Every time. And don't wait
for her to mention the item at hand. Detect it, Sherlock. And don't
gush.
7. Cook. This does NOT mean grill. Any
Natty-Light-swilling idiot can do this. Start with easy dishes (not
Ragu!) and work your way up. Yes, this can be used as a ploy, but
think bigger. Many women I've known would rather enjoy your veal
marsala with a nice Pinot than go to Chez Fancypants. The only time
this backfired on me was when a woman told me she was intimidated by
my knife skills. Sic transit gloria mundi.
8. Beware of alcohol. Especially in the
beginning. Feel this out with her. Do not drag her down to Filthy
McNasty's on the first date. Too many times, I have seen a woman
toying with her Chard at a table while Datey and his slovenly boys,
fueled by multiple Jaeger Bombs, debate the worth of Eli Manning at
the rail. See # 9. As far as recreational drugs go, you're on your
own.
9. Tame your sports obsessions. Am I
saying stop supporting your team? No. But putting your life in
total-stop mode to watch endless games can rupture a blossoming
relationship. Perhaps she has a favorite game you both can enjoy. If
she understands you (and yes, you can foster this by being open with
her), going with the guys on an occasional outing won't be such a big
whup. Plus: You're, say, 45. Do you really need that $275
custom-lettered official jersey? For the same price, you two can go
to a B&B.
10. You can't buy her. Perhaps moneyed
investment bankers and washed-up film stars can do this, but it
doesn't last. Baubles, gewgaws and other impedimenta should be
avoided, especially early on. Too often, you'll embarrass her with
something she is hesitant to accept. Later on, surprise her with
something small and inexpensive. You'll get a laugh and a hug.
11. If she cares about you, she'll show
you. Meaning: Don't expect Sweetie to come out right away and tell
you anything romantic. Women are not conditioned to do this. Look at
the whole shebang as an adventure, not a chase. For example, on an
early date, my soon-to-be gal invited me in and, wordlessly, served
us a glass of wine. The same wine we had at our first dinner. Then I
knew that this was going to be a BIG ONE. And she was one of the
finest women I have ever known.
12. Don't make demands. Corollary to
#1. I know an absolutely wonderful woman whom I loved back in the
day. I guess I always will, in a way, because she is such a woman of
substance. We reconnected a few years ago, and it's been fabulous to
have her back in my life. One night she called me, sobbing, to tell
me about a guy she had been seeing. After a furious flurry of solid,
meaningful dates, he—out of the blue—demanded that they roll
about on the Serta. She tried to explain that she was enjoying this
nascent relationship but wasn't quite ready to conjugate the verb.
This douche-nozzle then abruptly announced this was a deal-breaker
and stormed away. If you act like this, stop reading this piece.
Right now.
13. Iron. The verb. Especially for her.
It's not cryogenics. My grandma taught me this, in about fifteen
minutes.
14. Compassion. I think this is one of
the most admirable traits anyone can espouse. She might just need a
hug, some soothing words … or your veal marsala. If you're both not
giving—and getting—this from your partner, something is awry.
15. Cuzzy. This is not my term; it's
via my old roomie, Johnny Dateless. It's a combination of snuggling,
holding, warming, with maybe a soupçon of osculation. Often, this is
just what she needs. Then you'll find out that you're not a wuss
because you enjoy it, too.
16. Be noble. Admit your faults without
over-apology. Find out what you've done wrong (which may prove
difficult) and fix it. Is it really going to kill you to pick up your
Jockeys off the floor and put them in the hamper? And if she errs,
accept her words, don't berate. Talk. Listen.
17. Remind her. Remind her that she is beautiful and loved. Every day. I wish I had known this when I was younger.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Sister Margaret (and Rossini) Save the Day
A pretty-close-to-true story (as well as I can remember it)
We had an unusual second-grade day at St. Ann's, highlighted by an unexpected visitor. An almost-dapper, brillantined man came in, speaking loudly. Sister Margaret was our boss, and she scowled in disapproval as the stranger set up shop at her desk and went into his spiel.
"Hello kids, I am Mr. Bentpenny of the Acme Flute Company. [Okay, I am making up the name]. He then produced a plastic flute-type object and started tootling it. Something at breakneck pace. Something awfully familiar. From a TV show! I remembered watching it with my dad. He would count the number of consecutive shots from Clayton Moore's six-shooter.
"Seven, eight, nine ... jumpin' Jes- er-geeze-jay-al-bleeding-mighty," he would say. I was always amazed at the number of ways Dad could circumlocute a curse.
"How many bloody bullets can he have in that gun? Mary Ellen, see who produces this show. I'm gonna call them from work tomorrow. The son of a Bridgeport has one gun. Six bullets. SIX MUTHER A GOSH BULLETS."
