zekeb wrote: ↑Fri Sep 20, 2024 12:49 pm
A fairly regular price in my parts. The misses only will only eat white meat, though. Strange. Pork chops are on sale regularly too. The misses won't eat pork chops either. Strange. You can't overcook this newfangled pork or it gets tough. Ditto for the newfangled beef. She wants her meat to be overcooked. For someone who grew up in the Midwest, I find her eating habits to be most peculiar.
My Mrs was the same way. Everything had to be cooked well done. I really did not mind when I got to cook cuz I could have sloppy scrambled eggs, or a medium burger.
So Trump Derangement Syndrome. He needs his beef burned to a crisp served along with a bottle of ketchup. Weird.
neonzx wrote: ↑Fri Sep 20, 2024 3:31 pm
So Trump Derangement Syndrome. He needs his beef burned to a crisp served along with a bottle of ketchup. Weird.
Oh, she was a good Wisconsin Girl that liked everything cooked, but not burnt. Any blood or mayonaise would ruin her meal. Fresh green beans had to be drab green or she wouldn't touch them. She did not like them bright green and al dente like I did. No lumps in the mashed potatoes either, or she's refuse to eat them. And I had to pick every seed out of her tomatoes and somehow leave them looking like slices. Even KFC couldn't cook their food long enough for her.
neonzx wrote: ↑Fri Sep 20, 2024 3:31 pm
So Trump Derangement Syndrome. He needs his beef burned to a crisp served along with a bottle of ketchup. Weird.
Oh, she was a good Wisconsin Girl that liked everything cooked, but not burnt. Any blood or mayonaise would ruin her meal.
What is the liquid coming out of steak?
Even the rarest and reddest of steaks is actually bloodless. Instead, what you’re looking at is a combination of water, which makes up about 75 per cent of meat, and a protein found in muscle tissue called myoglobin. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because it sounds a bit like hemoglobin, the protein that transports oxygen in blood. Yes, there’s that word again, but myoglobin isn’t blood (honest!) – instead, its job is to transport oxygen through muscle.
neonzx wrote: ↑Fri Sep 20, 2024 3:31 pm
So Trump Derangement Syndrome. He needs his beef burned to a crisp served along with a bottle of ketchup. Weird.
Oh, she was a good Wisconsin Girl that liked everything cooked, but not burnt. Any blood or mayonaise would ruin her meal.
What is the liquid coming out of steak?
Even the rarest and reddest of steaks is actually bloodless. Instead, what you’re looking at is a combination of water, which makes up about 75 per cent of meat, and a protein found in muscle tissue called myoglobin. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because it sounds a bit like hemoglobin, the protein that transports oxygen in blood. Yes, there’s that word again, but myoglobin isn’t blood (honest!) – instead, its job is to transport oxygen through muscle.
My grandmother's recipe for "steak" was to throw it on a cookie sheet, broil the shit out of it, and then pour the not-blood drippings over rice. We called it rice and blood. We were not impressed.
Even the rarest and reddest of steaks is actually bloodless. Instead, what you’re looking at is a combination of water, which makes up about 75 per cent of meat, and a protein found in muscle tissue called myoglobin. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because it sounds a bit like hemoglobin, the protein that transports oxygen in blood. Yes, there’s that word again, but myoglobin isn’t blood (honest!) – instead, its job is to transport oxygen through muscle.
It's one of those small treats you give yourself occasionally because they are so indulgent. It was a rarity growing up. We didn't know how to make it. We only got it near the holidays at a church dinner, and you could only hope there would be a piece left for you. More than a couple times I had to share my teeny tiny piece with a brother. We each got a bite, and I got to lick my fingers.
Later on when I was on my own, living where people actually knew what baklava and other Medi foods were besides pizza and spaghetti, I found it for an outrageous sum. That limited consumption, but didn't stop it. I introduced Barbara to it. She was fascinated by the crisp layers, the decadence in these small squares, and the simplicity that packed such a powerful flavor.
I was slowly becoming familiar there wasn't just one kind of baklava. Some had honey. Some did not. Cinnamon or not. Cloves or not. Nuts in every layer, or a thick nut layer in the middle of a phyllo sandwich. It might have lemon, or orange. Might be walnuts. Might be pistaccios. Might be a lot of nuts, or almost none. They were always sweet, but some were super sweet somehow. I could eat one bite. Others were far less sweet with the phyllo and butter having a voice. Most land between sickening sweet and a extra crispy croissant with nuts in it.
Yesterday I got lucky. Yesterday I found a hole in the wall Gyro shoppe in sleepy Sherwood, a bedroom community 20 miles or so SW of Portland. It was lunch time, and I was feeling peckish. So, I pulled into a shopping plaza that boasted a number of restaurants. Gyros! That sounded good. I ordered the lamb with spicy garlic sauce. Then I noticed the big stack of baklava.
