It’s Not Easy, Being Green.

As a lefty/crunchy granola/pop-culture influenced foodie type, I am well aware that “green is the word.” I read Michael Pollan, Russ Parsons, and Barbara Kingsolver. I watch the network entirely devoted to all things green, from Ed Begley Jr. installing solar panels and a rain barrel to Emeril teaching the clueless how to cook entire meals using only the vegetable section of Whole Foods. I recycle, I re-purpose, I shop at the Farmers Market, I covet the Prius, I make my own non-toxic cleaning products, and I am always meaning to start composting. Conceptually I am in. Way, way in.

Here’s the thing, though. It is very, very expensive to be green. The only eco-friendly things that I do that actually save money are making my own cleaning products, using cloth rags and napkins instead of buying paper, and using energy-efficient light bulbs. It may be TMI, but I will tell you that money is very tight around here these days, as it is for many people.

We don’t have a Whole Foods in these parts, but I know from a variety of sources that there is a  high price to be paid for all of that fresh, organic wonderfulness. I know firsthand that the small selection of organic produce available at our local health food store and co-op is much more expensive than the same produce at my grocery store, and that I pay farmers at the market at least 10% more per item than I would pay at said grocery. Whenever cash flow allows, I buy all of my weekly produce at the Farmers Market, and I love everything about it, from the contact with the farmers to the knowledge that my family is supporting local agriculture. When cash doesn’t allow, I buy my eggplants, zucchini, onions and melons at the large grocery store where I buy everything else. At this time of year, because we live in farm country, much of what I purchase at the grocery store is locally grown, and I look for those things. I still feel guilty.

I continue to feel guilty when I do not buy the line of grass-fed beef sold at our grocery store because it is TWICE AS MUCH as the undoubtedly chemical-fed, tortured, ill-used beef I feed my family. Organic milk is at least a dollar more a carton than “regular,” and organic, minimally processed anything is generally more expensive than it’s more processed counterpart. Since Rob and I started eating healthy/low carb I have noticed that highly processed, refined “crap snacks” are infinitely cheaper and likelier to be on sale than the vegetables, nuts and cheese that we eat in their stead. Our one serious indulgence, low carb/reduced sugar ice cream bars are nearly twice as much as the full-sugar variety.  Quinoa costs more than rice, pasta or potatoes per serving, and low-glycemic pasta costs more than that made with white flour. Healthy costs more, green costs more, organic costs more.

The nervous tic near my right eye starts to twitch when I read statements by food pundits about how we are not used to paying what food is really worth, and that we have become used to a McDonalds and Walmart pricing system that makes us shocked at the prices of food that is produced in ways that are humane and earth-friendly. I am not a frequent McDonalds customer, I will not shop at Walmart, but I am still a person working within a tight budget with a growing boy in the house. We have to have enough food in the house that I can make filling, healthy meals, and we can have reasonable snacks. If, to quote the Barenaked Ladies, I had a million dollars, I would be all over the grass fed beef, the locally grown produce and the hormone free milk. Until then, I buy what I can afford. And feel guilty.

Cleaning products and paper goods are another whole issue good for a little guilt action an my part. I make my own cleaning products which are incredibly cheap, as effective as anything I can buy, and safer for my family and pets. Win-win. I use rags instead of paper towels; even win-nier. I try not to use plastic wrap and bags, which drives Rob crazy, and which I’m still working on, but, if it works, it’s both green and economical. I also use trash bags made of recycled plastic which tend to be punctured with a mere glance, and recycled toilet paper which is kind of like what you’d find in a campground bathroom, both of which make Rob even crazier, but he puts up with it because he loves me. I hit the wall when it comes to laundry and dish washing products. It’s really hard to make your own laundry soap; I’ve never seen a “recipe” for detergent, spot remover or fabric softener. The same is true of dishwasher soap. The last time I shopped for such things, my budget allowed me to buy “green” laundry soap and dish soap, but even then I could not countenance the incredible expense of green dishwasher soap which, according to my sources, doesn’t even work very well. Next time out, I may just have to buy the bottle of Palmolive dish soap on sale for $1.50 instead of the Seventh Generation version for $3.00+.  Sometimes, it’s what I have to do, but I’ll still feel guilty about the pollutants I’m rinsing into our water supply.