Mom came into the parlor from the kitchen nodding, "Yes, Dennis," and then return and set about cleaning the seemingly endless supply of dishes and flatware that we had sullied.
I digress.
Mr. Bentpenny finished with a flourish. He looked fairly pleased with himself. Sister stared at him, a faint hiss seemingly emanating from her eyes, mere slits under the massive white wings that the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul wore. I could almost read her mind: "I've got Palmer script to teach, mister. Get outta my room, moneychanger!"
"Now, for the cost of only one dollar..." The class gasped in concert. A dollar? We could go to the movies four times for that; buy 25 packs of baseball cards at Nick's ("How many Yankees ya got?).
The interloper backed off. "Of course," he said, "a portion of this goes to your school."
This did little to mollify Sister, who was brandishing her yardstick, as lethal as Nike-site missile—and twice as accurate.
The man continued. "AND, I will give away a free flute to any student who can name the song I just played."
A massive inhale from the sixty students (yes, 60). Another withering glare from Sister, who was tapping her graduated machete against her voluminous skirts.
Dark Mark Longeuil jumped right up, "THE LONE RANGER!" he boomed. Sister looked at Mr. Bentpenny, who beamed beneficently, "No, young man, that is incorrect."
A gray groan filled the room. Inky Rondino whispered, "It is too. I seent it last night. Da Long Ranger shot his gun umpteen times! My Dad said so." Evidently my father was not the only man in Black Rock who counted broadcast ordnance.
Sister said, "Well, does anybody else have a different answer?" Arms became flaccid; hands drifted lazily to desks. Mr. Bentpenny smiled even wider.
Being the most height-disadvantaged in the room, I managed to lift my palm above the desk. Sister, who had remarkable rearward vision, wheeled, then daggered me with a baleful scowl. It said, "Mr. Holleran, you'd better get this right. I want to see this malefactor shamed. Woe betide you if you fail."
I don't why, but I gave her a small nod. I was stunned when she moved her head ever so slightly. She announced, "Sir, Mr. Timothy has a different answer. Stand up, please."
Of course, the desk top came up to the "SAS" on my school tie as I stood, so I edged out into the aisle, smelling the fetid aroma of Maggot McBride, who kept a full larder of desiccated treats in his desk."
Mr. Bentpenny grinned. "Okay, kid. What is it?"
I tried not to yammer, to bring my squeaky soprano down to an alto.
"THE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE!"
I never knew it was anatomically possible for a standing adult's chin to hit the floor, but this almost occurred. I could hear a few tiny whoa's back by the cloakroom.
He Ralph Kramdened a couple of homina homina's and dribbled other mumblings.
Sister tapped her yardstick against her free hand. Staccato slaps. Unhappy sounds. "That is correct, is not, MR. BENTPENNY?"
I think the man quivered. He said, "Well uh, Sister, I don't see how the young man could--"
Still standing, I added, "By Gioachino Rossini!" Feeling the Arctic stare from Sister, I sat while the sitting was good.
"Okay, kid," yammered the salesman. He picked up the pennywhistle he had been playing and proferred it.
THWACK!
The sound richocheted like a report from a bullwhip. The yardstick found home. It nicked the flute only, sending it flying. Mr. Bentpenny recoiled in horror, clutching his unscathed hand.
Sister's voice deepened into a feral growl. We all knew she meant business. "Not THAT one, sir. You have already soiled it. He gets a new one--IN A BOX, PLEASE!"
The man fumbled in his case. After an impatient few seconds, Sister smote the desk. Was that an M-16 yardstick? She bellowed: "NOW MEANS NOW, MISTER!"
The stranger cowered, his hair flailing wildly, spiking his shoddy combover.
He withdrew a box. Sister motioned to me with her yardstick, which I thought was now smoking, to advance and accept. I averted my eyes, save for a furtive glance at my seating, disheveled donor. I remembered to thank him to avoid Sister's Richter-quality wrath.
"Now," said Sister, shaking her head from side to side, "does anyone want to buy one of these so-called instruments?" None dared raise a hand, which she would have probably detached at the wrist.
"Very well, then. Mister, you will now leave the classroom."
Mr. Bentpenny wordlessly stumbled out of the door. Sister slammed it behind him, which may have struck his gluteal area. None dared laugh. In fact, we all expected a tongue-lashing, for no particular reason.
Sister turned and miraculously shifted gears. In a calm voice, she said, "Now, the Palmer capital 'F' is one of the most difficult letters to form ..."
As we adjourned for lunch, Sister pointed a finger at me, then at the floor in front of her desk. I awaited my abasement. I could sense the gang crowding at the door. But they could escape Sisters world-class radar (was it in the wings?). With one, brief, very dark look, she dispersed my classmates.
