I’m hoping to add a few new breads to the Aurora Bakery menu: potato rosemary, cranberry walnut braid, and maybe brioche. I’m going to make the potato bread tomorrow night and maybe try the braid again tonight. If I’m clever I’ll be able to make a simple brioche that can be the base for several different rich dessert-type breads like the cranberry walnut. I’ve noticed that people go for the sweeter breads, so I might as well feature them on the menu. And since I’m a piggy piggy fat fat I’ll be forced to try out all these new breads myself.
I should explain. Yesterday my stomach was upset most of the day because I ate too much Halloween candy the night before. So after a day of gurgling belly and regrets, what’s the first thing I do when I get home? Eat four Reese’s Penaut Butter Cups from the candy basket! Then I felt sick all the rest of the night. So this morning I’ve decided to eat a more sensible diet. Last night at the grocery store I bought, with the exception of some granola, only raw ingredients: eggs, milk, yogurt, meat, vegetables, flour. We’ve been cooking bigger batches so it’ll last two days, and by making everything ourselves we can eliminate those things that cause stomach issues. (See what I did there? Eliminate?...moving on…)
I’ve been reading Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, and I keep repeating the mantra printed on the cover: “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” I realize that I still eat a fair amount of processed foods. Besides not tasting as good, they are really bad for you. Pure chocolate, rich sauces, fresh greens, natural cheese, grilled meats, homemade bread—all these things are real food. Hydrogenated soybean oil, guar gum, soy lecithin, high fructose corn syrup, blue lake #5—these things are not food. I imagine if I had to see and taste the individual ingredients that go into something like a Twinkie, I’d get sick.
I’ve still to figure out whether it’ll be more expensive to eat real food. If you’ve browsed the aisles of a convenience store, you know how cheaply you can eat crap food. Last night I spent almost $70 and only had about six bags of groceries. But a lot of that money went towards meat that will last 2-3 meals each. And since I enjoy cooking and spending time in the kitchen, making stuff from scratch will be more rewarding than buying it pre-made.
Now gimme sommore dem Reese’s! NOMNOMNOMNOM!
Halloween may be over, but the overconsumption of processed sugars is still underway. Baby Harbat enjoyed trick-or-treating, which mostly consisted of walking around, riding on shoulders, and seeing everyone in the neighborhood. I felt a little bad going to doors since she was obviously not the ultimate recipient of the candy, but people liked her costume. And how couldn’t you?
On Sunday we went to the park and BH demanded swing time and, interestingly, alone time. I was hanging around with her near the slide when she gave me the hand and told me to, “Go play, Babbo!” So I sat on a bench while she sang songs and climbed on the stairs. I knew it would happen: I’ve become uncool dad who is “cramping her style” while she’s “trying to hang out with her friends.” Though in this case her style involved sitting on climbing blocks and the only other living things at the park were chattering mockingbirds and some trailing rosemary bushes. Fine. [picking at fingernails and kicking dirt] I’ll just do my own cool thing over here.
In the afternoon we went to the zoo with hours of build-up and promotion. When we got to the petting zoo area, she just sauntered over to the goats and sheep, gave them a quick pat, then looked at me. I was hoping for some more excitement, but she did get a few laughs chasing after a goat’s waving tail. Good thing she didn’t pull on it and get a treat.
Lately BH has been learning more vocabulary than I can keep track of. This morning she laughed at a playing card and said, “It’s spinning!” The flip side of this new lexicon is that she’s still not able to pronounce things well, and without obvious cues and context, I often have no idea what she’s saying. Like I’ve said before, it’s like having an excitable foreign exchange student in the house. I often laugh at what I presume is a joke, say “Oh really?” to what turns out to be a question, and sing along with re-purposed songs. To the tune of Frere Jacques, Amalia sang “Where is lemur?” at the zoo. I love that little pumpkin. Now if I can just teach her to eat from a spoon without turning it upside down on the long trip up to her mouth.
They actually ship children into our neighborhood for Halloween. No joke—apparently it’s so safe and walkable that kids from the metro area are brought here. Last year I ran out of candy just after 8 pm and had to lock the door and turn off the lights. Since we hadn’t finished moving in, I was alone in an empty house with no candy.
