Dinner Times

The homeless man in our basement sneaks upstairs once he’s sure we’ve gone to bed and microwaves a half-dozen Jimmy Dean Griddlecakes Sandwiches for his dinner.  The dogs jump off the bed and scratch at the bedroom door as soon as they hear him in the kitchen and they whine until the stench of cheap microwaved sausage has faded into a sort of damp, mildewy smell and he has gone back downstairs.

Kevin said, “If he lives in your basement then he isnt’ really homeless, is he?”

I think about this for a long time; months.  He is homeless because, if he is not, then my home is also his home and not just a place for him to stay while he goes through the SSI odessy.  And if this is his home, I can never say, “Okay, you got your first SSI check, time for you to move out now.  Good luck.  Take care.”  And I need to know that some day I will be able to say that, or I will come running down the stairs one night, no longer able to take the reek of his Stouffer’s Family Sized Meatloaf that will linger until the smell of the morning coffee overpowers it.

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For our dinner tonight, I made a sort of cheap and dirty cassoulet.  White beans in a rich duck broth with ham from Mike and Donna Eisenstat’s farm, potatoes, leeks, and carrots from Reed and Kathy Evans, herbs from my garden and the one next door, and an artisnal sherry that my father gave us last year.  We ate it with a baguette from A New Day Bakery and Bûche Noire from Firefly Farms.  There was more than enough.  I could have, probably should have, invited the homeless man in the basement to join us.  For the first year he lived here, I often did.  But the quality of mercy has grown strain’d. 

It is one thing never to take responsibility for something.  It is something entirely different to put it aside once it becomes burdensome.  I am not generous enough to invite the man in the basement to join us at the dinner table, but I am also not so stingy that I would throw him back onto the streets.  It could take another few years for his SSI to come through.  We all know this now, though none of us did when this arrangement was first conceived. Until then, we are all just trying to hold on to the moral middle ground.  We gave up trying to walk the high road a long time ago.

Nasturtium Kimchi

I planted a huge barrel planter by the front walk full of nasturtiums this spring thinking that it would be nice if we could eat the flowers.  But, although I like their peppery flavor, I find that the texture of the flower becomes clingy when mixed in with salad, particularly after it’s dressed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So I am taking a page from Maybelle’s Mom, who has inspired me to think of everything as potential kimchi, and I’ve made a batch of her Pea Shoot Kimchi with a few substitutions.  I have substituted nasturtium flowers and leaves for the pea shoots, replaced half the ground Korean Pepper with paprika (I was afraid the pepper would completely overpower the flavor of the flowers), turnip for daikon (only because I had it on hand) and lime juice for amchur powder (so we’ll have to have bitters in our gin and tonics tonight).  Oh, and I added some toasted sesame seeds.

I have to say, this experiment has not been a huge success.  It has worked, but not so well that I’m planning to plant a bigger crop of nasturtiums next year so that I can make this more often. 

The kimchi flavor itself is wonderful, but the flavor of the flower is completely overwhelmed by the other tastes, and the bright colors did not survive the process so it’s not a particularly pretty condiment. 

So, a lovely and whimsical idea… and I’m glad I tried it… but if you come for lunch next week, you’ll more likely get the flowers as a layer in a creamcheese and pumpernickle sandwich.  That has, so far, been the only really wonderful use I’ve found for them.

Five Things I Learned Today…

My friend Alan P. Scott taught me the word “bildungsroman.”  I have spent the whole day looking for a chance to use it in conversation. Try as I might, though, it will not be lessened to fit the things I have to talk about: what I am–or rather am not–going to cook for dinner, whether or not the dogs needed yet another walk on this muggy summer afternoon, or which font would look best on my husband’s business cards.  If it’s going to be of any use to me at all, it will probably have to be over coffee at the Blue Moose with someone else from the English Department.  That’s how it is with all the best new words I’m learning these days.

Jam can be remade if it doesn’t jell correctly.  For every quart, just add ¾ cup sugar, 2 tablespoons bottled lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons liquid pectin and bring everything back to a hard boil for 45-60 seconds.   Voila.  And to think I was going to dump it all down the sink.

I have learned the details of the procedure known as an “icepick lobotomy,” and the particulars of the procedure as it was peformed on Howard Dully, author of My Lobotomy.  I have also learned that there is a reason people read trash during the summers and not deep, ponderous tomes.  It is a beautiful day and all I can do is sit inside and grumble about injustices.  If only I weren’t allergic to trashy novels, I might be at the pool today, growing bronze and fit.  See what books can do to you?

Nasturtiums are better in theory than in salad.

George Carlin is dead.  Apparently, there really are some things that you can’t be clever enough to talk your way out of, and death is one of them.  This means I can stop worrying about saving up enough money to retire forever, which is good, because as it stands I can afford to retire until exactly lunch the following day.   That is, as long as I don’t put any gas in my car.  Which, of course, I will have to do sooner or later.  See?  Some things are inevitable.