The Little Blender That Could

Who needs a Cuisinart food processor when you have a $5 yard sale blender? I'll admit I had my doubts. This little blender had made many the standard smoothie and even pesto, but could it possibly grind hard peanuts?

To add to my list of obsessions...PEANUT BUTTER. Anything and everything peanut butter. It is no exaggeration when I say I have peanut butter at least once a day. This evening I was dismayed to find our cabinets devoid of peanut butter, and my mom, unwilling to make a special trip to the grocery story (it is times like this I wish I already had my license), suggested instead I try making my own with the bag of shelled peanuts that had been sitting on top of our refrigerator since June. With no school tomorrow because of Hurricane Sandy warnings, I figured I would give it a shot. 

There were a LOT of peanuts to shell...

We got the recipe off of this website: 

12 ounces roasted, unsalted peanuts, plus ½ cup if you want a crunchy consistency

¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon peanut oil, or more if needed

½ teaspoon salt, or to taste

1 tablespoon honey (optional)

Of course I didn't follow the recipe, but it was a good base. Foods like peanut butter you really just have to experiment with. It's all a matter of taste and texture preference. First of all, we didn't have peanut oil in the house, so I had to substitute it for extra virgin olive oil with a splash of sesame oil. (I figured the sesame oil would give it a "nuttier" taste, but the sesame oil was strong so I recommend  being conservative with it.) Unsure of how olive oil would taste with it and if the little blender would stand the test, I started with a small batch. And it worked! 

I found the best way to make the peanut butter was to gradually add more olive oil, honey, and sesame oil, stirring frequently. As I added more peanuts, it became harder for the blade to spin, so making the peanut butter in small batches is best. The peanuts I used were stale, so the honey helped sweeten it (I can tell you I used a LOT more than a tablespoon of honey), and the salt made it more flavorful. I also added flaxseed to the peanut butter, and tomorrow morning I'm thinking of stirring in chia seeds too!

I can't say the peanut butter tasted like what you buy in the store, but it still had an impressive flavor. Next time I make it, I'll be sure to use peanut oil and fresh peanuts; my guess is the stale peanuts are the major reason the peanut butter lacked a bit of the, well, standard "peanut-buttery" taste. 

I never should have doubted my little $5 yard sale blender. It might've been noisy and taken a little longer, and perhaps my peanut butter is not as smooth as Teddy's, but it still sticks to a spoon and I can spread it on toast and pour it into an old Tostitos salsa jar and tie it with a cute ribbon. The blender believed it could blend it and it did. 

For those of you on Hurricane Sandy patrol, stay safe!

P.S. "Did you notice?" is updated.

Notes and Cookies

http://www.landolakes.com/recipe/3007/lunch-box-oatmeal-cookies

"Hey, Mom," my little cousin says, his voice barely a whisper. He leans over her shoulder where she sits at the kitchen table, going over the week's to-do list and researching a new apple crisp recipe to make with the boys later that week. "I have a girlfriend." He smiles, lets the words resonate in the air. He's in 6th grade.

"Really, now?" she says, trying not to act too interested for fear of scaring him away. "What's her name?"

"Tanner," he says, suddenly shy. His mom nods; she knows who she is. A skinny little string bean with a Red Sox cap and dark hair down to her waist, which she tucks behind her ears. She looks like a tomboy, but doesn't play any sports. She's brainy, though. A real scholar. We always knew my cousin would find someone smart. Smart girls don't overlook his irresistible charm and manners, his big goofy grin and excited brown eyes.

He takes out a carefully folded piece of looseleaf paper from his pocket. The worn creases are evidence of how many times it's been opened." She likes me," he says, sliding the note across the table so it covers the grocery list for the week. In swirly cursive letters it reads, "I think you're cute" with hearts in place of every apostrophe and quotation mark and on top of the 'i'.

His mom stifles the "Aw" in her throat. "Well, why don't you have her and few other friends over for pumpkin carving? That way it doesn't feel awkward with just the two of you."

