Introduction: I’m in one of my writing dry spells, wanting to write but not know what to say. Oh, I have lots to talk about, but I don’t know how to talk about it. The bigger, more interesting topics (The Sex Talk, Saggy Arms, Marital Issues, etc) feel daunting, like rugged mountains waiting to be climbed by me, a flip-flop clad almost-middle-aged woman with four kids, and all the little stuff just feels like, well, little stuff. Reality can be depressing if you stop to think about it. Let’s move on.

Tangent A: Maybe this word lethargy comes as a result of just finishing my third book by Elizabeth Strout, her first (Amy and Isabelle). Strout writes as though her pen were a scalpel, using it to cut into each conversation, to separate out the head nod, the tissue thrown into the trash can, the fans whirring uselessly over in the corner of the office mill. With each slash of her pen-turned-knife, she peels back the layers, drawing you in to a life that is not yours. It’s exhausting, this being there without being there, and when I finally read the last sentence and closed the book, I felt as if I needed to rest for a couple days while I waited for the story to settle and I could reorient myself to my surroundings. Still, even a couple days after finishing the book, I’m gasping for breath, feeling rather short on both oxygen and reality. I continue to mull over the characters and the plot (Paul Bellows found that blue car way too easily, it seems to me), savoring her phrases in the same manner that I run my tongue over my back molars after eating a piece of caramel candy, searching for the lingering bits of sweet.

Main Point: But life goes on, regardless of what novels I’m reading (or recovering from). Yesterday Miss Becca Boo turned eight, disrupting the odd numbered age streak we had going for the past few months.

Tangent B: When people asked how old my kids were and I rattled off their ages—“three, five, seven, nine”—it gave the impression, I thought, that my children were orderly and predictable, thus making me a Good Mom. Now that they are three, five, eight, and nine, I feel discombobulated; they have fallen out of line and I will have to work extra hard to keep them in their place. I have lots of time to get used to this new feeling because it will be seven long months before they fall into position again, this time in an even-numbered line. (I like the odd-numbered line-ups better since they make me feel bold and daring; the even-numbered ones feel bland in comparison. Is that weird?)

Tangent B ½: Obviously it’s a Sunday afternoon and I have some extra time on my hands, time when I can analyze my children’s ages. It’s nice to ponder and type and ponder some more, especially now that I’ve gotten over my little writing hump. I knew that if I just carved out some computer time and set my fingers over the black keys, then the words would come (I hoped)—it’s The Getting There that’s the hardest.

Main Point, revisited: So Miss Becca Boo is eight. Because her birthday fell on a Saturday, we had her special meal at noon, the table dressed with a cloth, an old-fashioned creamer filled with flowers, and real wine glasses for the ice water (it’s a grand occasion indeed when we put ice cubes in our water). As we ate our lunch of baked macaroni and cheese and her Grandma Betsy’s buttered carrots (the first food she mentioned when I asked her what she wanted for her birthday meal), we retold the story of her birth. (The kids are becoming quite familiar with their birth stories so that when I launched into the part about calling Matt and Crystal to be with toddler Yo-Yo while we went to the hospital, Yo-Yo jumped in and told how I had to impatiently wait while Mr. Handsome made himself a big ol’ breakfast before we could actually leave for the hospital.) We’re all fairly comfortable talking about the details of birth (and sex, but that’s another topic), but when I got to the part about the final gigantic push and how I didn’t heed the midwife’s order to stop and as a result had some tearing, Mr. Handsome said, “Alright, that’s enough. I’m eating.” Of course that got Yo-Yo’s goat and he launched forth on the topic of Gory Births until Mr. Handsome gave him a gigantic hairy eyeball.

Tangent C: Speaking of getting goats, while I was washing the dishes this morning, Mr. Handsome came up beside me and said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we just decided to stay home from church? We could hang out and relax…” (We’ve been through this many times before, and while I’m not opposed to skipping church every now and then, I can not handle last minute decisions to opt out—it messes with my fragile brain. As a result, about a year ago I declared a moratorium on deciding to skip church on Sunday morning; if we’re not going to go, then we have to decide that the night before—it’s the rule.) So, as you can see, Mr. Handsome was just trying to get my dander up. (He also has a bad habit of picking fights first thing in the morning because it helps to jumpstart his brain.) But this morning I remained unperturbed and simply stated, “I put my goat out to pasture so you can’t get it now.” He snorted at my joke and then asked, “Where did you hear that one?” And I said, “I made it up myself. I’m a very funny person, you know.” And then we went to church.