I have only touched on the purchases we make that are subject to green scrutiny, internal and otherwise. Shampoo and conditioner from one of the health-food store lines is two to three times more expensive than Pantene or Herbal Essences. Pet food is vastly more expensive. Deodorant, toothpaste, dog shampoo, canned soup, crackers, yogurt, cereal…all a great deal more expensive in their organic/green formats.

The point of this rant, I guess, is that it is very easy to preach about the value of the grass fed, the solar, the phosphate-free and the organic when you are in a position to afford it all. My mother has wisely reminded me that much of the preaching is not directed at me; I already know and understand ecological “best practices,” and implement them as often as possible. The fact that I feel guilty when I make the choices I have to make is really my own issue. What about the people who have less money than I do, though? What about the people who buy food from the dollar menu at McDonald’s because it’s really, truly cheaper than buying the food to prepare a meal for the same number of people? What about the people who might save money if the drove a Prius, or installed solar panels, but who lack the funds? Is “being green” realistically the province only of the well-heeled and the folks whose lifestyles allow them to leave the grid completely? Maybe, until such time as the economic playing field is equalled a bit, there should be less bully pulpit and more compassion and assistance.

It will be a beautiful day when green choices are similar in cost to less green choices, but until then I can honestly live without affluent greenazis looking down their noses at those of us who still shop at regular grocery stores, drive gas-burning vehicles and commit various other sins against the environment. I’m betting that my IQ and social consciousness are a good match for the best of them; all they have that I don’t have is enough money to buy a Prius and spend $7.00 on organic dishwasher soap.

Cavatippi

While I was cooking this dish, I was trying to think of a song to celebrate my love of Cavatippi pasta. When you have played in pit orchestras and have a lot of gay friends, the mind turns naturally to the musical. I tried “Cav’tippi, I just cracked a box of cav’tippi…” sung to the tune of “Maria” from Westside Story. It didn’t scan well, so I bastardized a little Rogers & Hammerstein: “Caaaavatippi where the cheese sticks neatly in the twists….”

Whilst I was singing, I was making this really good, fresh thing. I found the recipe in this month’s “Cooking Light,” and was pleased to see that it included pasta, but had enough vegetables in it that the carb content was fine for us. We are trying to work some carbs back into our diet, but even in “healthy cooking” cookbooks and recipes it isn’t uncommon to find recipes with a carb count above (gulp) 70. In order for us to eat something that high in carbs it would have to involve enough fiber content to make a small woven mat, and we’d have to walk to a neighboring state after dinner.

The recipe also calls for what is freshest and best right this minute, and all of the produce I used was from my last trip to the Farmer’s Market. The original recipe, which is designed for “quick cooking” calls for purchased chopped onion and bottled garlic, but I was cooking for delicious and not the land speed record.It would have been okay, but it would be sad to use beautiful fresh zucchini, corn and tomatoes, and…bottled garlic.

Mid-dinner, Rob said “I need to tell you something about this dinner.” I braced myself. “It’s awesome” he said. What more can I say? Everything’s up to date in Cavatippi?

Cavatippi with Bacon and Summer Vegetables

(adapted from the August, 2009 “Cooking Light” Magazine)

Makes 4 2-cup servings

Per serving: 32.6 grams of carbohydrate; 4 grams fiber; 28.6 Net Carbs

1. 8 ounces uncooked cavatipppi (the recipe calls for regular pasta, but it would be healthier with a higher fiber variety)
2. 4 slices center-cooked bacon, chopped
3. 2 teaspoons olive oil
4. 1 cup chopped onion
5. 1 teaspoon minced garlic
6. 1 medium zucchini cut in quarters and sliced 1/4 inch thick
7. 1 cup fresh corn kernels (about 2 ears)
8. 1 pint grape tomatoes
9. 1/2 cup shaved (or grated) Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
10. 1/4 cup small, fresh basil leaves (I used larger leaves, but cut them into chiffonade)
11. salt and pepper to taste

1. Cook pasta according to package instructions

2. While pasta is cooking, cook bacon in large skillet over medium-high heat until crisp, about 5 minutes. Remove bacon from pan with slotted spoon, leaving drippings in pan; add oil to pan. Add onion and garlic to pan and sautee 2 minutes. Add zucchini, cook 3 more minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in corn and tomatoes, cook 5 more minutes, or until tomatoes burst, stirring occasionally. Add pasta to vegetable mixture, stir, and cook 1 minute. Remove from heat and add bacon, cheese and basil; stir to combine. Serve with extra cheese as an option.