My cousin shuffles his feet. "Well, I don't know, Mom. I think we were just going to volunteer at the Fall Festival together at school." He suddenly looks up, afraid he hurt her feelings. "Is that alright?"

"Of course, I don't care," his mom says. He sighs relief and climbs the stairs to finish his math homework.

His little brother, who had been sitting quietly playing with his Power Rangers at the other end of the table, pipes up. "Hey, Mommy," he says.

"Yes?"

"I have a girlfriend, too," he says nonchalantly, while continuing to duel his Power Rangers. He's six.

"You do, do you?" she says, eyebrows raised.

"Mmhmm."

"What's her name?"

"Katie," he says, his tone now with a hint of superiority. "We share snack together."

Oh the days when relationships were as simple as folded up notes and sharing cookies at snack time.

San Diego #4: Hieroglyphics

Mom says they're hieroglyphics. My first thought is, "how can 'Russ+Mari' and 'Ashley M' and 'Sue' and all the other signatures and lover's initials tattooed into the rock possibly be hieroglyphics?" But she's right. 100, 200 years from now, people will visit this spot––archeologists, historians, maybe––and puzzle over these carvings. Study them, wnder who carved them and why. What was going on in their life at that moment? What do all these strange letters mean? Who knows if we will even speak the same language 200 years from now; perhaps these letters will be recognized as no more than symbols. So people will come and and try to put meaning, some significance behind these carvings. Make them out to be more than they are; perhaps a map, or a story, or some sort of code. We will not be around to tell them these symbols and characters they are studying are nothing more than names of the everyday people and lovers, trying to make heir mark. But that's okay, because who are we to ruin their fun?

What will people think, 500 years from now? What will go in their history books? What will children learn in school? What will they think of us, and our styles? Will they think our clothes laughable, appalling, #1 on the DO NOT WEAR list? Will our styles become part of their School Spirit week? At what point will our clothes become vintage? When will our furniture become retro? I laugh to think of the day when I will tell my kids, "I remember back in my day..." My children will be embarrassed looking through my old yearbooks; I'll be embarrassed. But of course at the time I feel "hip" and "in" and "with it."

Looking at the hieroglyphics is like watching a history film. I wish I could be like the book "Gosammer" by Lois Lowry, and flash back to every person who ever entered this cave. Touch the initials and be brought back to that moment. How far back would it bring me? One year marks '78, but there must be ones dating farther back. I would love to see who Russ and Mari were. Were they a young couple on their honeymoon? Or were they two summer lovers, and perhaps this carving is the only proof of their summer fling. But they were here, and they were in love. Looking around, there were lots of people in love. And that is a comforting thing.

The Best

Oddly, this post is inspired by a visit to the dermatologist. Doctor's appointments, orthodontists appointments, dentist appointments...appointments are rarely exciting. But I can honestly say I don't mind going to the dermatologist, and that has to do entirely with my dermatologist. She's always smiling and in a good mood and is the type of person that always looks like she's happy to see you. She doesn't overanalyze. I'm in and I'm out within fifteen minutes, and she has never once made me feel self-conscious about my skin. "We'll take care of it," she always says. (Plus, I found out today she also loves theatre...if I liked her before, I certainly like her now!)

It got me to thinking that you don't have to be famous to be the best. You don't have to be famous or even receive any kind of recognition to make a difference. And I'm not saying my dermatologist has "transformed my life." She just got me to thinking that there is incentive to be the very best you can be. My English teacher this semester is undoubtedly the best teacher I've had in awhile. His passion for literature is infectious, and his intellectual insight and connections are spellbinding. I often find myself laughing in class as he highlights another parallelism in the works of Ernest Hemingway, T.S. Eliot, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The definition of "best" is entirely subjective. Our friend Buddy the Elf comically reminds us of this when he barges into a coffee shop in New York City, praising them for their honorable title of "world's best cup of coffee."

