Of Butter, Bacon and Grit

During my yoga retreat in Montana, part of our “required reading” was an article about the research of Stanford professor, Carol Dweck, Ph.D., on motivation, achievement, and success in learning. Dr. Dweck categorizes learners into two camps: those with a fixed mindset and those with a growth mindset. In a nutshell, those with a fixed mindset believe intelligence and talent and predetermined  - and those with a growth mindset believe, with enough effort, anything is possible.  Growthies aren’t afraid to try, fail, try, fail, try, fail, fail, fail.  Growthies have “grit”. Growthies are concerned with the process and the effort.  Fixies are focused on the outcome.  Most of us fall somewhere on the continuum, but I must admit,  I’m from the Fixie tribe – not the Growthies. Sure, practice will make improvements, but only so much.  I “know” intelligence isn’t malleable. And that, according to Dr. Dweck, is my problem.

Is this why my culinary aspirations have stalled?  Is this why I’m jealous of my fellow chef’s accomplishments while I look on from the sidelines?  In the kitchen, I’m focused on the final dish, the finished product,  what the other chefs are doing, and how I don’t measure up.  What if I gave myself permission to play in the kitchen, if I tried to make a dozen awful dishes, if I cooked like no one was watching?

What I Did Over my Summer Vacation

What have I been doing since I’ve been away?  Well, for starters, I tried my hand at canning.  My first attempt (notice I said “first”.  I have plans.) was lemon lavender marmalade made with lemons from my front garden.  I devoured a lovely lemon marmalade at Susan Feniger’s restaurant the other day – used as a bed for a top sheet of sour cream and a duvet of Ukrainian dumplings. Delightful! It had pucker-worthy tartness (too much for toast alone) and a clean brightness.

My version needs tweaking – a thinner slice on the rinds, a bit less sugar and more lavender.  I think I might try canning chutney this weekend.

Lemon Lavender Marmalade

Bring back Afro-muffs!

source: ehow.com

Why would strong, intelligent, self-sufficient women allow the 1970’s hairy muffs to fade out of vogue??!!

It’s been some time since I’ve had a bikini wax.  In fact, the last time I endured this torture, the term “Brazilian wax” was just beginning to be uttered – and was consider too risqué by the salon I  frequented.  Don’t misunderstand – my boxwood is finely pruned, but I’ve been a home gardener for the last five or six years.

Well, it’s the guy’s birthday this weekend, so I thought I’d surprise him with a professional hair cut. I had an appointment last night for a “playboy wax”.

When I arrive at the salon, I’m ushered into a dimly lit room and told to undress – shoes, pants and panties. I still have my silk work blouse on. I hop up on the table, scooting my hooha toward the foot with my head on a bolster. The esthetician walks in, flips on an incredibly bright spotlight pointed directly at my nappy dugout and spreads my knees.  No time for long introductions, show me your goods and let’s get down to business. Warm wax is smoothed on a patch.  The feeling is quite pleasant – like warm maple syrup.  A cloth strip is placed over the wax, gently, lovingly and then – RIP!!!  A huge snatch patch is torn out by the roots.  Over and over again, warm wax, soft strip, RIP!!   I try not to flinch, but I know the RIP!! is coming and I feel like I’m jumping an inch off the table. The patch of hair never comes out completely clean, so she reapplies the strip over the same spot to remove the stragglers. There’s a rhythm to it – wax (nice!), strip (also nice) RIP!! (pain), rip (pain), rip (pain) rip (pain).  I try to breathe, relax, close my eyes….but, oh this just isn’t a normal trip to the spa! “Now for the Yoga,” she says in her thick Russian accent.  “Yoga?” I think, “what’s this?  I get yoga with my torture?  Hasn’t she done all she needs to do down there?” My knees go above my head, I grab the back of my thighs – she’s got a full view of my kit – and my caboodle!  I’m made baby smooth – with all modesty discarded.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sore and a bit raw with sticky wax remnants in the danger zone (“no, I’m fine.  No need to clean there”). She’s left me with just an inch of landing strip. Yes, I paid money for this and, yes, I tip her as well.

Summer in a Bowl

With nectarines from my bountiful tree and homemade preserved lemons (from my garden as well),  I made this fresh and flavorful Summer’s day treat.  The leftovers were just as delicious when turned into milk shakes:

Nectarine and Preserved Lemon Ice Cream

2 cups fresh nectarines, seeded and unpeeled

3-4 slices preserved lemon, finely chopped

1 1/4   cups sugar

Juice of 1/2 lemon

2 large eggs

2 cups heavy cream

1 cup milk

1/2 – 1 vanilla bean pod, scraped

Puree nectarines in a food processor.  Add 1/2 cup sugar and lemon juice and combine.  Add preserved lemon to taste.  Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours, stirring the mixture occasionally. Test flavor and add additional preserved lemon if needed.

Whisk the eggs in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy, about two minutes.  Whisk in 3/4 cup sugar, 1/4 cup at a time.  Whisk for 1 minute more until completely blended.  Add cream, milk and vanilla bean and whisk to blend. Add 1/2 of the puree and blend.

Transfer to an ice cream maker and freeze following the manufacturer’s instructions.  About 2 minutes before ice cream is done, add remaining puree. **

** Adapted from Ben and Jerry’s Fresh Georgia Peach Ice Cream

Childhood Memories

from pul.se

He glared at me filled with bitter rage, His 6’1” hulk towered over my child’s frame.  “Goddammit, you’re going to ride that bike and I don’t want to see you again for at least an hour.”

We were visiting my parent’s friends, Bob and Sarah, in Cedar City.  My brothers and sisters were old enough to stay home and bow out of this trip.  I was only 10 or 11 and had to go with them.  I was alone with my parents.

Bob, an older, retired man, realized I was most likely bored moping around their house while the adults sat around the kitchen table, catching up.  He offered me use of an old bike.  Scared of being a bother, I declined the first two times he brought it up.  By day five, however, I was going stir crazy and asked if he minded my using it.

I shrunk in horror when I realized the bike was located in the far recessed corner of the shed. “No, no,” I wanted to shout, “Nevermind, please, its okay.” Bob moved the mower out of the shed, rearranged the aluminum lawn chairs and wrestled the bike to the grass with a clatter.  My father looked on.

As soon as he set the bike down, I knew I was over my head.  It was a dusty, black men’s ten-speed and the top of the frame landed somewhere between my navel and my chest.  This bike was much too large for me.  I bravely took it over to the porch steps, swung a tentative leg over the center bar and took off – my feet didn’t touch the ground.  I rode it down the sidewalk without a hitch, but when I stopped to turn around, I instinctively jumped down, smacking my pubic bone hard on the center cross bar.

I dismounted the bike and limped my way back to the house.  “I think it’s too big for me,” I said as I brought the bike back to the porch.  My father would have none of it.  The malevolence that could flash from his eyes towards his own child always overwhelmed and shrunk me. I had inconvenienced Bob by asking to use the bike and I was expected to ride it now – to hell with safety or injury.  My father looked at me as if he wanted to squash me like a gnat if he could.

Upon waking this morning, I remembered this incident from my childhood.  I remember riding the bike back and forth in front of the clapboard houses, as I was commanded, dreading the end to the sidewalk where I must stop.  I tried using the fence to assist my dismount.  Almost every time, I bruised myself on the crossbar. I road the bike for an hour, came home, and didn’t ask Bob for anything again.