Nina Lewis

Archive for November, 2009

I had coveted (from a distance) this cute little car.   If only it were red.

But then it parked REALLY close to our car.  Grrrrr!

I know that Craig is a super driver but at times there are limits . . .  Could he pull out of this tight parking space?  Without banging into that little black car?

Lucky for the little black car, Craig was able to get out.  If he hadn’t been able to,  I would have had to pick up the car, put it in my pocket, and take it home with me.  And how would its owner like THAT??

Several years ago,  I hosted the extended Lewis family for Thanksgiving (like I did this year).   I knew the teen-aged boys loved mashed potatoes. So I peeled potatoes.  Lots of ‘em.  An amount that I thought would be enough.  Then I peeled some more.  And even more.  We ended up with enough mashed potatoes that we could have fed the 5,000.

Yesterday, I was again peeling potatoes — with my husband.  (He’s the next up and coming Julia Child.)  More, I insisted.  More.

In the process, our granddaughter arrived.  I had to pause to kiss her and ooo and aaah that her outfit matched the quilt I made for her.

Back to the potatoes.  I put them on to cook.  I waited for the pressure in my pressure cooker to build.  No steam.  No steam.  No steam.

Yikes! I didn’t put any water in the bottom of the pan.   I quickly pulled the pot off the stove.  Charred edges graced the potatoes.  Scorched pieces clung to the sides and the bottom of the pot.

I had only 4 un-peeled potatoes.  If I threw out the scorched ones and started over, those 4 spuds wouldn’t be enough to feed everybody.  Should my husband dash to the store to buy more?  The doorbell rang and our first guests arrived.  I would just have to salvage what I could.

Company came into the kitchen.  I smiled and chatted while trying to inconspicuously scrub the scorched potatoes from my pressure cooker.  My daughter cut the blackest spots off the potatoes.

Then, she noticed the pot holder that was under the very hot pressure cooker.  Just like the potatoes.  Scorched!

I finished cleaning the pot, peeled the last 4 potatoes, and put all of the potatoes back in the cooker.

Daughter: Did you put in enough water?

Me: I thought I did.  Put in more.

Me:  A little more

Me:  Maybe a wee bit more.

I put the spuds on the stove and mingled with the other family members who had recently arrived.  Back to the stove.  Nothing was happening.  No steam.

I hadn’t turned on the element.

I turned it on and busied myself with other things.  Ten minutes later, still no steam.  Checked the pot.  Too much water.  Dumped some off.  Dumped more off.  And a bit more.  Would there be enough water now or would the potatoes get scorched — again?

I considered not serving potatoes.

Remember my difficulty with my rice cooker?  And that I had told my husband I was cooking like a new bride?  The thought crossed my mind that maybe my brain needed more dopamine* instead.  (Next year, the Health Department and the local fire department might ban me from cooking mashed potatoes.  Either them or the National Mental Health Association.)

It took FOREVER for the potatoes to cook.  The turkey was getting cold.  How much longer before we could sit down to eat?

When I finally took the potatoes off the stove, I had a hard time getting the cooking rack out of the bottom of the pot.  After a battle, it finally came out.  As I whipped the potatoes (would the extra milk and butter hide the scorched taste?), they went flying all over the cupboard, ceiling, and floor — and me.

We finally sat down to dinner 45 minutes late.

What is it with me and mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving Day?

Dear family members:  if perchance you read this post (and learn what was really happening in the kitchen yesterday while you were in the family room ooo-ing and aah-ing over Natalie), please realize that I don’t normally cook like this.   Sometimes it’s worse.  But please, don’t let what happened yesterday stop you from coming over and eating again at our home.  Please!

Question:  What can I learn from this?
A.  Cook the potatoes before company comes so I’m not distracted
B.  Have someone else bring the mashed potatoes
C. Suggest we eat at Chuck-a-Rama instead

*Dopamine controls the flow of information from other areas of the brain, especially memory, attention and problem-solving tasks

Worried about gaining weight on Thanksgiving?  Are your math skills shored up enough for the mind-numbing calorie counting that looms on your eating horizon?  Do you have haunting nightmares about succumbing to the allure of eating piece after piece of delicious pie?

Fear not!  The Lewis Weight Loss program is for you.  Cast off all of those worries.  They will hound you no more.

The Lewis Weight Loss program doesn’t require you to count calories. You don’t have to exercise till you drop dead.  Nor do you have to buy special foods.  And, after the initial treatment, having enough will power will never be a problem again.  With our program, weight loss is guaranteed or your money back.

The Lewis Weight Loss program consists of two simple steps*:

• Purchase teeth whitening gel (that is double the strength that you are used to)
• Leave the teeth whitening tray (filled with that lovely double powered gel) on your teeth for over double the recommended length of time

That’s all there is to it!

When you remove your tray, you will notice that your gums are hanging in milky white shreds.  Do not worry.  This is normal.