Those of you who are familiar with the movie, may remember that he later takes the character Jovie (Zooey Deschanel) to the coffee shop on their date, who puckers her lips at the taste and labels it as just a "crappy cup of coffee." 

You can't base your opinions on what others claim as "the best." Likely, half the reviews are bias and most likely paid for by the company. Don't sit around waiting for someone to stick a #1 on your chest; go out and just be the best person you can be. 

"Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Falling into Fall

Fall...I love everything about fall. Apple picking, apple cider, apple donuts...warm. Sweaters and moccasins and boots and cozy pants. Football games, rosy cheeks, dragon's breath.

And pumpkin. Everything pumpkin. Pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin iced coffee at Dunkin's, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin donuts, pumpkin oatmeal. If only I had my license, I would make a special trip to the Oliver Garden for a slice of their pumpkin cheesecake.

Last Sunday, Mom and I had a baking day. It was one of the first real fall-like days we'd had. The thermostat read 60º in the morning, chilly enough for a sweater and chilly enough for baking. You can bake in the spring and you can bake in the summer, and of course you can bake in the winter, but fall is by far my favorite time to bake. Crisps, pies, cakes, breads, all those comfort foods that fill you to the brim with happiness like a steamy cappuccino.

Right now we have more kale in our garden than we know what to do with. The worms decided to take the load off our back and start nibbling away so now our kale leaves look like swiss cheese. Before the worms did any more work, we decided we better take advantage of this super food, especially because we now (thanks to a friend of my grandma) have a copy of The Book of Kale by Sharon Hanna, a recipe book with over 80 different recipes for kale. (You can only make so many salads.)

We started the morning off with Savoury Kale and Pumpkin Scones. I went out to the garden in my slippers and sweatshirt and salvaged what kale I could. In the kitchen I washed the leaves and I didn't even need to put it in a strainer, what with all the holes they practically strained themselves.

In making the scones, one direction that particularly confused me was: Step 3: Blend or sift the flour, salt, soda, baking powder and sugar together. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender or your fingers (Hanna). 

"Cut in the butter?" While we love to experiment, we are only that. Experimentalists. We measure with our hands and our eyes...a little bit of this, a pinch of that, and always a dash more sugar. (Rather, I'm learning to be more like this.) In other words, we are amateurs in the kitchen, and the most high-tech kitchen appliance we have (excluding the standard oven, stove, and microwave) is a blender and a food processor we got at the Free Store that we're not sure even works. Which meant I was just going to have to use my hands. But cut in the butter? I had never heard of the term before. I took it to assume that it meant mix in the butter...cold butter, the recipe specified. After a minute or two of using the fork, I plunged in with my hands...and of course licked every finger clean afterwards. 

Anything you can mold with your hands is so much fun.

Now what to have these scones with? Cream cheese? Butter? Jam? These scones aren't very sweet, but they're very healthy, and have the classic scone consistency. They're delicious with cream cheese, butter, and jam (we tried them all), but even more delicious with soup. Particularly, an orange soup. 

Doesn't it almost look like it has veins? 

A Winter Squash Soup. I won't even both linking this recipe, though, because we hardly followed it. Sure, we steamed and boiled the squash and peeled and tossed in an apple. But we also added the remainder of the canned pumpkin from the scones, a carrot, and the rest of the kale. 

It's a soup with a very thick consistency. It's filling and fulfilling. It's the kind of soup you want to eat curled up on the couch with a book, wearing your biggest, coziest sweater.

Alas, we ate it outside on our deck, but with the birds chirping and the wind blowing, it was still just as satisfying. And of course, I had to take the opportunity to have a little food photo shoot. Seriously...I think at least half the pictures on my phone are of food. 

We're reading T.S. Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in English class. In his poem, the narrator says, "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" (51). Cooking with Mom reminded me of that line. My parents are always telling me not to get hung up over details; to just go with the flow. With their guidance, I am learning to not measure out my life so precisely. I'm learning to be okay with a dash, a pinch, and a splash. 

