Groaning with Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part (how do you say “two” in punjabi?)

Our to-die-for Indian feast took place on Christmas Eve, that holiest of nights when families observe sacred traditions, passed on through the generations. The Midnight Mass tradition. The “just one” gift opening tradition. The visits to loved ones tradition.

Or in our case, the visit to the brewpub tradition. Each year since we moved here in 2002, we have stopped by “our” brewpub on Christmas Eve. Devoid of crowds (I mean, who goes out drinking beer on Christmas eve, geesh! Scoundrels!), dark and quiet, it is as sacred to us as any cathedral. The gigantic tree sweeping the thirty-foot ceiling made us feel all festive inside—or was that the sublime IPA or seasonal winter brew we quaffed? No matter, we were sure happy to be there.

And this year was no exception, but for the MASSIVE CROWD OF SCOUNDRELS that preceded us. Where normally about a half-dozen worshippers shared the sanctity of the place with the proprietors (all the staff was off duty), this year the word got out and we could barely get ourselves a table. Behind the bar, where once the owner pulled our Christmas pints (and give them to us for free), were two bartenders scrambling to keep up. In place of the manager, stopping by our table to visit with a plate of homemade macaroons, was our favorite friendly, but frenzied, waitress, who was trying to get home to be with her kids. Our manager friend was swamped in the kitchen, and we had to go back and stick our heads in the door to get a Merry Christmas! in. Worst of all—there were so many people drinking WINE* in the place that I thought we had entered the wrong building by mistake. Oh, it was sad, alright. We could not believe our eyes. The owner even apologized to us! I’m sorry, guys, he said, I don’t know what happened this year.

And so another Christmas tradition has become commercialized and ugly. I don’t blame all those folks for wanting in on something good. Oh—wait—of course I do. They should have kept their wine-drinking asses at home where they belong! Sniff, sniff. This was OUR tradition, dammit. *I love wine, oh I do, but not in a brewpub on Christmas Eve when the beer lovers can't get a table.

Afterward in years past, we would head over to our Unitarian Universalist fellowship for the Christmas Eve service, buoyed by the happiness in our bellies hearts.

This year, we had another service in mind: make some gooooood Indian food and serve it up as soon as possible. So we went home and got busy.

With no casualties or cut fingers this time, and no bugs in the food to deal with, we measured, chopped and stirred, and presto! presented the following for our friends’ and family’s enjoyment (and kids, DO try this at home):

Christmas Eve Indian Feast Menu

Dal with Basmati Rice (simply the best ever)
Lentil, Pea & Potato Curry, courtesy of Mediterrasian, a lovely website by a New Zealander and an Australian
Basmati Rice with Dried Fruit, Almonds, and Coconut (I'm eating some now. Yum! Friend D. brought it, let me know if you'd like the recipe and I'll post it)
Some chicken dish that our friend D. brought over for the carnivores in the house
Naan from Trader Joe's (so easy! and so good! why make it yourself?)

The Lentil, Pea, and Potato Curry was one of the best I've ever made or eaten anywhere. Note the recipe is for two servings, so double or triple at will. It is soooo good.

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We make the Dal often. It is a combination of two recipes: Dal with Coconut Cream and Red Lentil Dal with Aromatics from Vegetarian Cooking For Everyone, by Deborah Madison, food goddess:

Ingredients:

1 cup red lentils

3 cups water

½ teaspoon salt

1 garlic clove

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro stems

2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger

3 tablespoon ghee or clarified butter*, divided

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, sliced

1 jalapeño chile, seeded and chopped

½ teaspoon turmeric

1 15 oz can unsweetened coconut milk

salt

2 shallots, sliced

1 dried red chile, broken into pieces

3 bay leaves

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

Wash the lentils thoroughly and drain well. Combine with 3 cups water and salt in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until they have disintegrated and turned mushy, about 20 minutes. If needed, add more water.

Meanwhile, pound or puree the garlic clove, cilantro stems, and ginger together. Add them to the cooked lentils.

Heat 2 tablespoons ghee over medium-high heat, then sauté the onion, garlic, and jalapeño chile for 1 minute. Add turmeric and sauté everything until the onions are soft. Add to the pot of lentils. Pour in the coconut milk. Taste for seasoning and add salt if desired.

