Big Yes For Government Regulation

I know! I never thought I’d want this either but there’s a story in the news that struck a deep chord with me. This is something I’ve been grousing about to anyone who would listen so I am glad to add my support for this:

Sabra Files FDA Petition to Establish Standard of Identity for Hummus “A food item that is not made of chickpeas… is not hummus.”

 Sabra Dipping Company has filed a citizen’s petition with the FDA to establish a standard of identity in the United States for hummus under Title 21 of the Code of Federal Regulations.According to the petition, hummus must be comprised (by weight, besides water) predominately of chickpeas, and must be no less than 5% tahini. 

That’s right, posers. No white bean hummus, no red bean hummus, no small dish of paste calling itself hummus. Hummus has always been a simple dish, a staple of Mideastern diets and made of unvarying ingredients. Then the hipster  foodies came for it.

Although these two don’t look like they’ve ever laid eyes on the Mediterranean, they are online to demonstrate the only authentic hummus recipe. The key move is the sprinkle of cumin on top when it’s served.

I am so onboard with this movement that I am prepared to break it down into three separate  stages:

  • Stage One: No monkeying around. Limit the term hummus to the classic Mideastern recipe using chickpeas, olive oil, tahini, garlic, salt and lemon juice. Period.
  • Stage Two: No vegetables. Deny use of anything except fresh warm pita bread, ripped into pieces from an 8″ round – for dipping. No carrot sticks, no celery sticks, no cucumber slices, no corn tortilla chips, no dehydrated sweet potato slices, no crackers and no commercial pita chips*.
  • Stage Three:  No Sabra. Give it up, Israelis. Stop trying to take over Arabic foods and pretending they were yours first. This goes for hummus and for falafel, too.

So there we have it. Go out and get a can of chickpeas and some tahini. Don’t under any circumstances substitute peanut butter for the tahini.

*I confess that on occasion, I have used a stuffed grape leaf as a hummus delivery device. Sue me.

A Mature Businesswoman Sits Alone

No matter how much insight I gain into my behaviors or how much planning I do to become a better version of myself, my first instinct when I find myself alone is to “eat something good.”

The criteria for “eating something good” has a small picklist:

  1. an odd food combination
  2. a leftover
  3. a vast quantity
  4. a messy food
  5. must always be eaten in complete privacy

I am able to adapt these specifications to the home setting as well as business travel.  Examples:

  1. an odd food combination

I have been known to place a room service order for hot wings and a yogurt & fruit plate with granola. In fact, that’s almost always what I order from room service. Traveler tip: never order a chicken pot pie from room service. The thing that is delivered to you is not a pot pie and the only relationship it has with an actual pot pie is that there are recognizable cubes of chicken meat in it.

2. a leftover

Best served cold! Includes lobster from last night’s business dinner kept in the mini fridge overnight.

3. a vast quantity

Now’s your chance. Eat it up. The best is to eat it all but if that cannot be done, then at least east a lot of it.

4. a messy food

Anything that is likely to drip onto your clothes or your chin. All perverts please leave now. I like to keep 20 paper napkins nearby for these events. Then I throw them all away even if I only use 2. Come and get me, environmentalists.

5. must always be eaten in complete privacy

This lets out restaurants and other humans. Dogs are okay but sharing with them is not.

And so I’m sitting in the pre-dawn Saturday eating angel hair pasta with cottage cheese and diced green peppers while I watch a chopped down Sex In The City episode from the 90s. It’s not that good. The plot is Carrie suffers a disappointment from Mr Big, Charlotte’s vision of perfection is shattered, Miranda flashes a big yellow-toothed smile and Samantha purrs. I only like the episodes where Baryshnikov has a recurring albeit unbelievable role as Carrie’s love interest.

p.s. – I couldn’t finish all of the pasta but I gave it a good shot.

 

 

6 AM Theater

I don’t know about you but when I first get up in the morning, the last thing I want is to get riled up over the news or – lately – the weather. What I want is to ease myself gently into the day. In nice weather, I do that out on the deck. In winter, I do it in front of the TV.

So at 6am, my best TV option for that gentle transition  is Father Knows Best. A few days ago, Cornel Wilde was the guest star and he came to the Anderson house to consult Father on urgent matters of car insurance. One thing led to another and Margaret invited him to share their dinner of pork chops. Cornel Wilde accepted and expressed hope that the pork chops would be baked with sour cream and onions the way his mother used to make. Margaret said that coincidentally, that is exactly what she was serving that night while Father stood by and looked like he’d rather get his hair cut by Fronk the gardener’s lawn mower than have anything to do with  pork chops baked with sour cream and onions.