The Spice Rub That Cannot be Named

I have known my friend Vicki since we were twelve. Without being excessively specific, that’s a long, long time. I met her when I got involved with our community theater, where she was already in a play (I was, at that point, just providing a baby doll to serve as a prop) and I knew instantly that she was not only taller, but quite a lot cooler than I was. For the next seven years we were in plays, orchestras, quartets and classes together, and spent a fair amount of recreational time together, too. Her legs alone are taller than all of me, she is a math whiz, she is the only person I know who was simaltaneously in band, choir and orchestra, she has a rapier-sharp wit, and (perhaps most important) she is a loyal and kind friend, and a really good mom.

We live in the same place again now, after my years of wandering, and she recently returned from a trip South with a bag of goodies for me including fig jam, barbecue sauce and the unfortunately named “Butt Rub.” (Hereinafter “Stuff.”) Since I am a delicate and ladylike person, it took me a little while to get over the shock of seeing the, um, “Stuff” on my counter. (I am one of those extraordinarily old fashioned mothers who will not allow my kids to say the word “butt,” at least not in my hearing). There is also the inevitable, and probably intentional evocation of Desitin to deal with. I am far, far too pure to live in this world of sin and crudity….

Last night I decided to get over myself and use the “Stuff” on some chicken breasts headed grillward. The mixture includes salt, pepper, onion, garlic, paprika, and smoked chipotle powder, and no sugar. The label said it was good on chicken, and so it’s presence in my kitchen dovetailed perfectly with my increasing sense of desparation about serving chicken breasts in one of my two marinades for the 300th time. I sprinkled “Stuff” on both sides of each boneless, skinless breast, Rob cooked them in the usual manner, and the post-grilling result was chicken with a complex spiciness and a beautiful brown color. It was wonderful, and elevated the lowly Lean Protein to new heights.

Whether or not one is on a diabetic or low-carb diet, it is a lovely thing to be able to add a burst of flavor to something fairly mundane. It’s easier than making a marinade, and (according to Rob) does not create the flareup of fire caused by oil-based dressings. It is very salty, and I’d probably use a little less next time, but use it I will – on pork, eggs, unbuttered popcorn, zucchini…anything that needs a little zip.  I think it is probably phenomenal as a dry rub on “real” barbecue, but I’m more likely to use it for more prosaic daily cooking.

I’m grateful for __ years of knowing Vicki, I’m grateful for the “Stuff,” and I am ridiculously pleased by the fact that someone thought about me on a trip and brought me something that is so much fun to play with. If only it was called “Spice Elegante,” or maybe “Massage de Cochon.” {Sigh.}

Off the Wagon and Into a Coma

It has been more than two months since Rob and I embarked on our plan to lower his blood sugar and improve our general health. We are both a size smaller and falling, thanks to a strict regimen of low carbs, high fiber, and 2-3 mile walks almost every day of the week. When I am not surreptitiously twirling the waist of my formerly tightest skirt around my waist just because I can, I am looking for new things for us to try – most recently Ezekiel Bread, about which more later. Rob graciously and enthusiastically eats smaller meals with piles of vegetables, and sets new challenges for his daily run-walk. We are generally the beatific poster children of Success Through Healthy Living.

Here’s the thing, though: we still live in the same world we inhabited before The Reformation, and an important part of making really lasting change is developing the capacity to be a little flexible sometimes, and then climb right back onto the wagon. When one is a dinner guest, for example, it is beyond rude to pick through food, announcing what you “can’t” eat. We are not allergic to carbohydrates, and are unlikely to die as the result of consuming a half cup of fruit salad, or a cookie. It is far worse karma, in my opinion, to devalue the hard work of someone who has cooked for you than it is to eat a respectable portion of whatever it is and then add a half mile of walking or some sprints on the stairs to burn it off.