Heat remaining 1 tablespoon ghee over high heat. Add the shallots, dried red chile, bay leaves, and mustard seeds, and sauté about 1 minute, until mustard seeds turn grey. Stir into lentils and serve with cooked basmati or jasmine rice.

*Note: I always use regular butter, because I am far too lazy to clarify it or to make ghee. However, I recently read that ghee is the only acceptable fat to use in Indian cooking, and that it makes all the difference. I plan on making some soon, and will likely regret every dish I ever made without it.

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Perfect Basmati (or Jasmine) Rice
from Rebar Modern Food Cookbook


Rebar is our most favorite restaurant in Victoria, BC. Amazing food! You will see more in Part Tres of our Holiday International Food Frenzy

Prepare yourself for rice ecstasy!
Combine in a heavy saucepan:

3 ½ cups water

2 cups uncooked rice

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon butter

Heat to a boil. As soon as it starts boiling, put a tight-fitting lid on the pan and lower the heat to the lowest possible setting and set the timer for 18 minutes.

When the timer goes off, turn off the heat and let it sit for 5 minutes.

Fluff with a fork, and amaze your friends.

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And it came to pass that a new Christmas Eve tradition was born, on a star-filled night in the Pacific Northwest.

And peace abounded in the hearts of all who shared it.

Groaning With Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part I

Our goal was to have family and friends over and spend QHT while eating good food and drinking better beer and wine.

We certainly succeeded.

After a late Friday night at a club, listening to a favorite band (as if still in our twenties), we slept in on Saturday and then tried to clean the house for awhile. Having no fun, we ditched that plan and watched Christmas (“the little lights are not twinkling”) Vacation instead.

On Sunday we got ready for company and cleaned for a few hours, then headed to the grocery store where we spent a whopping and ridiculous three hundred bucks, seventeen of which went for a single bottle of olive oil I had picked up in error. In my righteousness, I accused the grocery store of overcharging (in my humble defense I offer that they do indeed overcharge us on a regular basis, which I thought was nearly impossible with the ubiquitous bar-coding of our society, but they do).

Way behind schedule, I was just putting away the last of the groceries when company all arrived. Together we started preparing the first of our Amazing Meals: welcome to Italian Night! I had stuffed shells on my mind, and dug out my favorite cookbook cooking website and thanks to that skinny Italian chick, had a fab recipe just waiting for me. I substituted this



for the pancetta. (If you’re just joining us, D. and I are vegetarians. Well, I am, and D. tries. Real hard. His heart’s not completely in it, but it’s 98% there.)

While my sister-in-law and I were chopping, chopping, chopping (and I was cutting my left index finger and my right thumb), D. ran back to the grocery store to apprise them of their grievous error and collect our cash. Turns out I had really chosen a $17 bottle of olive oil. Sheah, right?? I like my family, but. . . no. D. returned the bottle and purchased a more reasonably-priced model. Mass-produced and probably environmentally unfriendly (oops) to boot, but affordable.

Meanwhile, I dumped a box of jumbo shells into boiling water and up to the surface floated not only a few of the shells, but a handful of tiny brown things. Upon closer inspection, the little brown things revealed they were each sporting a pair of wings and a few dozen legs. WHAAAAT??? I inspected the box, searching for some sort of explanation, while my cousin offered, “Oh, they’re just a little added protein.” Chuckle, chuckle, upchuck. The glue holding the box ends together was littered with bug bodies and there were a few survivors still crawling around.

ICK. When D. returned from the store, I showed him the pot of doom and the box o’bugs. He grabbed both boxes for evidence and headed back to the store for another refund (this time truly not my bad). He called me from the store to report that every effin' box was crawling with creepy little insects (just going about the business of survival, but still). The clerk who assisted him with his return and subsequent empty handedness said, “Yeah, we’ve been having problems with bugs in these boxes.”

“Great—thanks, I’ll head to Trader Joe’s,” said D., barfing a little as he left.