Margaret appears with a silver tray full of  caviar canapes and then Cornel Wilde volunteers to babysit for Kathy so Father and Margaret can keep their date to play cards with another couple. Father refers to the caviar canapes as “this junk” as soon as Margaret is out of earshot and enlists Cornel Wilde in a chummy laugh about it because this is after all the patriarchy that we’re talking about.

FKB-Cornel-Wilde-2

Don’t laugh, Margaret. They’re laughing at you.

Bud spilled the beans when he thoughtlessly stated that his mother was making him run to the store for sour cream and onions. Everybody had a good natured laugh when the truth came out but Margaret said she really thought she might like to try making them that way. Apparent, her plan was to use this recipe:

  • Step 1  – glob some sour cream and onions on top of pork chops
  • Step 2 – bake.

… which if it’s good enough for Margaret Anderson, it’s good enough for me. And so that’s what I did today but instead of using an oven I used a crock pot. And so the nice little thin pork chops coated in flour, fried in a pan and then squirted by a thick wedge of lemon immediately before serving that had been filling my dreams got hijacked by Cornel Wilde.  Or more likely by some Hollywood script writer who made it up out of whole cloth, if this is anything to go by:

Fullscreen capture 2112014 30010 PM

So the pork chops crocked with sour cream and onions were good but they were not the pan fried pork chops of my dreams. Frankly, I don’t know what Cornel Wilde sees in them.

Another dinner time observation from Father Knows Best: Do you realize that Father sits at the head of the table with all of the dinner plates stacked in front of him and surrounded by serving bowls? I saw him dish out a meat lump, a baked potato still in its jacket and exactly 2 spoons of peas onto a dinner plate and then pass it down the side of the table until all were served. He is a practiced Father so he was able to do this while keeping up some  light dinner table patter and simultaneously wondering what was bothering Bud. The thing I found so interesting was that Father used the same two serving utensils to take from first the meat lump dish and then the potato dish, then he would delicately lay them facing each other into the potato dish and pick up the dish of peas which had its own serving spoon sticking out of it. I was fascinated.

Really, when you sit alone in a dark room staring a the TV as you slowly sharpen up for the day, these things can make quite an impression on you.

2014

2013 was a year of surprise, change and challenge. I spent a lot of time reacting to things. I was the thing I hate most – a drifting leaf, an empty vessel, a person without a plan. This year is going to be different. I’m already taking a firmer grip on the details of my life and the first thing I will address is carrots.

I will no longer deal with carrots.

Recently, I found myself staring into a pot of cabbage soup and thinking how good it looked. All the pieces so uniformly cut, such a nice blend of color and texture. I was looking forward to eating it, everything excet the carrots which I always leave in the bottom f the soup bowl. It was then that I realized that I add carrots only because that is the way I was taught to do it, not because they taste good. That revelation was immediate followed by another even more shocking one: I don’t have to add carrots at all. In fact, I don’t have to deal with carrots anywhere at all.

This was mind-blowing. I didn’t even realize that I don’t care for carrots. What kind of person does that make me? Who doesn’t like carrots? I never eat the carrots from the soup,  I would not even consider cooked carrots as a side dish – peas and carrots are absolutely out of the question – and I never use a raw carrot as a conveyance for dip or a eat them plain as a snack. Who is fooling who with those little carrot logs being pushed as “baby carrots” when they are really sticks from regular carrots lathed down to a small size?

Truth be told, I have grated carrots on many occasions but I do it for the color not the taste or even the nutrition. (I actually don’t eat anything for the nutrition. Have you met me?) I like to add them to salads that I make for Sami but he is not onboard with that because “there’s nothing to bite into”. I also mix them 4-to-1 with shredded zucchini to make a nice little veggie egg pancake but again that’s for color.

In general, I would much rather have a radish.

And so 2014 is the advent of my freedom from carrots, a vegetable I didn’t even know that I didn’t like.

…………………………………

copperpennyAddendum: From Our Department of Childhood Trauma

All this carrot talk has brought up a ghastly memory that I have successfully kept submerged for many years. One of my favorite old aunties used to spoil every picnic, barbeque and cookout by showing up with a large glass baking dish filled with Copper Pennies. Good grief! Whoever thought this up?

This is very likely the thing that sparked my carrot aversion.