maggiethecat

Yeah, I'm guessing Marlene at her summer cottage. (Perhaps she changed her mind?)

The frozen department Trusty Tramp is that bag of Mixed Vegetables:corn, carrots, peas, green beans, lima beans. It's cheap and available and it's everywhere. It will turn a trick for 79 cents. Except for Trader Joe's haricot verts from France -- maybe the world's best frozen vegetable --I don't buy frozen green beans. Frozen peas are as good or better than fresh. Frozen corn is handy. Frozen carrots are silly. Frozen lima beans are sinful: I boil some up and eat them with butter, salt and pepper the way other folks pig out on ice cream. But mixed? What to do with them? I've added them to empanadas. I've boiled them up and served them cafeteria-style with lots of the above mentioned butter and s & p. Minus the corn, I suppose they could be dipped into a minestrone. A handful in the veloute for a chicken pot pie? (It would show it's industrial 79 cent tawdriness like a whore with a heart of gold at a garden party in Newport.) Is there a way to make mixed veg greater than the sum of it's parts? (A co-worker with a migraine problem used a bag of Mixed Veg as an ice pack. Management was not amused.)

This is just a great topic -- lauding the famous eG standards , like roast cauliflower (You're right, Lady T. In Grand Rapids the choufleur was history before the third bottle of Maker's Mark was broached) and learning about primo stuff I've overlooked. Like Smithy's eggplant. And how could I have failed to mention here the Potage Nero? NeroW's One of Each Soup? Suave, mysterious whether hot or cold. And oh, so easy.

I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for your stories and suggestions. Really. In fact, when I checked in a couple of minutes ago and read your suggestions, I wept. So many good people, and smart people. Thank you. I haven't cooked a thing since the mac and cheese, except for my Sunday morning bacon and eggs. But, oh the wonder of life! My sister Megan, who has literally cooked nothing in her 47 years, has stepped up. Meg (schizophrenic) has spent her life dealing, very vocally, with her demons and doing little else. No job, no relationships outside the family. She and her twin Julia (Downs syndrome) still live with my father. We bought a copy of "Great Food Fast" that compilation from Everyday Food Magazine before we left Ottawa because we thought it was simple , straightforward and every recipe had a pic. We bought it for my father. Megan grabbed that book and has cooked from it every single night. She hands Daddy a shopping list and she cooks. Real food. Pad Thai. Pork medallions with cabbage and apples. A different meal every night. This is a very troubled woman who spent all day.every day for fifteen years in her room blasting The Pogues, smoking and cursing at the top of her lungs. She took over the cooking and she's making meals we'd be proud to serve. Maybe that's the real story here -- some kind of karmic shift. What I've lost, Megan's gained.

The Lady is a Cook. Her skills are for sure underutilized! Marlene, what a gorgeous memorial dinner.

One of the most expensive meals I didn't pay for was courtesy of Gordon, a few years ago in Rochester. I remember that freezing night, his hospitality, and the chefs and waiters practically genuflecting before him. Thank you, Gordon. The most expensive meal I've paid for was at Le Baccarat in the Casino de Hull, now the Casino de Lac Leamy in Gatineau, Quebec. I took my parents. Three martinis, a bottle of wine, superb service and one of the five best restaurant meals of my life. Four hundred CDN. But I can discount that, I suppose. On the way out, my mother fell into a chat with the maitre d'. She said she loved the Egyptian cotton towels in the Ladies. He disappeared for a few seconds and returned with eight, which he gave to Madame with his compliments. I'd mentioned the beauty of the orchids on the tables. He snapped his fingers, talked to a waiter, and I left with a spray worthy of the Queen on a ceremonial visit. Some enchanted evening.

All of the delicious above, plus Jaymes's Caramel Popcorn. Easy, cheap, addictive, adored by everyone from toddlers to geezers.

If you're getting fast food, PJ can have some too. Fair is fair. Otherwise, don't stress. I know he gets a good dinner at home. And breakfast and lunch.