Without our shells, the rest of us were stymied: we couldn’t do anything beyond making the sauce, mixing the filling, and shredding a pile of mozzarella. So we drank beer. And chatted and chatted. And looked up favorite You Tube videos to share. Nothing better than Brenda Dickson's Welcome to My Home to make you laugh so hard your beer comes out of your nose. . . but that wasn't me.

D. called from the road. “TJ’s is out of ‘em . . . I’m heading to the other store.”

He called again. “They’re out, too. . . I’m heading to Fred’s.” Who knew that stuffed shells were such a holiday tradition in the Pacific Northwest? In New York where I come from, Italians are everywhere and each family makes at least ten pounds of pasta per person for the holidays. I don’t think I’ve met the first Italian-type person here. But I’m sure they exist, because they bought all of my shells.

Finally D. arrived back at the hacienda with pest-free shells. We proceeded with our dish, the girls stuffing and spooning sauce and the boys watching and drinking beer. (At least they stayed in the kitchen with us.) I messed up the recipe, though (could it be the beer?) and dumped the mozzarella into the ricotta instead of putting it on top. Pity—it made the filling a little heavier than I preferred, but nobody complained.

We sat down to dinner at about 10 p.m. How very European of us. How very Italian of us. At that rate, we should have followed dinner with Midnight Mass, but. . . no. We followed dinner with Trivial Pursuit. My cousin, who is beyond brilliant, and would have won had he stayed, left for home at about 1:30. The rest of us could not, would not stop playing until the game was over.

I actually won. It was 3:20 a.m. Our friend D. went home and the rest of us went to bed.

That was food, drink, and game night #1. It was grand.

The next morning I got out of bed at 10:52 a.m. Wow. I needed the sleep to prepare for our next gastronomical adventure: Indian Night! Details to come. . . .

Dogs Who Walk Themselves and Other Hometown Stories

Sitting in one of our favorite pubs last week, I turned my gaze from my table mates when I spotted two dogs strolling down the sidewalk. Apparently alone and walking side by side, their easy rambling way reminded me of two old friends. Two old men, perhaps, heading out for a drink or to meet their lady friends at a dance. Or maybe they were just getting in some much-needed exercise. No humans followed them. I’m still wondering about it.
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Dogs are everywhere, including out on dates with their humans. One of my favorite summer nights out starts with a walk downtown to the best pizza place in town, where dogs are welcome on the deck and they can help themselves to the big water bowls. Afterward, we saunter over to a live-music pub where we try to choose from among the excellent beers on tap and where, again, dogs are welcome to hang with their people. Ours lay among the peanut shells and took a nap while we enjoyed beer, tunes, and friends.
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I pass an elementary and a high school on my four-minute drive home from the gym. Every morning, I observe a simple act that many don’t have a chance to see anymore: kids walking and riding their bikes to school. At both schools, the bike racks and the sidewalks out front are full. I love watching the little backpacked boys and girls hurrying down the street, and I gauge my lateness by how fast they’re going—because we both need to be somewhere by 8:15.
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What else do I love about my town? While it might not have been apparent in a previous post, I do love the political climate—because in our city’s recent mayoral race, we actually had to choose between two liberal progressives. Wow!

One Boot at a Time

Surprisingly, Boot Camp is going well. I'm no longer in complete and total pain all day and through the night. I can roll over in bed with one easy, pain-free motion, instead of a slow, calculated and complicated series of moves with rest periods in between. I can raise myself from the toilet without using the handicapped grab bars. I can reach for something on the floor by either squatting down or bending over. I relish the joy of having two means of accomplishing a task! And I can walk up and down the stairs quietly (no "oooowwwwww!s") again. This is progress.

I imagine how much better my results would be if I laid off the beer pints and red wine. Hmmmmm. . . I'll have to try that soon.

Just tonight, after meeting friends for a couple of pints after work, I tore myself away before the third round with "oh, no--I have boot camp tomorrow morning," and home I went, as they cheerfully ordered more IPAs, ESBs and Single-Hopped Ales.

"Your priorities are out of whack," one friend said.

"I don't want to look like you," I thought, as I quickly and easily skipped out to my car and lowered myself into the driver's seat without assistance.