This year I’m prepared--$20 of candy plus some backups. I imagine we’ll last until 8:30 before we have to pretend nobody is home. Since I’m a bit of a candy aficionado (sounds pretentious, like I should have a pencil-thin moustache and a cane) I tried to buy candy that would be placed in the “high quality” pile by kids the morning after trick-or-treating. If you didn’t sort your candy as a kid, well, you missed out. Reese’s products and mini candy bars went to the top of the list, except oddballs like Whatchamacallit and Zagnut. Next came old reliables like Hershey bars, Mounds, Almond Joy. Next were Hershey’s Kisses, Smarties, and smaller wrapped candies. At the very bottom in the untouchable caste were the loose candy corn, raisins, apples, and 50s retro candies like Necco Wafers and Honey Bees. Once the candy is sorted, you can then go all out and make yourself sick.
Since Baby Harbat is only two, I can’t decide if it’s immoral to take her trick-or-treating. Since my neighbors will know they’re really giving candy to me. Which I could then re-gift to all the shipped-in kids. Or I could give them some of my back-up treats which include nails, leftover mini-soaps stolen from hotels, handfuls of mulch, used Post-it notes, foreign currency, mystery medication from the back of the cabinet, soy sauce packets from the late 1990s, and dust bunnies. Trick’s on you, non-neighborhood kids! Happy Halloween!
We originally though this costume would be a bit longer, thus the protruding pot belly and last-minute striped green tights. There’s something to be said for one-piece slip-on costumes. And that something is “convenient”. Especially when you’re trying to get in and out of the costume for potty breaks.
Watching Baby Harbat ease herself down onto her potty is like real-time footage of the space shuttle docking at the space station. Three meters…rotate one-decimal-one degrees…two meters…looking good…robotic arm is extending to steady…fire aligning burners decimal-five seconds…and…we are docked. Since she is two years old with the attention span of a cocker spaniel with ADHD, she immediately gets up, and we get to do the whole docking maneuver again. So maybe a bottomless costume isn’t so bad.
I have some good news for all my readers: the recession is over! Papa Radio told me so this morning! Okay, here’s what I don’t understand, and maybe it’s because during macroeconomics in college I was distracted by the hung-over frat guy who was spitting chaw juice into a soda can. Sales figures are up mostly because of government stimulus. Where will the government be getting that money? From taxpayers, who are currently paying less in taxes because they are un- or under-employed. And from taxes from businesses, who have not been selling well over the last year, but are currently showing an increase in sales from Old Testament wretched to merely awful. With me so far? One thing Papa Radio was kind to point out is that this still doesn’t account for labor figures which form a part of the recession. No %$#! Silly old me, I thought labor figures and employment are the KEY part of the recession. If people are unemployed, they spend less, so companies can’t sell as many products and services, so they need to fire more people.
But hey, if the news says the recession is over, I’ve got some credit cards burning a hole in my wallet.
Every year my wife gets out the Charlie Brown DVD series. In October we watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Every year I’m horrified by Lucy’s behavior. You’ve probably heard about her pulling the football away as Charlie runs up to kick it, resulting in Charlie falling and breaking several vertebrae, shattering both legs, and waking up from a coma several months later to find he’s a paraplegic. That’s one level of mean. But Lucy kicks it up a notch. In one scene, Charlie gets an invitation to a Halloween party in the mail and is so happy he does an excited dance.
“There are two lists, Charlie Brown: people who should be invited and people who shouldn’t. You must’ve gotten put on the wrong list by accident.”
Ouch. So she’s good at psychological harm as well. Charlie is the perpetual whipping boy, getting rocks while everyone gets candy, having people laugh at him and his costume. But Lucy seems to get her jollies by systematically tearing him apart. Maybe I thought this was funny as a kid, or it just flew over my head. But now I can hardly watch her. She dresses up as a witch for Halloween but I think her costume idea was one letter off.
So I’m posing the question to my readers: do you remember the worst bully from your school days? Was it better to be punched in the face or the psyche? Chime in and let’s see who has the worst scars!
Baby Harbat turned two this weekend! All week she was ready for the big event, singing “Happy birthday” to herself and talking about cake and presents. On Friday afternoon she yelled for me to come into the laundry room.