Main Point, revisited again: Back to Miss Becca Boo’s birthday: we gave her a guinea pig for her present.

She’s the animal lover among us, and once it occurred to me that a guinea pig would be a good birthday present, I fixated on it, certain that it would be the only acceptable gift.

Tangent D: I have a hard time buying presents for my children. Birthdays are a big deal in our house. Because we don’t buy Christmas gifts (we do the stocking thing though, and I’m just now beginning to figure out that stockings have the potential to be quite extravagant—changes will be made in the near future, mark my words), birthdays are the one opportunity to do it up good. However, I still can’t figure out how to buy good gifts for my kids; it remains a hit or miss proposition. For example, I thought for sure that the two-storied, multi-roomed dollhouse that I found at a thrift store would be just the thing for Sweetsie but she has almost never played with it. Yo-Yo’s poster for his wall is now in his trash can, and his hefty, battery-powered jeep sits silent, both his interest and the jeep’s battery having gone kaput. The ballet and karate lessons were taken and enjoyed (mostly), but there were no requests to continue. Sweetsie’s tricycle is damaged, but still gets played with occasionally. The butterfly barrettes were ignored, necklaces broken, ponytail holders lost, fuzzy socks never worn. As you can see, finding a gift that provides both a thrill and lasting enjoyment is a tricky endeavor.

Main Point…yup, still going strong: I’m afraid the guinea pig was a little disappointing at first. I mean, there were no bells and whistles and the poor dear was terrified and we didn’t know what we were doing and, well, it was pretty intense for awhile. Miss Becca Boo’s other gifts of guinea pig pellets, a water bottle, and a book on (you guessed it) guinea pigs weren’t that thrilling in and of themselves. But, as Mr. Handsome said last night, it’s the kind of gift that will grow on her—it takes time to make friends with a rodent.

The question of a name remains to be solved. I suggested Miss Piggy, or maybe Porky. Mr. Handsome suggested Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo. Yo-Yo though Sparky. The Baby Nickel suggested Jessie, and Sweetsie said Sally. Miss Becca Boo thought Sandy at first, but finally settled on Sparky, though I hear them saying “Sally” a lot and I still refer to it as Miss Piggy, or sometimes The Rodent (though I try not to say that in Miss Becca Boo’s presence as she’s quick to take offense).

We were all a little worried about Sparky at first. She didn’t eat or drink anything, though we plied her with the best we had—bananas, grapes, cherry tomatoes, broccoli—but it wasn’t till today that she started eating … and pooping. I bet you never knew guinea pig poop could be so exciting. The kids squeal over each little black turd that appears on the ground, excitedly counting them (“…eight, nine, ten—there’s ten, Mama!”) as though they are prize jewels and not little pieces of rodent crap. She’s also becoming a little more comfortable with all the floor thumping and shrill shrieking and sudden movements that come about as a result of six, highly opinionated, boisterous people living in close proximity.

Miss Becca Boo requested a chocolate cake with rainbow icing. Considering that I’m quite weak in the cake decorating department, I did the best I could.

I made my basic chocolate cake which comes from one of my Tiny Little Brother’s roommates, a boy named Arthur that I never (I don’t think) met; I’ll have to tell you about it sometime. I put a thick layer of peanut butter frosting (ooo, I could live on that stuff) between the layers and then made an extra big batch of buttercream frosting. I frosted the sides with white icing and sealed the top with a thin layer of the white icing. Then I divided the remaining frosting between six bowl, and, with my entranced children watching (only Miss Becca Boo was allowed at the table, the other three were lined up on the kitchen stools a safe distance away), I squirted drops of coloring into each bowl while Becca Boo stirred, transforming the plain white icing into a multitude of colors: blue, purple, red, green, orange, and yellow.

I made up the design as I went along, a rainbow circle on top, tie-dye swirls on the sides, and a blur of colors at the very base, as the children oohed and aahed, told me I was the best cake decorator ever, and tried to swipe tastes of icing.

Conclusion: In a nutshell, that’s what’s been going on.

One Year Ago: Strawberry Cake.

Have you ever heard of tempero?