Boot Camp, Day 2

Friday was my second Boot Camp session. Our very nice and incredibly fit trainer guy was just as smiley and encouraging as he was on Wednesday--although his audience, me included, was a little less cooperative. We were in pain, dammit! Comparing notes with my classmates revealed that I was not the only one who spent Thursday inventing new ways to lower the tush to the toilet in an effort to avoid taxing my screaming quadriceps. But we were still in good humor and anxious to get on with the day's exercises--if only to make the hour pass so we could go home.

My session started early, as trainer guy needed to record my weight and measurements so we will have a basis for comparison when the eight-week camp is (finally and thankfully) over. And I was okay with this semi-public humiliation. I have gained some acceptance of my weight, which does not mean that anyone other than the trainer and I will ever know it. Not even D. And as long as the number is as high as it is, he never will.

And as luck would have it, my weight was higher than it had been all week. "I'm up three pounds from yesterday," I exlaimed weakly to the trainer, who nodded and explained how much weight can fluctuate, and therefore measurements are a better indicator of progress, etc etc. Well, the measurements were pretty effin' high, too. Interestingly, my left thigh is slightly smaller in diameter than my right, which is roughly equal to D.'s waistline. I love you, left thigh.

So yes, I have lots and lots of work to do. What did I expect? My body has changed muchly over the past four years, since our business started consuming our lives (and I started consuming large amounts of the incredible local microbrews I love so much).

And so Friday's session, Intro to Core Conditioning, began, on the floor, with thick comfy mats. Excellent! My secret weapon: realizing that my "be a good girl and perform every last rep" desire would only lead to great pain and possible injury. So, I did what I could when I could and didn't force my body to contort more than it wanted to.

Repeat often: Easy does it. Be patient. Love your body. You will get through this.

Let's Talk About Weight--It's Fun!

Here's a comment I posted on one of my favorite blogs,
Oh The Joys

Claire B. said...
Wow. I've been reading you for a little while now, and have been impressed by your wit and honesty, your talent and yes, your gorgeousness. I was *a little* jealous of how awesome you look after two kids. Me? I have somehow allowed myself to gain nearly every pound WW helped me take off in the late 80's. 20 effin years ago. I was at my own ideal weight (for about 6 hours), after being Porky Porkina my whole life. (I loved your turkey breast reference; I think of my excess pounds in terms of 5-lb bags of sugar, as in "I'm carrying SEVEN.BAGS.OF.SUGAR.ALL.THE.TIME.OMG!!!")

Following my six hours of Incredible Lightness of Being, I managed to look good for quite a long time. But did I feel ok about myself? NO! I still bitched unceasingly about being fat. And over the last few years, when my hub and I started a business together, I really let it go. Suddenly (?) I am within five pounds of my all-time high.

And do I think I need a program like WW? The one where I lost forty ugly pounds? Until I read this post, no I did not think that I did.

So thanks for the inspiration and for helping me remember that hot sexy women don't always just happen (like I used to think you did). Mostly they have to work very hard to pull it off.

Oh boy. This is, like, the first time I've ever written about my weight. I think about my weight all the effin time, however. Seriously. I am obsessed about weight: mine, yours, complete strangers', my sisters', every body's.

The other night, at the outdoor movie (The Goonies, and yes, I nearly wept just looking at Chunk because I felt so sorry for him) there was a super-skinny girl sitting nearby (ok, there were lots of them, but this particular one was SO thin and SO showing it off as well her twenty-one-year-old self should have been) and I said to D. "wow that girl is so skinny" and because he is the most adorable man ever, D. said "that is SO unattractive." Yay for me! Later, I saw a NOT thin girl preparing to sit on the ground (not an easy feat for a big girl) and she was adjusting her shirt so that her low rider jeans wouldn't expose her backside, while balancing her weight so she wouldn't fall over or land too hard, while keeping her pint of beer from spilling (and just because she's a big girl doesn't mean she can't have the beer), and none of this is as easy as being the thin girl and just placing your ass on the ground as your thin legs bend easily and freely--I know, I've been both of these girls. So I look at the larger girl's assets and ask D. "Is that how I look in my jeans?" and D., because he is the most adorable man ever, says, "No, honey! Do you actually think you look like that?" Yay for me!