“Sit down, Babbo!” she said as she patted the floor. Then she got mini tea light candles from the pantry, laid them on my leg in a row, and sang “Happy birthday” with gusto, blowing out the candles at the end. This girl knows how to party.
On the big day, she was too excited to take a nap. Which is really great when you’re trying to clean the house for guests, decorate, make cupcakes and other food, and wrap presents. At T-minus thirty minutes, my wife brought her into the dining room where she saw: A)decorated cupcakes, B)decorations, C)presents.
“Not yet, sweetie, just hold on.” Yeah, sure. This is the equivalent of balancing the dog biscuit on the dog’s nose. Cruel, cruel punishment. We managed to hold her off with some other snacks an distractions, but it was dicey for a moment.
The party went off superbly well and she was an angel throughout, dispensing kisses and hugs to all present. Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes!
On the baking side of life, I made some ciabatta on Saturday before the party. This is probably the most rewarding and simple bread to make. When you toast it, the crust is crackly and flaky, the sweet nutty flavor of the crumb a beautiful fragrance. I’ve said it before but…
TEAM USA! TEAM USA! CIABATTA! CIABATTA!
I also put together some wheat sandwich and cinnamon
raisin. It’s hard to be making these for
customers and not getting to slice them open in the morning.
On Sunday I took BH to the lake to see ducks. She woke up at 5:49 AM. As soon as I walked in her room and heard a perky voice I knew I wasn’t going back to bed. No matter, we read books, had a lazy breakfast, then put on her Wellies so we could go to the lake. After a brief confusing moment—“Wait, you DON’T want me to take off my shoes before I go in the water?”—she was off and splashing, ready to strike out for deep water. Then she rode on my shoulders and put her fingers in my ears, and I realized I have perfect happiness with her.
Then I stepped in dog poop and ran over it with the wagon wheels. The Dalai Lama would be able to make a lesson out of this, I’m sure.
I made a braid last night, a loooooooong braid. I wanted to experiment with a cranberry nut bread that I thought up, and somehow decided that a double batch of bread would be needed to make a braid. Now before you judge, please realize this is UncleF$#!-Up talking. So in answer to your question, no, of course I didn’t think it through. I could tell there was going to be trouble when I couldn’t braid the bread on my board because of the length. Then when it rose I couldn’t lift it with the peel—it was much too long. I got it into the oven by pushing it against the back and pressing the door shut on it. Remember Topper Harley getting his head smashed in the ambulance door in Hot Shots: Part Deux? Here’s the result:
Not as bad as you’d think, in terms of looks. Which is just what it said under my high school yearbook photo. And my college yearbook photos. And on a handwritten note in my wedding album.
I will report on taste tonight. We are bringing it to dinner at a friend’s house. “Are you sure you want to try out a new recipe on the first time we are invited over?” my wife asks.
Umm….uhhh…wait…what?
The other bread I made is the multigrain struan.
I think this needs some kind of topping, like steel-cut oats. It smells and tastes good, I just need to give it that final over-the-top-belt-it-out-to-the-back-row flourish. Right now it’s Shelley Duval and it needs to be Liza. Or Barbra!
When you go out West and up into the mountains, guidebooks and rangers constantly warn you to be prepared for sudden and unpredictable weather changes. It may be 70 and sunny, then five minutes later you’re up to your ankles in blowing snow. Then an hour later you’re peeling off layers and sweating under the baking sun again. This is what it’s like having a toddler.
Last night Baby Harbat found a two-year-old package of Craisins I’d bought for our rabbits. She gave them one, then helped herself. Before I even suggested she put them away, she made her usual defense gambit: run for it. So I decided to let her eat them—dinner could wait. We sat together in her room eating Craisins and laughing while we bounced a balloon around. It was one of those family moments you see in slo-mo on TV ads about greeting cards or the benefits of a heat pump or something. Then I suggested she close up the package so we could go have dinner. Just like that the magic was over. For the next ten minutes she wailed and threw herself down on the ground, following me around the house to be sure I witnessed it. I didn’t give in, and instead put on my jacket and weathered the storm. Sure enough, after five more minutes, the sun came out and she was all smiles again. Be prepared.