I have eaten ceviche exactly once in my life, at Frontera Grill in the packed Saturday-night bar waiting for a table. My now son-in-law chose it from the apps menu, and we balanced it on an elbow or a barstool -- the joint was that crowded. It was mind bending, and this from a woman who holds to the shamefully gauche position that most is fish better cooked (or smoked) than raw. I don't know what Rick Bayless did, but the ceviche was limey, fresh in the mouth, beautifully textured and maybe, maybe tequilaized. And my digestive system survived. Of course, Frontera probably turned this over like mad.

Jacques Pepin's The Apprentice is a classic in this genre.

Back in the day (as I may have reported years upthread) Suvir sent me a jar of this chutney. What can I say -- it was phenomenal. Great recipe. if only I had some tomatoes...

Pebs: I have egg connections in Galena too, though few and far between. You are a lucky person. Just a silly note: When I was in Canada this spring I bought some eggs labeled "Range free." A tad confusing, but I bought them anyway.

Dante, I know you're right. but we WASPs show the stiff upper lip and are bemused when we can't carry on. BTW, I did make mac and cheese last night, although I didn't literally dip in a toe. My husband was away, helping his sister, whose husband is dying of cancer too. (Yes, not in single spies, but in battalions.) My husband hates "white food" so I grabbed the opportunity. It was good, just to stir up a bechamel.

Dearest Sue, it went when I got home with the groceries to find Mummy dead in the living room. We called the doctor, got tubes unplugged, called the undertakers ... maybe an hour. I poured a martini for Daddy and me and said: "We're ordering pizza." That was it. I laid down my knife. I agree that daube weather might help. Perhaps entertaining will help.

Blushing to the roots of my hair. Blame it on the Negronis. Ok, 7) is your free choice. Name your own idiosyncratic harbinger of cocktail geekdom. Can you find a shared characteristic with your cocktail confreres?

You read that and think, "Yeah. You go, girl. Negronis rock." ← Negronis rule. Now, take my quiz.

I can't believe I haven't read this topic before. Oh heavens, how funny it is to a straight- ahead scotch and soda//Negroni/Gibson kind of girl. The less fuss and the strongest whiff of hooch the better, for me. I know several charming and smart lady mixologists, but I believe that this truly belongs to geeky men. You've all revealed your depths and heights of cocktail nuttiness here, but allow an outsider to make some stupidly stereotypical remarks. With deep affection. 1) Fondness for Thomas Dolby if you're over 50. 2) Pink Floyd, ditto. 3) Um, grey ponytail? Tatoos? 4) Not William Powell in the Thin Man. Last time you wore a tie was at a funeral. 5)If you cook, you tend to be a savory dude, not a pastry dude. (There are exceptions.) 6)You loved your chemistry set. And your dog. &)Beer got you into a lot of trouble, back in the day. 9)In high school you either loved trig or were seriously high. 10) It really is the revenge of the nerds. The star quarterback in high school is drinking Grey Goose and soda. Geez. I love you guys.

Ok, my socks are officially knocked off -- you might find them on Saturn. Those are beautiful photos. I'm totally with you about Seville orange curd. The same oranges that give you the best marmelade give you amazing orange curd.

Good question. But really, the want comes from missing one of the steadiest sources of pleasure in my life. I want the boring old "What'll we have for dinner? Let's try that Bittman thing form last week's Times. Or that enchilada recipe. Or something from Dorie Greenspan's book!" daily routine. " I want to have that back. I want to want to cook Yes, dear Alex, I'm sure you're right. I've been lucky in my life -- I haven't experienced much loss, so the bleak lunar landscape of the bereaved is terra incognita for me. Maybe I'll dip my toe into some homemade mac and cheese in a few days. I'm deeply touched by what you've all shared here, and I'll reread your advice because I know it's golden. Losing the cooking part of my life feels in a way like losing another loved one.