What's your favorite part of fall? Or, if you don't like fall, what's your favorite season?

Happy fall, everyone!

P.S. "Did you notice?" is updated.

What to Do When You Can't Sleep

Don't ask me! 10:30pm on a Sunday night, and I am wide awake. I've been wide awake for the past two hours actually. It is not often I get nights where I have the opportunity to go to bed early, so when I do have them––tonight being one of them––I like to take advantage of them. I was in bed at an impressive time of 8:30 tonight, not particularly tired but figuring I'd fall asleep soon enough. 30 minutes later, I found myself staring at the bottom of my brother's bunk, listening to the achy springs as he tosses and turns. My brother and I share a room at my dad's place...never again will I buy a metal bunk bed. I say my prayers...multiple times. Still nothing. I try counting sheep. This I don't understand. They say counting sheep helps you sleep, but you still have to think to count sheep and I'm personally trying to turn my brain off at the moment. Regardless, I count to 100 and get bored.

9:15 and my stomach growls. I'm starving. STARVING. I get up and eat a rice cake with peanut butter, hoping maybe now that my stomach has something in it I will be able to fall asleep. Very funny. 15 minutes later. Nothing. I throw the covers off, roll onto my side. Fluff my pillow. I can't figure out what my body wants to do. It's like in the mornings sometimes when I can't figure out what I want for breakfast. I take out the peanut butter, the oatmeal, the yogurt, the bread, the pancake mix, the eggs. One time I couldn't decide, so I seriously made a little bit of everything.

Finally I can't stand just laying in bed any longer. I flick on the lights and take out my journal and write. We're reading a poem in my English class called "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot, where Eliot tries to capture his character's stream of consciousness. Well, I figure I would try to capture my own stream of consciousness, hoping it may lull me to sleep. It's a lot harder than I thought. There's just too many thoughts to capture on the page, many of them so brief I hardly even notice I am thinking about them. 45 minutes later. Nothing. I give reading a shot. 10:20 now, nearly two hours since I first tried going to bed. I'm starving again. I really didn't eat enough at dinner. I get up and grab a bowl of ice cream. I'm done eating for the night. I don't care how much my stomach growls. I'm not eating after this.

My grandfather can fall asleep anywhere. I remember he fell asleep reading to me once. It was impressive. I asked him to play cards with me instead next time.

I need some turkey. I know I said I wasn't going to eat anymore. I'm just saying that isn't there something in turkey that makes you sleepy? Isn't that why people feel like they need to nap after Thanksgiving dinner? I think it's a myth...but still.

Do you usually have a hard/easy time falling asleep? I used to fall asleep really easily, and sleep soundly through almost anything. Do you have any tricks to help you fall asleep? Are you a light or a heavy sleeper?

Here's hoping you're all dreaming sweet dreams,

Megan :)

Where I Belong

All summer I prepped. I strutted in glitzy gold heels, recited to a mirror, spent thirty minutes trying to learn the basic cha cha step, recorded myself singing on PhotoBooth (and then deleted it in the occasion someone were to get a hold of my laptop), highlighted my script in multiple colors, scribbled in the margins, watched YouTube videos (included Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech and Kellogg's All-Bran commercial), and I even (most notably) sat through the 2 hour, 14minute long 1978 film version of "The Wiz." I woke up this morning five minutes before my alarm went off, unable to sleep any longer. Today was the first rehearsal for our fall musical, "The Wiz," and for the first time ever, I have a lead! Presenting Megan Lovely as.....Ms. Wiz! Rehearsal was all I could talk about all day. I was in such a good mood between the excited anticipation, the actual rehearsal, and reflecting on it afterward. For the first time in awhile, I felt I was truly where I belonged...and it felt great.

Here's hoping you all find your place, whether it be on stage, on the field, in the wilderness, wherever it may be.

xo,
Megan