Is Tim Burton married to Helena Bonham Carter? In my dream last night they were married and making a movie together while I watched. She was doing her usual I’m-a-creepy-goth-that-giggles-and-wiggles-her-fingers-while-saying-boo schtick. Except then she whined to Tim that she wanted to have her operation, why wouldn’t he pay for it? At which point she unhinged her jaw and pulled out a brain covered in goopy viscera, that had its own mouth and sharp teeth. Brain mouth moaned and she pointed to a lumpy mass in her brain that looked like something you’d pull from a drainpipe: black matted greasy hair and indescribable drippings. Charming, Helena. You’ve outdone yourself.
This weekend I’m going to be trying out some new breads I’ve thought up. One will be a festive holiday bread, and if I get the time, I’ll also try a savory bread to match up with hearty stews. Or I may just flake out and watch TV. Hey, I live in SoCal now, I have an excuse!
We recently found a Piglet (from classic Pooh) stuffed animal tucked in a box. We gave it to Baby Harbat who gave it a tight hug and yelled, “Pliget!” Now this is her companion of choice, from nap time to dinner, where Pliget sits on the table and patiently watches her eat. This weekend she refused to take a nap, and when I went in after an hour, she had taken off all her clothes, and thrown everything out of her crib onto the floor. The only thing left in the crib was Pliget.
I suppose I should describe my rant from yesterday but this issue is still ongoing, so I’ll have to post when it’s all done. Let’s just say that I now have a greater understanding of the average San Diegan. When I moved here from Washington, DC, I was used to a standard of professionalism and common sense. Out here, the average person does not know how to be professional. And I’ll be clear that I mean average person. There are those who still know how to work in the business world by coming through on promises, returning messages, and generally acting like adults. And then there are the rest of the SoCal wastoids who operate more like jellyfish, drifting with the current, bumping into things, and getting eaten by whales. If you think I exaggerate, please read the comments on any news article in our local paper, the Union Tribune. Go on, read an article on any topic, any length, and there will be at least one comment by someone that says, “Build the fence!” For those unaware of border issues, there is a contingent in this country that believes an impenetrable fence stretching the length of the U.S./Mexico border is the solution to all our problems. Which is funny, really. Had such a fence existed across the New York harbor, these people’s poor European ancestors coming to America to start a new life would never have made it in. Hmm. I guess they forgot about that, you know, Ellis Island and immigration and that.
But I digress. We were talking about San Diegans and the “mañana” attitude. If you are out on parole, or are stoned surf rat whose RV ran out of gas, bummer, dude. But if you expect to live and work here like a productive citizen, try to act more than two. Trust me, I know two-year-old behavior. Even my daughter knows how to share and be nice at times.
Now onto the literature feature of the blog. I present to you the ultimate convergence of market demographic studies:
I can just imagine the meeting at the publisher’s office. Hour five, coffee is cold and tempers are hot. The boss has drawn a Venn diagram on the dry erase board and is scribbling in the circles, “knitting”, “cats”, “vampires and magic”. He flails his arms at the peons crammed in the board room.
“Will somebody just get me a goddam book with all this stuff?!”
I’m not trying to malign the author or even the publishing house. Good for them for trying to tie together so many “hot” topics into one single book. I think that if they included in the already-jammed cover art a shirtless brooding vampire with tousled hair, there would be nationwide hot flashes and fanning of faces.
Every so often I’m caught out by my assumption that people are generally going to act as I would, with respect to laws, fellow humans, and a universal moral code. Of course this is foolish, as people actually act mostly out of self-interest.
I’m in the midst of a property recovery issue in which I am a third party. I’ll explain more once it’s concluded, but basically I’ve once again made the mistake that people will be honest, truthful, and punctual. I’ve mentioned here before that as a transplanted East-Coaster, I’ve found the West Coast flakiness to be a constant aggravation. Set up to meet someone at two? Maybe they’ll show up at 2:30 without an explanation, maybe they won’t show at all. When you ask what happened, you get, “Oh, something came up.” Not an apology, not a lame excuse. This is what happens out here when people get used to surf, sand, sun, and steady alcohol and drug consumption. And you think it’s reserved for stoner surfers? Ha! Try to operate a business in Southern California and you’ll soon understand the SoCal Flake-Out. I imagine doctors here make a fortune from missed appointment fees.
So. Back to my little issue, I’ve got to deal with a combination of SoCal Flake-Out and greedy self-interest. This’ll turn out well, I’m sure.