Nobody has a stack of baklava except when it's fresh and I'm the first one there. They had big triangles, small squares, medium diamond shapes. Some glistened. Some had green stuff on top. Some were tall and thick. One claimed to have rose water in it. I chose the small package of four pistaccio squares. $4.50. With the gyro and a tip, the total damage for lunch was $22 and change. They made all of that in store, and they had just finished making enough for the weekend. This is when you want a sampler plate, but I resisted a second box.
I ordered it togo so I could back on the road and head home on the other side of the ridge. But, before leaving the parking lot I took out one of the baklava. In the truck. Without a napkin or towel in my lap, and no wet towels to wipe my hands with. I should have known better. Of course nuts fell all over the place. I made a complete mess, but it was good. The steering wheel got plastered and needed a bath when I got home. I did not mind.
The gyro was good too. I'll give three out of five stars. I'll skip the spicy garlic next time, and stick to tzatziki. By the pink color, I suspect they mixed sriracha, yogurt, and garlic. It overpowered the lamb which was the typical mystery lamb loaf most gyros are made from. They stacked an obscene amount on there over the salad and dill pickles in the middle. The pita wasn't big enough or strong enough to hold it all. It was an early casualty in my effort to get a bite of meat, bread, sauce, and salad. I cut it in half and turned it into a knife and fork meal. Not terrible. Not fantastic.
I waited for my second piece of baklava until this morning. I ate it with a glass of milk. They had the Goldilocks amount of sugar, nuts, and phyllo. It was sticky but not dripping. It was tasty and not greasy. The pistaccios were finely ground with the occasional larger tender bits. The lemon added it's notes. This gets my five stars.
I am half tempted to return today for more. Or maybe not. I do have neighbors ..... hmmm
Four boxes of baklava: two pistaccio and two walnut. I kept one of each, and gave the other two to neighbors.
One of them was traded for a dinner. He came over with a bowl of rice and okra with a grilled red snapper on top. Yum. I had planned on dropping off the baklava with them tomorrow. They're from Guinea, but well traveled and knew of baklava. But, bless random serendipity, he came over around dinner time with a this wonderful food, and got their baklava ahead of time.
Dog barks in mysterious wags.
(Note to self: I have to remember to return their Snapware.)
Hi Keith. Thanks! Good to know. I've surprised by the slice of life I experience in other cities. Columbia SC has a vibrant Greek community. Every night was a choice of searching out the best BBQ, or the best spanakopita. In Boston I learned very quickly to never eat anything from a woman with big hair no matter what her accent was, but if her apron was a little dirty and her English needed some help, I'd be in for a treat.
Exciting news: My cat has a friend - Ace, the black and white holstein patterned cat that lives three blocks away.
Ever since Barbara died I've been letting Sweetie Pie go outside for the day, and come inside for the night. And in those few short months he has become the neighborhood bully quite protective of his territory. Trespassing cats he once viewed through glass walking our yard with impunity were persecuted and prosecuted until he had firmly established a perimeter of influence with a large radius through adjacent yards. He's like a mountain lion barreling across the yard to tackle a foolish interloper. He has sentry points, and he patrols regularly. I've been amazed how effective he's been.
Which is why I was quite surprised when little Elaina's cat Ace was still coming by for visits. Brave.
Liam, Elaina, and Lyla live two blocks down, and a half block over to the left of my house, and their mother's parents live around the corner from me in the other direction. She and her sisters grew up here. They mowed our lawn and did other chores for money until they became teens, disappeared for a decade, and the next time we saw them they all had their own families. One of them bought a house here to raise her kids, and now they come around to earn some bucks. Barbara and I met all their cousins and friends as they walk back and forth from gramma and grampa's to home.
In that time we also met Cola the shepherd dog, Gracie the rusty mud calico, and the latest pet Ace, a black and white. They all followed the kids back and forth like they were part of the gang. So, it wasn't unusual to have them wandering our yard unescorted. When Sweetie Pie started enforcing his fence, I worried a little what would happen with the other pet dynamics. but apparently he likes Ace.
Yesterday evening after I got home from Tillamook, I propped open the back door so he could come and go like I do everyday. A bit later I saw him walk through the kitchen to his food bowls. But, it wasn't him. It was Ace crunching on the kibble. He knows me. He didn't run. He just looked up, greeted me, and returned to eating. A moment later Sweetie Pie strolled in, and I got ready to pick up a mess.
Didn't happen. Tails up, they touched noses, and then took turns at the food bowl. Whoa, really? I just leaned on the cupboard and watched them walk around the house like he was showing Ace where everything was. A few minutes later they sauntered past me throwing a glance and a meow my way, and then hit the road. They were going out. See ya later.
When it turned dusk, I went looking for him to bring him in. They were both on the front porch, side by side, being sentries, watching the world, keeping it safe. Where's a camera when you need it? Maybe Sweetie Pie will teach Ace how to chase squirrels, birds, and field mice.
I'm happy they became friends. I do not have any plans for a kitty sleepover. yet.
"Mickey Mouse and I grew up together." - Ruthie Tompson, Disney animation checker and scene planner and one of the first women to become a member of the International Photographers Union in 1952.
x5
