A Walker in the Suburbs

In the homespun calculus of cooking, lasagna does not present a terribly difficult equation. But recent attempts at concocting the dish have reminded me that shortcuts make a difference.

Take no-boil noodles, for example. They save time but require liquid. Which also means they require more thought, especially if one uses a recipe meant for boiled noodles, which I did.

In the end, anything made with six cups of cheese is bound to be good. But now that I’ve started this lasagna gig, I’d like to perfect it.

Next time, I’ll make a more liquid-y sauce. That is, after I eat up all the left-over lasagna from this round!

(Photo: Wikipedia)

As in a cushy chair or ample love seat.

Or a wicked stepsister’s foot in a delicate glass slipper.

Or a bag of leaves crammed to bursting (as I look over a backyard full of leaves that need cramming).

Or a two bushel baskets of gourds in one bushel basket.

Overstuffed is how I felt last night after the turkey, dressing (two types), mashed potatoes (two types), green beans (two types), corn, cranberry sauce, roasted brussels sprouts and cauliflower, roasted root vegetables, autumn slaw and rolls.

And that was before the apple crumble, chocolate cookies and pumpkin praline pie.

Maybe no eating today?

On a lunchtime walk through the neighborhood yesterday I smelled what I imagined was a hot lunch bubbling away on a stove. It smelled vaguely tomato-ey, and made me feel cozy and warm, as if I would soon stroll into a kitchen, pull up a chair and dig into a plate of spaghetti.

Instead, I ate my usual salad.

What is it about the hot lunch? It’s old-fashioned, for sure, because someone must be home to cook it.   In fact, it extends further back than I can remember, to a time when people worked close enough to their homes to eat lunch there.

It implies small towns, then, or the Venice of Commissar Brunetti mystery novels. Guido Brunetti often eats lunch at home, if I recall, but he (in addition to being fictional) lives in a place that builds its society around the big lunch and the long siesta.

That will not happen here, I know. But a walker can dream.

(Photo: wikipedia)

Celia subscribes to a cereal blog, in which she gets the latest word on campaigns and brands. I haven’t gone that far, but I am a big fan of a certain cereal, and I want to take a moment to sing its praises.

For this year’s birthday dinner I asked for — and received — an old favorite: fried chicken. It was yummy! The older (!) I get the more I return to my culinary roots: friend chicken (southern style), mashed potatoes, sandwiches on white bread.

These are not gourmet delicacies. They’re not something one even admits to eating these days. And to be fair, they are treats, not my steady diet (which runs more along vegetable lines).

But they are tasty and lacking in pretension. You know where you stand with them. The world is crazy these days. Bring on the comfort foods!

It was 18 degrees when I woke up. The daffodils are nodding, the forsythia is quaking and I don’t even want to know about the rose bush. Still, winter weather has its consolations. One of them is soup.

This morning I had a sudden craving for my dad’s vegetable soup, rich and tomatoey with potatoes and carrots and celery and peas. So I started rooting through the freezer and pantry.

First I located a frozen soup bone, then a pack of frozen stew beef, left over from when I made beef bourguignon in the crock pot a few weekends ago. There were a few old potatoes in the larder and a half-forgotten stalk of celery in the bottom crisper drawer. Onions aplenty. Even two cans of tomatoes. There was, in short, everything I needed to make soup.

… Or almost everything. As I write this post I realize what’s missing. The V-8 juice. That’s what gives the broth its richness and flavor.

Too late now.  The soup bone is simmering. And the grocery store is only minutes away.