I hadn’t, not until several months ago when I had that coffee date with my friend Michael Ann and she enthusiastically enlightened me. She said, “All you do is blend up onions and garlic and herbs and leeks with lots of salt and then you keep it in your fridge for months and you can add it to everything—soups, eggs, beans, meats, whatever.

I was dubious. “Doesn’t it make all your food taste the same?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll send you the recipe.”

And she did. I read it and filed it away until last Thursday when I unsuccessfully tried to pull my garlic. The stalks kept breaking off in my hand, leaving the fat garlic heads buried, or worse, only half the bulb came up, so I had to go fetch a shovel and dig the bulbs up (and then I still had trouble—those were some stuck heads). I wove the intact heads of garlic into two braids and set aside the mutilated heads till the following day when I would have more energy to figure out how to deal with them.

When I woke the next morning, I pondered my options (one of which was this, but I read somewhere that this is an excellent breeding grounds for salmonella—is that true?), and it was about then that I remembered Michael Ann’s tempero (pronounced “temPAREoh”). Didn’t it call for a lot of garlic and onions? I flipped through my red, three-ring recipe binder until I found her neatly typed recipe. I noted happily that I had everything but the leeks and scallions; I would increase the onions and call it even.

Out to the garden I again went, this time to pull some of the bigger onions and pick the basil and parsley, and then I commenced to peeling and chopping and processing, all the while basking in the sanctimonious bubbly feeling that washes over me whenever I combine multiple, fresh ingredients in a single recipe. It’s a pleasant sensation indeed when my everyday grind melds with both the practical and the gourmet. It makes me feel like crowing.

Of course I didn’t know for sure if the recipe itself would be any good. I was still a little doubtful, though I certainly had no right to be considering that my friend is an absolute whiz in the kitchen and has a genius for the savory (you ought to taste her killer soups). But still…

I should definitely not have doubted her. In less than a week I have used up over a cup of the pungent green sauce. So far I have used tempero in the following ways: simmered with unsalted, precooked pinto beans; sauteed with zucchini; briefly cooked in hot oil as a base for wilted Swiss chard; mixed into the sausage I was browning (it made the sausage extra salty, but I’ll be adding it to a soup later); and stirred, uncooked, into tuna salad.

In regards to the question I first asked Michael Ann—whether or not tempero will make all your food taste the same—it won’t, at least not any more than adding onions and garlic to all your savory dishes makes them taste alike. It’s like a liquid version of seasoned salt, and while I’m not one for seasoned salt, I do add fresh garlic and onions to most of my savory dishes, and in essence, that’s all this is—instead of having to peel and chop my garlic and onions every time I need them, I can simple dump in a blob of tempero. It’s a marvel!

I did a little research after I made the tempero and found some information that made me fall in love with the sauce even more than I already have, as if that’s possible. Rita says (the post also contains her recipe), “It works almost like your signature flavor that everyone can recognize on your cooking without really knowing where it comes from… that certain something that makes your dishes unique.” Is that not totally classy? Don’t all cooks secretly lust after a signature flavor? (Don’t even try to tell me I’m the only one—you can’t fool me.)

And if you want to read more about the history of the Brazilian sauce and how to use it, click here.

Tempero
From my friend Michael Ann.

Notes from Michael Ann: “Remember that the tempero is made up of raw ingredients and is not intended to be a sauce itself or to be used on its own. The mixture is an ingredient in other recipes and most of the time will be cooked with them. Keep it in the refrigerator to add to other sauces and recipes in small amounts, starting with half a tablespoon and tasting as you go.” All the tempero needs is a quick sizzle in some oil before adding the other ingredients, or it can be added directly to simmering soups and sauces. It also serves as a rub for meats. The options are countless, countless, I tell you.

And she adds, “Warning: It’s hell on the eyeballs with all those onions.” True, I screamed and hollered and jumped about, but it wasn’t all that bad, nothing a brave grown-up couldn’t deal with. The pain was short-lived, and the payoff is tremendous—the stuff lasts for months.

I’m giving you Michael Ann’s recipe as is, but I omitted the scallions and leeks and upped the onions to three pounds. You could also add green pepper, if you wish.

2 1/4 pounds (about 4 large onions) onions, peeled and coarsely chopped
10 ounces (about 9 medium-size heads) garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 cups kosher salt
1 ½ leeks, washed and coarsely chopped
½ bunch (about 1 ½ cups) parsley, stems discarded
2 cups basil leaves
½ bunch scallions, both the white and green parts, coarsely chopped

Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl. Working in batches, add the vegetables to a food processor and process until smooth. Transfer the batches to a large bowl and combine until the entire mixture is smooth. Transfer to lidded glass jars (or plastic containers) and store in the refrigerator (or freezer) for 6-8 months.

