• Korean beef

    I made a double batch of this meat the other night—half pork because I’m devious like that—and everyone ate their supper and didn’t say much. Later, while I was putting the leftovers away, I grouched about how I was disappointed no one liked it because I thought it was fabulous, and my husband yipped that he did too like it!

    “Well how was I supposed to know that? You never said anything.”

    “I had two helpings!”

    “Right,” I said. “Like I’m supposed to keep track of how many helpings you have.”

    Gradually, he convinced me that he did like the beef. And everyone else did, too, they said. Turns out they were telling the truth, not just placating me to cover their butts, since over the next several days, whenever I’d get out leftovers for lunch, they’d ask, “Is any more of That Meat Stuff left?” until it was all gone and everyone was sad.

    My only beef (ha) with this dish is that it’s on the dry side. Maybe my meat is extra lean? In any case, I think next time I’ll add a little cornstarch-and-chicken broth slurry at the very end to create a sauce. That should do it.

    Korean Beef 
    Adapted from Camille over at Flowers In His Garden.

    This is a double recipe. I see no point in making less.

    I think this would be delicious with roasted cabbage and carrots tossed, or maybe some sauteed sweet peppers. Really, any vegetable—cauliflower, broccoli, peas, potatoes, etc.—would be great additions.

    I cut the hot pepper in half because my kids are wusses.

    2 pounds ground beef
    2-4 tablespoons minced fresh ginger
    6 cloves garlic, minced
    ½ cup soy sauce
    2 tablespoons sesame oil
    2/3 cup brown sugar
    ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
    6-8 green onions, chopped

    Fry the ground beef until cooked through. Add the ginger and garlic and cook for 2-3 minutes more. Add the soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar, and pepper and simmer for another 10-15 minutes. Just before serving, stir in the onions. Serve over rice.

    For a saucy version: put 2 tablespoons of cornstarch or Thermflo in a bowl and slowly whisk in 1 cup of water or chicken broth. Add the paste to the meat (prior to adding the onions). Heat through until the liquid has thickened and turned clear. Add onions and serve. (I haven’t tried this method yet, but I see no reason why it shouldn’t work.)

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.22.15), three things, weigh in, please, angst, flubs, and strike, cilantro beet salad, orange cranberry scones, spaghetti with fresh herbs and fried eggs, and a driving lesson.

  • the quotidian (6.20.16)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    The job that takes FOREVER.

    More weeds!

    To live off of: quinoa, feta, kalamata olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a light dressing.

    Bacon from our pigs, eggs from our chickens, lettuce from our garden: MY lunch.

    How my younger son makes toast: defrost it in the microwave till it’s hot, chill it in the fridge, 
    and then toast it.

    Growing feet: the ten-year-old versus the fourteen-year-old. 
    My son is going to be enormous.
    Gettysburg: we made like good homeschoolers and went on a field trip.

    Creek envy: at my aunt and uncle’s.

    Family extended.

    Getting her “round.” 
    (Apparently, it’s a big deal.)
    After the accident, one of my first questions 
    (after learning he sustained no long-term damage, of course) 
    was, “How long until he can do dishes?” 
     I didn’t ask it out loud, but I thought it.

    Rattled.

    Bedfellows.

    The man hates it when I get in his personal space so I do it all the time. 

    This same time, years previous: the case of the slipping snood, in recovery, magic custard cake, walking through water, the quotidian (6.19.12), refried beans, this particular Friday, what I got, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans, swiss chard rolls, and sour cherry crostatas.

  • smart hostessing

    When we were in Pennsylvania last weekend, we spent the night at my aunt and uncle’s place. We arrived at their place right before bedtime, and, while visiting with my aunt in the kitchen—she was flitting about, smacking flies with deadly precision and then carefully dropping their mashed bodies into the compost bucket—I asked if their family would be attending church in the morning.

    “No,” she said, and then, dropping her voice to a confessional level, “We actually decided to take advantage of all the company and put everyone to work. We’re going to do peas first thing.”

    When I got up the next morning, most everyone was already outside on the patio, pans of peas balanced on their laps.

    Conversation fluttered from topic to topic—trees that might need to be cut down, a cousin’s rationale for eating ice cream for breakfast instead of at bedtime (then I have all day to burn off the sugar!), building projects, job offers, etc. My cousin’s wife had just had a baby that morning, so phones kept pinging with text updates: gender! size! name! pronunciation of name! And all the while, our hands were moving—pop open the pod, thumb-scrape the peas out, toss the shell into the basket, and repeat.

    pea thief

    Wanna know something? A patio pea party makes for a pretty awesome church substitute: grounding, meditative, productive, and relational.

    Yo, churches! Beat that.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.16.14), dobby and luna, language study, a dare, when I sat down, Kate’s enchiladas, naps and mowers, cold-brewed iced coffee and cold-brewed iced tea, old-fashioned vanilla ice cream, and how to freeze spinach.