Aside from situations in which someone else would be hurt or embarrassed if we refrained, there are certain rituals and milestones of life that call (in our culture, anyway) for celebration. I make possibly the best carrot cake in the universe (and I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true), and I make it three times a year: for Father’s Day, for Rob’s's birthday, and for my father’s birthday. It isn’t hard to make, but it is incredible, incredibly rich and caloric; even in the days when we consumed calories like the government spends money, it was not a regular household commodity. I didn’t make the cake for Father’s Day, because that was the month we had to lower Rob’s's blood sugar or face the insulin. Since we were doing so well, I decided that we could have some for Rob’s birthday celebration, although we could each only have one piece, and the balance of the cake was to be left at my parents’ house where we couldn’t succumb to it’s considerable charms.

Last night we went out to dinner as a final flourish to the four day celebration of the birthday, and the cake was to be the grand finale. Knowing this, I ate pretty reasonably at the restaurant – an appetizer of ricotta and mozzarella wrapped in eggplant (no carbs), a salad with nuts and cheese (low carbs) and a piece of salmon with “hold the rice and extra vegetables.” I confess to snitching approximately two inches of bread, which was divine, but I did stop after that. Rob ate, along with a steak, a fried calamari appetizer (!), a whole baked potato (!!), bread (!!!) and two IPAs (!!!!). At my parents’ house we had our cake, and I confess that I was already so full that I couldn’t finish mine. At that point, I felt uncomfortably full, and very, very sleepy. Rob wasn’t doing much better.

Within 30 minutes of arriving at our own house, we were lying in agony on couch and chair, looking and feeling like beached whales waiting for the crew with the yellow tape to come and cordon us off until we could swim away safely. My stomach hurt, I could not stay awake (at 9:00 PM) and even when I slept I was uncomfortable. We had consumed meals which, three months ago, would have seemed perfectly reasonable – even modest, aside from the carrot cake, and we were in agony. In my case it had taken nothing more sinister than part of a piece of carrot cake to do me in.

There is no question that we have learned from this experiment. We have to be able to acommodate the odd treat in order to live in our world, and prior to last night’s debacle we had suffered no ill-effects from the odd cookie or large serving of rice. On the other hand, we are apparently not up to an evening of eating like we used to. Last night’s meal was the culinary equivalent of Antabuse, and I need nothing more to drive me straight back to the land of the un-processed, un-fried and low carb. I judge no one who can enjoy a great meal and a slab of carrot cake; there are millions of healthy, active folks who could have killed last night’s dinner without a backward glance. Not I. (Apparently, not Rob, either). I honestly can’t wait for tonight’s grilled chicken, quinoa and zucchini, and an hour on the walking path.

The Goods

When I planned the menu for last Wednesday’s catering job, I knew that I needed something “lunchy,” something that could be prepped ahead and assembled at the last minute, something cool for summer, and something spice-less for an older crowd. I went retro, a little, making what I think of as “ladies luncheon” sandwiches of tuna, chicken and egg salad on white sandwich bread lined with butter to keep them from getting soggy.

Having made that decision, I needed recipes. I make chicken salad that I love (she said, modestly), but it contains avocados, which not everyone loves as much as we do, so I decided to find something better. Ditto on the tuna salad; my dirty little secret is that I like tuna salad made with Miracle Whip and onions, but that was not up to the standards of elegance I had in mind.  I had recently found an egg salad recipe to die for (in one of those mysteries-with-recipes that I read when I am not reading the complete works of Thomas Hardy) so I was okay on that front. To find chicken salad and tuna salad recipes in a reasonable amount of time) since I was billing by the hour) I turned to one of the most amazing resources available to me: allrecipes.com. I looked for recipes that had the highest user ratings based on many reviews, sorted through that group to weed out anything that didn’t fit my needs, and then used their quantity calculator to multiply the recipe so that I could make 30-some servings of each salad to add up to a total of 100 sandwiches. It worked like a charm.

I will admit that, in the case of the chicken and tuna salad recipes, I did not make a test batch. I usually do test recipes, particularly if they are intriguing, but I can’t get a good read on how the finished product will taste. (Or if they are complicated and multi-step and involve techniques I haven’t tried before). In this case, my excuse is that I have enough experience in the kitchen that I could easily imagine the finished product, there were no “controversial” techniques or ingredients, and each recipe had been tried and raved about by literally hundreds before me. Had I been preparing, say, an Eel and Michigan Cherry stir-fry, I would absolutely have tried it out first.