Your gums and teeth will ache like there is no tomorrow.  Do not worry.  This is normal.  This curbs any desire what-so-ever for eating (or putting anything into your mouth) for the rest of your life. Guaranteed or your money back.

Repeat process when there is the slightest hint that the pain is receding (which scientific research proves will never happen in your lifetime).

*Fine print:  A teeth whitening tray is a prerequisite for participaitng this outstanding program.

The last time I wrote about riding public transportation to work was on October 9th.  I promised if you wouldn’t stop reading that post I wouldn’t write about the bus for a month.  You finished reading (that was so nice of you) and I exercised self-control and didn’t write anything about the bus.  Success!  That sure wasn’t easy though, let me tell you.

Now that my self-imposed deadline has come and gone, I just have to vent.  Vent, vent, vent!  Venting is good.

Last week, a man started riding the bus.  He’s never ridden it before.  AND HE SAT IN MY SEAT!!!!  (Netiquette states that writing in all caps is tantamount to yelling.  My point exactly.)

For 1.75 years, I have been sitting in that very same seat, day after day, week after week, and month after month.  It is my intention to sit in the same seat until I retire and cease and desist riding the bus.  It’s kind of like sitting in the same pew at church.  It’s my seat.  I’ve laid claim to it.  Nobody else is allowed to sit in it.  Nobody.   Got that?

Why that particular seat? you ask.  First, it’s as far away from the air conditioner as I can get.  That means that during the summer my layer of permafrost only increases incrementally.

Second, the heater is underneath that seat.  When the bus driver finally decides to turn the heater on in the winter, the heat blasts directly on my legs charring them down to my subcutaneous tissue.  I love it when that happens.

I could sit in the seat behind him but Ms. Stone Face sits there.

Both Mr. Seat Stealer and Ms. Stone Face put over-stuffed book bags on the seat next to them sending out the unspoken message ‘don’t you dare sit by me!’  I could nonchalantly indicate I wanted to sit in that seat but that would look really dumb because the bus is almost totally empty and there are plenty of other seats.  But those seats are heater-challenged — and I want to sit where I’ll be warm.

I glared at him yesterday as I got on the bus.  He looked quizzically back at me not sure why I was so angry with him.  Can’t he read my mind?  Oh, I forget.  He’s a man.

Maybe I ought to beat him up tomorrow and teach him a lesson.  Maybe I should whack his kneecaps with a tire iron.  Maybe I ought to post a ‘you sit here you die’ sign on the seat.

My youngest son says that I am truculent.  I wonder how in the world he ever got that idea?

*truculent (adjective) meaning aggressively hostile; belligerent.

Over the years, I have heard people rave about their rice cooker.  A while back at work, I had a “meeting” with my student employees.  As part of that “meeting,” we cooked a yummy chicken/rice dish.  It was a great meeting.

One of the students brought his rice cooker to fix the rice.  This was my first up close and personal experience with one.  I was impressed.  It cooked the rice so fast.  And clean up was slicker than a whistle.  I was used to cooking rice in a heavy pressure cooker — and then dreading the clean up afterward.

My wonderful husband gave me a rice cooker for my birthday — in addition to the Beatle’s Rock Band, an extra guitar, and a Wii.  Man can’t live on Beatle’s music alone, you know.  That silly husband now expects me to stop playing Rock Band long enough to toss him a crumb of food once in a while.  He sure does have high expectations.

Even though the rice cooker didn’t even come close to my heart as did the Rock Band, I was still happy to get one.  And then I used it.

First batch.  White fluffy rice?  A gooey glob on the light side of charcoal was more like it.

Second batch.  A layer of crunchy, overcooked rice on the bottom with raw grains scattered throughout.

Third batch.  Same as the second.

Every time I used it, a geyser of starchy goo erupted from the little steam vent on the lid and spewed all over the cooker, the counter top, and clear into Illinois.  (The O’Hare International Airport in Chicago was shut down for hours.)  I hate it when that geyser happens.  So does the airport.

“I’m cooking like a new bride,” I lamely tell my husband.  He smiles politely, pats me encouragingly on the shoulder, and secretly wishes he could order out.

Totally disgruntled with this machine that is supposed to be the end-all of rice cooking, I did a search on the Internet to see what I was doing wrong.  ‘Rinse the rice till the water runs clear.’  (Don’t you like it how that sentence sounds when you say it out-loud?  Rinse the rice till the water runs clear . . . great alliteration!)  Did that.  More searching, searching, searching.

Then, someone said you have this problem with cheap rice.  Well, cheap Nina buys cheap rice.  What else would you expect, I ask you.

I’m skeptical.  Isn’t rice all the same?  I know that there is long grain rice, short grain rice, and minute rice but other than that isnt’ the only difference the name on the label?  I guess cheap and skeptical Nina will have to buy a SMALL bag of non-cheap rice to see if this solves the problem.  Hrumph!

If that really does solve the problem, what’s a body to do with 20 pounds of cheap rice in her pantry?  Anybody having a wedding in the near future?