Yield: A generous eight cups.

About one year ago: What to do with brown bags.

I apologize to all of you who have grown weary with my incessant prattling about chard and red beet greens and chicken and potatoes (there was a red raspberry dessert thrown in there, too, but come on, it had a fruit) and have grown desperate for something purely frivolous, like, say, ice cream.

How about it? Are you up for some creamy peanut-buttery ice cream, thickly studded with chopped-up peanut butter cups? Yes?

Okay, but first I’m going to tell you a story.

Once there was a little girl who didn’t get store-bought ice cream very often. Her parents made fine homemade ice cream, but, like white bread and celery, ice cream was a rare treat. The girl grew up and went to college where there was lots of ice cream in the cafeteria, and she ate it frequently, especially the soft serve. But then she got married, and because for the first time she had a fair amount of extra cash, a car, and easy access to the grocery store, she discovered the endless varieties of Ben and Jerry’s and thought she had finally died and gone to heaven (part of that floaty feeling might have had something to do with having just married the most gorgeous man alive). But then she and her husband left their comfortable middle-class existence with easy access to chain groceries that sold Ben and Jerry’s and flew to sweaty-hot Nicaragua where there was no decent ice cream to be found, though there was some fabulous Guanabana yogurt. When they came back to the states three years later they had a little boy and no money, and then the handsome husband caught cancer, found a job, and got cured, and the girl, who was now a young woman, caught another baby in her tummy and developed a fearsome sweet tooth, and then Ben and Jerry’s ice cream went on sale and because they had some money again thanks to the husband’s new job, the young woman brought cartons and cartons of the ice cream home from the store and she ate them every single night and gained forty pounds. After which she pushed out a little girl, rested for a few weeks, and then plunked the little boy and the baby girl into a clunky stroller and pushed them around their hilly neighborhood in an effort to shrink her buns and belly (she stopped eating Ben and Jerry’s, too). Years passed and not only did they acquire two more children and a vasectomy, they also purchased a used hand crank ice cream churn from a yard sale, a country house (not from a yard sale), and some milk shares from a local farm. Today, the young woman, who isn’t so young anymore, though she isn’t quite middle-aged either, has taught herself how to make thick, rich, creamy ice creams that taste just like Ben and Jerry’s, if not better, and even though they have more money than they ever had before and the chain grocery store is just ten minutes away, they hardly ever, maybe even never, buy Ben and Jerry’s. The end.

Peanut Butter Cup Ice Cream
Adapted from… oh dear, I don’t know where! Some place on the net, I guess. Sorry.

Do not use the miniature peanut butter cups; use the full-size cups, okay?

And I tell you to reserve part of the chopped candy because I’ve discovered that they don’t mix in evenly—often the ice cream at the bottom of the churn has only a few bits of candy while the ice cream at the top is loaded. Reserving some of the candy allows you to add it at the end when you’re serving the ice cream, or transferring it into freezer containers, creating an ice cream with even candy distribution.

1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1 cup milk
3 ½ cups cream, divided
1 cup creamy peanut butter
1 tablespoon vanilla
12-16 peanut butter cups, roughly chopped and divided

Put the sugar and eggs in a mixing bowl and beat with a handheld mixer for about three minutes.

Heat the milk and one cup of the cream in a saucepan. Once hot, slowly add the milk and cream to the egg-sugar mixture, beating on low speed all the while. Then, dump the tempered eggs and milk back into the saucepan and stir over medium-high heat until the mixture has thickened slightly (do not boil). Remove the saucepan from the heat and pour the mixture through a fine-mesh strainer.

Whisk the peanut butter into the egg-milk mixture. Add the remaining cream and the vanilla. Chill the ice cream base in the refrigerator for 6 hours or overnight.

Churn the ice cream. When it is almost done, add three-quarters of the chopped peanut butter cups and finish churning. When transferring the ice cream to freezer containers (or eating it), stir the remaining bits of candy into the parts of the ice cream that are candy deprived.

One year ago: Apricot Pandowdy. And a year and a day ago: Grace’s Vanilla Pudding and Baked Oatmeal. I was a blogging fiend, back in the day.