I will tell you that all three of these recipes are superlative. To die for. They are not particularly healthy, although they are really fine from the low-carb or diabetic point of view – have a sandwich on whole grain or Ezekiel Bread, or rolled up in lettuce leaves, and you’re fine. They are also a little fussy for daily cooking; I might make the chicken salad and omit the whipped cream, or skip the softened cream cheese in the egg salad. On the other hand, sometimes it is a really great thing to have something luscious and elegant in the refrigerator that is going to make you go into orbit at lunch.(In place of that sad little container of leftovers, or a carton of yogurt).

Please to enjoy:

Norman’s Egg Salad

(from The Cream Puff Murder by Joanne Fluke)

Makes 12 Sandwiches

4 cups peeled and chopped hard-boiled eggs (that’s about a dozen)
1/2 c. cooked, crumbled bacon or  purchased pre-cooked and crumbled bacon
1 Tablespoon fresh, chopped parsley
1/4 cup grated carrot
4 ounces cream cheese
1/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder or minced, fresh garlic
1/2 teaspoon onion powder or 1 teaspoon freshly minced onion
salt and pepper to taste

1. Peel and chop the eggs (not too fine; you want some texture), add the bacon, parsley and carrot and mix well.

2. Put the cream cheese in a small bowl and microwave for 30 seconds on “high” to soften it. When it’s easily stirred, add sour cream and mayonnaise, and mix well.

3. Stir garlic and onion into cream micture.

Add cream mixture to eggs, stir, and add salt and pepper to taste.; Chill until ready to serve.

Barbie’s Tuna Salad

(From allrecipes.com)

Makes 4 Sandwiches

1 (7 ounce) can white tuna, drained and

flaked

6 tablespoons mayonnaise or salad dressing

1 tablespoon Parmesan cheese

3 tablespoons sweet pickle relish

1/8 teaspoon dried minced onion flakes

1/4 teaspoon curry powder

1 tablespoon dried parsley

1 teaspoon dried dill weed

1 pinch garlic powder

Directions:

1. In a medium bowl, stir together the tuna, mayonnaise, Parmesan cheese, and onion flakes. Season with curry powder, parsley, dill and garlic powder. Mix well and serve with crackers or on a sandwich.

Creamy Chicken Salad

(adapted from allrecipes.com)

Makes 12 Sandwiches

1/2 cup whipping cream

1/2 cup smoked almonds

4 poached* boneless chicken breast

halves

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 tablespoon minced fresh tarragon

salt and pepper to taste

1.	Whip cream to soft peaks. Chop almonds in food processor. If desired, shred chicken or chop finely.
2.	In a large bowl combine the cream, almonds, chicken, mayonnaise, tarragon, salt and pepper. Mix well and serve. *I poach chicken by placing it in a crock pot over a bed of carrots, celery and a halved onion, over “low” heat until tender and opaque, about 6 hours. You can also do this in a large pan on the stove top.

Catering to My Chef Fantasy

I am, in this post, going to be so un-cool and nakedly, ridiculously “wannabe” that you will be ashamed to be reading what I write. You will avert your collective eyes from the pathetic, needy train wreck that is Annie, and cluck gently to yourselves. All I ask is that you examine your own psyche as you read, and ask yourself this:  if you had a chance to fulfill a long-cherished dream (a day on the catwalk, an appearance on Face the Nation, a game as starting quarterback with the Steelers ) if you wouldn’t just carpe the diem, willing to appear foolish rather than let the opportunity pass.

If you are a food person (I am currently against the use of the term “foodie” for no very good reason) you know that you secretly believe you could be a chef. Like me, you watch “Top Chef,” and “Iron Chef” and all of those other chefs, and say to yourself “I could do that.” You glorify and envy the cut and burn scars of real chefs, and you wonder what kind of chef-ly footwear you would choose, and if you would wear whites, or choose something more expressive of your unique, chef-ly self. You sneer secretly at the rubber chicken at the wedding reception, knowing that you could have fed 200 guests something tender, flavorful, and creative. Admit it.