You see, that's what scares me shitless. I cook therefore I am. Unless I win a boatload of money through the Illinois lottery (I have never bought a ticket) I can't progress from cook to gourmande diner-out. I can't imagine a life with no cooking. I write about cooking. I encourage others to write about cooking in my job here at eGullet. The Bennigan's cure is intriguing. If I had the bucks it might work. I think about the brilliant Mark Twain piece The Appetite Cure If you haven't read it, here's your chance. Smoking and reading were permitted during the Appetite Cure. I've taken one up again (Stupid. bang head!) and I read a book and a half a day. But it isn't about appetite. I have appetite. I just can't cook.

The kitchen and cooking have been primary sources of inspiration, consolation and education since I was, oh, about eight years old. As a bride, I cooked my way through "Mastering the Art." As a teen, I worked through "Joy.' As a kiddie, I splattered through "The Sunbeam Mixmaster Cookbook." I can honestly say that I'm an excellent and fearless home cook -- Asian, British, French, Italian, sweet, savory, you name it. (I would never cut it in a restaurant kitchen. I know my place.) I haven't cooked jack in a month, except for eggs, carrot cupcakes and blueberry muffins. The bakery items were to take to work for mandated Food Days. I feel as if I never want to cook again. Me! Incroyable. Here's the backstory: I spent April, May, June and half of July at my parents, cooking for my family as my mother died. Mummy was easy -- half an Ensure, a bowl of leek and potato soup, chocolate and martinis. In the endgame of cancer, that wasn't enough, but it was all she fancied. Thing is, I had to cook, shop and plan for three meals a day for four to six other people, all day, every day. At home, we're dinner-centric, take breakfast and lunch on the well-planned run and devote our cooking props to dinner. I couldn't do that at home:Mummy had standards. The table was set with Georgian sterling and vintage linen for every meal. My mother was an excellent, adventurous cook who would visit six grocery stores for the perfect bunch of watercress. So, lunch had repeats, but in a hundred days of dinner I repeated only twice. I went through my mother's cookbook collection, and got some respect for Jamie Oliver. I went on line for recipes. I pulled the recipe card thingie from the June "Martha Stewart Living" and cooked all four pretty cards. Because my mother made dessert every night (just like Martha, come to think of it!) for the first time in my life I had to come up with a sweet course. Every night. (Buying that bottle of Creme de Menthe was smart.) Then there were the tea parties for visiting friends. I was lucky that Ottawa has a great farmer's market, great butchers and fishmongers and raw milk Quebec cheese. I was lucky that my father could hand me a wad of bills every other day: my housekeeping money. I didn't have to skimp I stopped cooking the day my mother died in the living room, while I was grocery shopping for dinner. I'm lucky to be married to a good cook. If I weren't it would be Stouffer's Mac and Cheese every night. Scrambled eggs. Tuna salad sandwiches. How do I get the joy back? Without my life in the kitchen I feel as if half of me has been chopped off. I hate hating to Cook.

How about a Fog Cutter?

It's, let's face it, a scandal of major proportions. The article so sickened me that I might just have to stick to butter and canola -- or oil that proudly proclaims origin in Greece or Spain. I tell you, I felt as nasty- dirty reading this article as I do reading about about professional cycling. Edited to add: My husband's family hails from Lucca. If anything, that makes it tawdrier. His great-grandfather is turning in his grave.

I've been enjoying the scenery, the lobster, the good writing and the sea breezes here in the sweltering MidWest. But Finestkind! I thought that was a Canadian Down East locution! I spent an enchanted summer in Dalhousie, New Brunswick when I was a girl. The locals used it all the time, and even after we moved it's a part of my family vocab. One word, and so many memories of roadside fried clam joints and lobster for fifty cents apiece off the dock at Chatham. The t is not pronounced in NB.

Get outta town! When you're smoking things and fiddling with temp, it isn't the same thing as a 3rd grade science experiment! You're doing something rich and strange. I have no SSB hints to add, and I'd like to see photos, please.