banana bread hands & regina spektor ears

Less than a week after the pumpkin walnut muffins, I'm back in the kitchen with the baking apron figuratively wrapped around my waist. (One day I'll actually buy myself an apron from Anthropologie...and never want to don it because I'd prefer batter splatter on my clothes than on its hand-embroidered, elaborate design.) This time it's banana bread, the catalyst being another close friend who turns 24 tomorrow. (Happy birthday, tomorrow, Shaunda!)

I've never made banana bread; I've never made a lot of things. For as much as the sweet bread tickles taste buds, it was surprisingly easy. In my case, it did necessitate peeling a frozen banana. Have you ever peeled a frozen banana? Ok. So it's really not difficult once you give up trying to use your fingers and weld a quality knife. And with minimal ingredients, clean up was a snap, particularly since I have a dog who lingers at my feet, displaying his uber-willingness to give mixing bowls a licking pre-wash cycle. The only confusing bit was that the instructions suggested inserting a toothpick in the center of the loaf to see if it's done baking. "Toothpick may be moist from bananas," it informs, "just make sure it's not moist from batter." How am I supposed to tell if it's banana moistness or batter moistness? And on top of that, I don't have toothpicks so I use the wooden side of a match. That's my creative baking technique for you.

I'm a batter eater. I always have been. (Batter is like the prelude to the story, a foretaste--quite literally.) But for what may be the first time in my life, I almost couldn't stomach smacking my lips in banana bread dough. Had you seen the squishy, thawed bananas as they slipped out of the freezer bag in their dirty-puddle brown syrup, it might have grossed you out, too. That something so unappetizing, married to a few other ingredients, could result in such utter deliciousness is nothing short of a culinary phenomenon. In the end, my impatience for taste-testing won, and I twirled my finger in the bowl a time or two before passing it off to the dog.

Mom and I love banana bread, so I made an extra loaf. (This also helped resolve my previously described problem of moisture differentiation. The extra loaf provided a tester, and when stabbed with a knife, it returned with undeniable batter moisture.) But the superfluous loaf also means it's time for me to grab the cream cheese...



[If you're wondering about the Regina Spektor reference, well...I listened to her while I baked. Maybe her unique and eclectic style will--by osmosis--infuse my cooking.]

stuck on degrees | part deux

I was tempted to simply toss my 1998 diploma collection in the trash, but the boyfriend suggested taking them to the library; maybe they could help. I conceded to his rescue operation so I went by this afternoon. The lady said she'd see what she could do to get them back in proper hands.

I almost literally brushed my hands as I exited, happy to be rid of them. But now I'm starting to wonder if I'll miss catching glimpses of them lying lonely and out of place in the random parts of my house into which I shuffled them, not knowing quite where they fit in. Sentimentalism aside, I got enough out of them--a curious story and a blog entry--so I'm glad to have them off my hands. My house looks less cluttered now, too.

my list of never-says

I've recently been hit with the realization that a significant portion of my life is made up of things that, at some point in time, would have been likely (if not guaranteed) candidates to complete the phrase "I will never... ." For instance:

1. Own a poodle
2. Buy a house and take up residence in my home town
3. Date a former model (in case you're tempted to label me as shallow, I learned this tid-bit after I started dating him)
4. Run a marathon
5. Shoot & own a gun (and stop jumping like a scared rabbit with every trigger pull)
6. Paint my fingernails black
7. Kiss someone who isn't an herbivore

I'm glad I was wrong about them all.

birthday bon appetit

My dear friend Eyren turned 24 yesterday. In celebration, I baked her a dozen pumpkin walnut muffins. And by what I think is inspiration from watching "Julie & Julia" last week, I've decided to take up the art of culinary gift-giving for all birthdays this year. So if you're reading this and we're close enough friends that I would normally buy you something when you turn another year older, expect to receive something edible this time around.

My caveat | In recent months, I've been practicing my cooking skills more than ever before. But in some cases, you might consider this your warning.

strange, weird fruit i must try

Name | Buddha's Hand or Fingered Citron
Origin | thought to originate from India or China
First personal sighting | Whole Foods in Atlanta, Georgia

[Photo thanks to www.specialtyproduce.com/]

what if today was the first day of 2008?

And beyond that, what if a year from now, we'd be wishing each other a Happy New Year for 2007? That is--what if we were progressing through life as time decreased? (Go ahead. You can read that again.)

Our ancestors--the ones before Jesus' time--did exactly that. When they started a new year, it was, "Goodbye 485. Hello 484." This generates a million and one questions. Who told them to count down? Logic would seem to strongly push for the contrary. What was the circulating theory about what would happen when they reached zero? (An old-world Y2K, maybe?) And who made the switch at Christ's birth, splitting time for the rest of history between those decades "Before Christ" and those designated as "Anno Domini"? This is particularly puzzling, given the biblical impression that few even recognized or acknowledged His birth. And what about those who blatantly didn't accept Christ? (And for that matter, those today who still haven't?) The answer may lie in the fact that time, as we calculate it today, was adopted in the relatively recent past. Fine. But then how did people living in that day keep track of it?

Think about it. It's all a little weird. But then, time is just like that. Contemplate it for any length, and you'll find one lobe of your brain spinning counterclockwise circles while another twirls the opposite. It's a peculiar and curious thing.

of yellow rice (and cooking it)

About two months ago, I wanted to bring dinner to the pool so George could eat before coaching his evening practice. I had my heart set on Mexican, so I arrived home and put on some water to boil for yellow rice. Now, you must understand: My stove takes a literal day and a half to heat things. Watching the pot or not, it seems to never boil. So I walked away from the stove, thinking I could come back later and it might actually be ready for the rice. But when I came back, it was boiling so vigorously it was splashing over the pan. Yep. It was ready for rice alright.

The package said it should simmer for 20 min., but after a mere 10 or 15, the water was almost gone (I think I must have lost a little from the frivolous boiling), so I added a little more, hoping it would all disappear by the time the rice was done. It was at this point that I realized my stove top is uneven. (Please don't ask how this obvious fact escaped me for the previous two months.) This suddenly became obvious to me when all the water pooled in one side of the pan. Sticking a penny under that end to compensate didn't seem logical, so I just shoved all the rice to the side the water liked. It was still supposed to cook another 7 or 10 min., so I stepped away from the kitchen for a minute or two. I returned to find the dry side of the pan charred black with rice that must have somehow resisted my attempts at corralling it to one side. In panic mode, I turned off the stove and lifted the near carcinogenic pan off the heat. Even though the whole house didn't fill with smoke (like my grilled cheese experience in college), there was a definite "something's burning" aroma. Fortunately, most of the rice was salvageable, so I eagerly shoveled it into a glass container and ran out the door.

On the way, I decided to make a quick pit stop at Kroger to grab a jar of salsa. As I'm waiting in the check-out line, the cashier says to the lady two people in front of me, "Excuse me. I'm just curious. Do you smell smoke?" My ears perked up as much as my self-consciousness. I didn't smell any smoke, but I made a subtle attempt at smelling my hair and jacket. Was it me? Had I really carried the burned-rice perfume out of the house on my person? "Maybe it's coming from outside," she said a minute and half later. Yes, yes, I thought. Go with that theory. It's from outside. Needless to say, I was particularly self aware as I approached the cashier another grocery shopper later. I wondered what went through his head when I got closer. "Good heavens! Outside just bought salsa from my checkout lane!" Who knows? George didn't seem to detect any cooking-gone-bad aromatic evidence, so maybe it really was coming from beyond the sliding glass doors. A girl can hope.

[Photo of how yellow rice is supposed to look thanks to jollychop.com]