When I was asked to be the “Backup Hospitality Person” at a local church, I had all of this in my mind. I was asked to provide food and flowers for a memorial service reception. The event, which took place yesterday, was at noon, and about 100 people were expected. I made lists, I made lists on my lists, I made phone calls to line up volunteer helpers from the church, and I did reconnaissance in the large, professional kitchen where I would be working. I’ll admit that I considered ordering a knife roll.

My menu for yesterday’s event was chicken salad, egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches, a bowl of mixed fruit, and cookies to be provided by the brigade of Church Ladies who are the Protestant equivalent of The Keebler Elves. (Well, with better shoes). I estimated my planning, shopping, cooking and serving time at about 8 hours total, priced the necessary items, and submitted an estimate to the client.  I was limited to shopping at the places where the church had an account, so I went first to Gordon Food Service, where I discovered that in this part of the world they do not carry the fresh herbs and other produce lovingly depicted on their website. The only produce (and I use that term loosely) is bagged carrots and onions, and gargantuan bags of iceberg lettuce and cole slaw mix. They also have vats of something called “Extra Heavy Duty Mayonnaise” which is described as having extra egg content, and astonishing powers to bind ingredients and keep them bound. Kind of like Superglue for food. Once I recovered from my mayo shock,  I admit that I was sidetracked for quite a while looking at chef jackets.

Naive creature that I am, I decided that the grocery store at which I also had shopping privileges (L & L in East Lansing, if you’re interested) might give me a better array of produce. I looked, and on the day I was there I saw what looked like fresh melons, grapes and berries, an encouraging assortment of packaged herbs, and the usual array of onions, garlic and other basic items. On my way home from that trip, my cell phone rang. It was the senior pastor at the church telling me that a member, a prominent and well-loved member of the community, had died the previous night, and asking whether I was available to “take care” of the reception after the funeral. It was to be held in two days, the Monday before the Wednesday of the already-scheduled reception. I said “sure,” with visions of culinary fame dancing in my head. He said “300-500 people,” and the adrenaline thing started. That meant a 4:00 “light snack” for 300-500 people on Monday, and lunch for 100 on Wednesday, and what the HELL was I thinking? I called the family, they requested crackers and cheese and cookies, and I contacted the volunteer list again, only to discover that most of them could not spend hours at the church on both Monday and Wednesday, and that most of them were also unable to bake another 3 or 4 batches of cookies in a single week. I was staring down the barrel of 50 dozen cookies and 40 pounds of cheese, feeling very much like those 12-year-olds who take the family car for a spin, only to be apprehended by the local constabulary about the time they run into the sign in front of the Dairy Queen.

I made more lists, and sent out an SOS to my friends, who came through in admirable fashion. My friend Anne, in Nashville (who really is a caterer) told me how much I needed to feed the projected crowd, gave me a great recipe for a cheese ball and a fruit tea, and reminded me that “it’s not brain surgery; it’s just food.” This became my mantra. She also told me that I might just have to break down and buy cubed cheese, as well as a couple of wheels of Brie, because otherwise I would be cutting cheese for the ensuing 72 hours. Bakers came out of the woodwork as the days passed, and my friends Amy and Julie volunteered both to bake cookies and to help me at the reception. They are not Church Ladies, not at the church in question, anyway, and their willingness to spend a day slogging in the kitchen just to help me out has earned them enough karma that they will both surely be reincarnated as the pampered children of affluent families that own horses and live near the beach.

I went to Gordon’s and bought huge, huge quantities of cheese and crackers, as well as an economy vat of mixed nuts. I ordered flowers and supplemented them with Queen Anne’s Lace and various other flora that Rob and I stole from the side of our walking path on Saturday evening. I bought 15 dozen bakery cookies, and fruit, for garnish. I spent all of Sunday in the inferno-like church kitchen, baking cookies, making cheese balls, and pulling serving pieces. I learned, the hard way, that only one of the many sinks in the kitchen has a Dispos-all, and that it was necessary either to work next to that sink, or to dig repulsive scraps from the bottom of a wrong sink by hand, and carry them to the right sink. I could not find the scissors, and spent an agonizing period of at least an hour hacking the stems off of daisies with a dullish Chef’s knife. I went back Monday morning and started all over again, and worked from 8:00 in the morning until 7:00 that evening. The reception went splendidly, there were 500 people, and I believe that they all left comforted by the time they spent drinking iced tea, nibbling cheese and crackers and remembering the life of a beloved husband, father and colleague.