Oh, really? What is so wonderful about comparing myself to every woman I see, and thinking how does it feel to be that thin or thank god I'm not that fat?

When will this obsession end? When I am no longer dissatisfied with myself and my body? As if that day will ever come? Or when I finally accept my body as it is, accept my weight as it is, and convince myself that this weight is where my body is at rest? After all, I am incredibly healthy, with the lowest blood pressure known to womankind, along with a very low vegetarian cholesterol count. My doctor says I need to take off a few pounds, but I figure she's so happy to have a patient with very few issues that she doesn't want to jinx anything so she leaves my fat, healthy ass alone. And I am thankful for my health. Every single day. I tell myself that years from now when I'm having my chemo or radiation or some life-saving surgery (I think about these things) I'll look back on my fat, healthy ass and wish that I were even MORE thankful for it. I tell myself that a) many people wish they looked like me (the girls that are even fatter than me); or b) I am among the lucky ones who happened to be born in this time and place and of the privileged race while so many women around the world are poor, oppressed, abused and have none of the opportunities I have so why in the hell am I so freakin shallow and worried about something of inconsequence like my stupid weight? Why am I not out there saving the world instead of obsessing about my weight?? AAARRRGGGHH!

But it makes me miserable. And so I drone on, driving myself and everyone around me to the tenth circle of hell. However, I'm apparently not miserable enough to do anything real about my weight. I have increased my level of exercise. I've been riding my bike and walking the two miles each way to work. I take my dog on long walks. D. and I stopped drinking the alcohol Monday through Thursday for awhile (yes, I felt better) but then summer rolled around and we needed to "celebrate" so I've had teensy bits a glass or two of some lovely summer wines and a few after-work-on-the-outdoor-deck pints with visiting family and friends. And I wonder where this comes from?





Yes, I saw Dr. Oz on Oprah and bought his book and was grossed out about my omentum. Again, not a lifestyle-changing event. Besides, Dr. Oz is naturally thin, while I am more Oprah-esque. That girl must exercise constantly to stay ahead of the weight gain. With my metabolism, I could eat a lettuce leaf and run a marathon and still gain a half pound.

I used to run. I ran a marathon. One. In 1996. I was never so proud of myself. I would like to run again. I would like to be thin again. I would like to love clothes on my body again. Actually I would love all of these things. But mostly I would love to stop obsessing over my weight. So I can stop hating myself every time I look in the mirror or catch myself in a storefront window.

It's not good, the hating. So I'm back on that track again, serious again, as I was at my first WW weigh-in when I almost passed out after the nice lady told me my weight. Will it be WW? Why not? Will it be Dr. Oz's plan? We'll see. Stay tuned, and if you'd like, stay in touch.

Brewfest

It's the beer, stupid. It's one of the jillions of reasons I love living here. I love beer, and I love living in the area that is home to hundreds of microbreweries, all working hard to make the stuff that makes me happy.

Yesterday, I was lucky to partake of about a dozen damn fine brews at the Summer Brewfest where sixty or so of the best brewers around cheerfully dispensed their best.

Among my favorites:

Big Phatty Imperial Red from Water Street Brewing, Port Townsend, WA

Summer Brew from Snoqualmie Falls Brewing Company, Snoqualmie, WA

777 (Trippel 7) from Scuttlebutt Brewing Company, Everett, WA

3 Grid IPA, from Schooner Exact Brewing Co, Seattle, WA

Afterburner IPA from Flyers Restaurant and Brewery, Oak Harbor, WA (although I have an inherent distrust of a joint that bills itself first as a "restaurant," and whose url is eatatflyers.com)

and of course

Imperial IPA from Boundary Bay Brewery and Bistro, Bellingham WA. Simply the best and within walking distance from my house! Life doesn't get much better than that.

Seen on t-shirts:
Ithaca is Gorges
The Liver is Evil and Must be Punished
I get shit-faced drunk. How do you handle stress?
Save the Ales

So thank you, men and women of the microbreweries, for working hard at your craft, for caring so damn much about the beer and about your consumers, and for being out there on a summer weekend so we can have a little fun and drink a lot of outstanding beer!