Sister said, "Well, Mr. Timothy, we seem to have some knowledge of classical music, don't we?"
"I dunno, 'ster. Once when we were watching that show, my Dad told me about the song."
"Your Dad. I see. Hmmmm." A hmmmm from Sister meant almost anything could ensue, little of it good. Plus, I must add that all the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul were in a cabal with my father. He would give them rides, fix stuff around the convent. They adored him.
She said, "Well, you seemed to have gotten lucky to day with that ... that ... that man." Then the porcelain palm hit the desk with yet another crack. "BUT NOBODY LIKES A KNOW-IT-ALL."
"No, 'ster."
"Now go to lunch."
Then she winked at me and almost smiled. The corners of her mouth, I imagined, turned upward by a nanometer. Were nuns allowed to wink?
On the playground, I proudly displayed my newfound wealth. I even tried to play it, without much success. The kicker was that Lucille LaRosa came over and asked me if she could see the flute. It is impossible to describe what it felt like to actually have her look at me ... and then TALK to me. Lucille was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in our class, which meant—for me—the entire universe.
I didn't bother to tell anyone that Sister winked (and perhaps smiled) at me. No one would have bought it.
When my father arrived home from work, I couldn't wait to show him my prize.
"How much was THAT?" he said.
"No, Dad. I got it, for free."
"NOTHING'S 'FREE,' TIMOTHY!"
I told him the story.
"Hmmmm," he said, almost nun-worthy. "And you told the man about Rossini, too?"
"Yessir."
"Well, you better practice the gosh-danged-flippin' thing." This was about as close to an affirmation as I would get from him.
We had an unusual second-grade day at St. Ann's, highlighted by an unexpected visitor. An almost-dapper, brillantined man came in, speaking loudly. Sister Margaret was our boss, and she scowled in disapproval as the stranger set up shop at her desk and went into his spiel.
"Hello kids, I am Mr. Bentpenny of the Acme Flute Company. [Okay, I am making up the name]. He then produced a plastic flute-type object and started tootling it. Something at breakneck pace. Something awfully familiar. From a TV show! I remembered watching it with my dad. He would count the number of consecutive shots from Clayton Moore's six-shooter.
"Seven, eight, nine ... jumpin' Jes- er-geeze-jay-al-bleeding-mighty," he would say. I was always amazed at the number of ways Dad could circumlocute a curse."How many bloody bullets can he have in that gun? Mary Ellen, see who produces this show. I'm gonna call them from work tomorrow. The son of a Bridgeport has one gun. Six bullets. SIX MUTHER A GOSH BULLETS."
Mom came into the parlor from the kitchen nodding, "Yes, Dennis," and then return and set about cleaning the seemingly endless supply of dishes and flatware that we had sullied.
I digress.
Mr. Bentpenny finished with a flourish. He looked fairly pleased with himself. Sister stared at him, a faint hiss seemingly emanating from her eyes, mere slits under the massive white wings that the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul wore. I could almost read her mind: "I've got Palmer script to teach, mister. Get outta my room, moneychanger!"
"Now, for the cost of only one dollar..." The class gasped in concert. A dollar? We could go to the movies four times for that; buy 25 packs of baseball cards at Nick's ("How many Yankees ya got?).
The interloper backed off. "Of course," he said, "a portion of this goes to your school."
This did little to mollify Sister, who was brandishing her yardstick, as lethal as Nike-site missile—and twice as accurate.
The man continued. "AND, I will give away a free flute to any student who can name the song I just played."
A massive inhale from the sixty students (yes, 60). Another withering glare from Sister, who was tapping her graduated machete against her voluminous skirts.
Dark Mark Longeuil jumped right up, "THE LONE RANGER!" he boomed. Sister looked at Mr. Bentpenny, who beamed beneficently, "No, young man, that is incorrect."
A gray groan filled the room. Inky Rondino whispered, "It is too. I seent it last night. Da Long Ranger shot his gun umpteen times! My Dad said so." Evidently my father was not the only man in Black Rock who counted broadcast ordnance.
Sister said, "Well, does anybody else have a different answer?" Arms became flaccid; hands drifted lazily to desks. Mr. Bentpenny smiled even wider.
Being the most height-disadvantaged in the room, I managed to lift my palm above the desk. Sister, who had remarkable rearward vision, wheeled, then daggered me with a baleful scowl. It said, "Mr. Holleran, you'd better get this right. I want to see this malefactor shamed. Woe betide you if you fail."
I don't why, but I gave her a small nod. I was stunned when she moved her head ever so slightly. She announced, "Sir, Mr. Timothy has a different answer. Stand up, please."
Of course, the desk top came up to the "SAS" on my school tie as I stood, so I edged out into the aisle, smelling the fetid aroma of Maggot McBride, who kept a full larder of desiccated treats in his desk."