Tuesday morning I was on the road at 8:00 to buy food for Wednesday’s event. After a trip to Gordon’s to buy a dozen chicken breasts, a giant can of tuna, three dozen eggs and 10 loaves of bread, I went to the grocery store to buy the “fresh” items. There were approximately 7 canteloupes on display, all of which were approximately the texture of water ballooons. I needed 3, and desparately searched for any that did not easily meet in the middle when squeezed. I bought onions, and garlic, and plastic packets of tarragon and parsley, trying hard not to think about what beautiful specimens I could have purchased from a local Farmer’s Market, or even from my own grocery store.

Back in the inferno, I set about poaching chicken, hard boiling eggs, and mixing 15 pounds of cole slaw in a gargantuan cauldron. When it came time to use the onions, I discovered that a quarter of those in the bag were afflicted with some Ancient Onion Disease which left them pulpy, black in spots, and with an odd, pickled scent. Even those that passed visual inspection lacked the potency of, well, an onion. The packaged herbs were dessicated and shriveled in ways not visible at the time of purchase, and I spent perhaps an hour hunting stem by stem for usable leaves. The cantaloupes were nothing more than pulp in a flexible shell; I salvaged any pieces that looked as if they might retain their shape for 24 hours, and pitched the rest. This did not, in any way resemble the experience of the contestants on Top Chef Masters who are carted off to buy food at Whole Foods, where they selected from an embarrassment of fresh produce. I had no time to return to the store and present the evidence, and even if I had, it was clear at this point that they had nothing acceptable with which to replace it. I had no other venue available to me to buy new supplies, and if I had, I would have gone over the agreed-upon budget. The adrenaline kept a-coming.

As I cooked, I listened to music out loud; I usually do this at home, and I didn’t want to wear headphones while cooking alone in the basement of a huge, old building with all of it’s doors to the outside open for those attending various evening meetings. As I diced the poached chicken and swayed to “Red, Red Wine,” finally relaxing into my task, a gentleman in a suit appeared in the doorway to tell me that he was holding a meeting in the room next to the kitchen, and that they would like to have their doors open because it was so hot. I offered to turn down my music, and was glad that I had done so when I later discovered that they were having an AA meeting. Fortunately, my mix did not also include “Mexican Wine,” “Margaritaville” or “Cold Gin.”

Wednesday, I had lots of help. Cookies poured in in waves, Church Ladies appeared to assemble sandwiches and plate cookies, and the adorable husband of the female pastor came to help me haul large objects and do all the dishes. The luncheon was a success, the family was pleased, and I had a blissful hour of the contentment that comes from feeding people who appreciate your effort. Of course, after the last guests left, there was the loading of the bus carts, the packaging of leftovers for the local Womens’ shelter, and the washing of the dishes.

After cooking, shopping, setting up, serving and worrying for four days and nights, I am left with a better idea of my potential as a chef, or (more possibly) a caterer. I planned good menus, and I made good food; of those things I am sure. I vastly underestimated the time it would take me to do anything, and I am left in the position of sticking to what I quoted on the second event, which means I worked more than 8 hours for nothing. I learned that it would have been better to have left any sketchy looking food at the store and changed my menu, although I honestly couldn’t have foretold the icky onions or herbs until I actually tried to use them. Next time I will have a credit card, which will give me the freedom to buy what is freshest and best, instead of being at the mercy of a store that can’t stock decent produce in high summer in a state full of farms. I have cuts and burns, I have sore feet, and the days of adrenaline coursing through my veins has left me kind of a poor excuse for a human being. I’m also pretty sure that, even though it would be easier to purchase pre-made food and heat it up, I won’t. I just need to plan better, cook more efficiently and quote higher.

Finally, and maybe most significantly, I know now that I can do this. I can do it with no knife roll, no chef’s jacket and no Batali clogs. I also know that the pleasure of seeing a family sitting together sharing food and memories on a terribly sad, hard day, and knowing that I provided them with some ease and comfort on that day, erases all of the psychic wounds associated with rotten melons and blistered feet. I would do it all again tomorrow, and I’d do it better.