Mr. Bentpenny grinned. "Okay, kid. What is it?"I tried not to yammer, to bring my squeaky soprano down to an alto.
"THE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE!"
I never knew it was anatomically possible for a standing adult's chin to hit the floor, but this almost occurred. I could hear a few tiny whoa's back by the cloakroom.
He Ralph Kramdened a couple of homina homina's and dribbled other mumblings.
Sister tapped her yardstick against her free hand. Staccato slaps. Unhappy sounds. "That is correct, is not, MR. BENTPENNY?"
I think the man quivered. He said, "Well uh, Sister, I don't see how the young man could--"
Still standing, I added, "By Gioachino Rossini!" Feeling the Arctic stare from Sister, I sat while the sitting was good.
"Okay, kid," yammered the salesman. He picked up the pennywhistle he had been playing and proferred it.
THWACK!
The sound richocheted like a report from a bullwhip. The yardstick found home. It nicked the flute only, sending it flying. Mr. Bentpenny recoiled in horror, clutching his unscathed hand.
Sister's voice deepened into a feral growl. We all knew she meant business. "Not THAT one, sir. You have already soiled it. He gets a new one--IN A BOX, PLEASE!"
The man fumbled in his case. After an impatient few seconds, Sister smote the desk. Was that an M-16 yardstick? She bellowed: "NOW MEANS NOW, MISTER!"
The stranger cowered, his hair flailing wildly, spiking his shoddy combover.
He withdrew a box. Sister motioned to me with her yardstick, which I thought was now smoking, to advance and accept. I averted my eyes, save for a furtive glance at my seating, disheveled donor. I remembered to thank him to avoid Sister's Richter-quality wrath.
"Now," said Sister, shaking her head from side to side, "does anyone want to buy one of these so-called instruments?" None dared raise a hand, which she would have probably detached at the wrist.
"Very well, then. Mister, you will now leave the classroom."
Mr. Bentpenny wordlessly stumbled out of the door. Sister slammed it behind him, which may have struck his gluteal area. None dared laugh. In fact, we all expected a tongue-lashing, for no particular reason.
Sister turned and miraculously shifted gears. In a calm voice, she said, "Now, the Palmer capital 'F' is one of the most difficult letters to form ..."
As we adjourned for lunch, Sister pointed a finger at me, then at the floor in front of her desk. I awaited my abasement. I could sense the gang crowding at the door. But they could escape Sisters world-class radar (was it in the wings?). With one, brief, very dark look, she dispersed my classmates.
Sister said, "Well, Mr. Timothy, we seem to have some knowledge of classical music, don't we?"
"I dunno, 'ster. Once when we were watching that show, my Dad told me about the song."
"Your Dad. I see. Hmmmm." A hmmmm from Sister meant almost anything could ensue, little of it good. Plus, I must add that all the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul were in a cabal with my father. He would give them rides, fix stuff around the convent. They adored him.
She said, "Well, you seemed to have gotten lucky to day with that ... that ... that man." Then the porcelain palm hit the desk with yet another crack. "BUT NOBODY LIKES A KNOW-IT-ALL."
"No, 'ster."
"Now go to lunch."
Then she winked at me and almost smiled. The corners of her mouth, I imagined, turned upward by a nanometer. Were nuns allowed to wink?
On the playground, I proudly displayed my newfound wealth. I even tried to play it, without much success. The kicker was that Lucille LaRosa came over and asked me if she could see the flute. It is impossible to describe what it felt like to actually have her look at me ... and then TALK to me. Lucille was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in our class, which meant—for me—the entire universe.
I didn't bother to tell anyone that Sister winked (and perhaps smiled) at me. No one would have bought it.
When my father arrived home from work, I couldn't wait to show him my prize.
"How much was THAT?" he said.
"No, Dad. I got it, for free."
"NOTHING'S 'FREE,' TIMOTHY!"
I told him the story.
"Hmmmm," he said, almost nun-worthy. "And you told the man about Rossini, too?"
"Yessir."
"Well, you better practice the gosh-danged-flippin' thing." This was about as close to an affirmation as I would get from him.
Epilogue
I didn't really take to the pennywhistle. In fifth grade, I started on the drums. I eventually lost the flute, or my brother broke it, I forget which.
Sister Margaret left St. Ann's after that year. Inky Rondino died a hero in Viet Nam. Dark Mark Longeuil beat me up in sixth grade, and then we became best of friends. Maggot McBride made a career as a sanitation professional. Lucille LaRosa is still beautiful.
My father saw me play exactly once before God took him from us. After the show, he came over to me, looking stern, his thumb and pointer perhaps a half-inch apart. "When Buddy Rich does that press roll, his sticks are only THAT FAR off the drum."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)