Tatties and Scotland and Breakfast, Oh My

I am getting my Scotland on – or at least I’m thinking about it.  Maybe it’s the rain – rain always makes me a little homesick for Scotland (can you be homesick for a place you weren’t born to?  I think so).

It’s a Monday and was to be a laundry day (another Scotland reminder when I hang the clothes up to dry in the wind), but the rain has nixed that plan.  So what’s a gal to do?

Well, this gal is proposing to make some potato scones.  I’ll never have any this side of the pond otherwise, so why not?  Turns out they shouldn’t be that hard to make.  But I’ve heard that said about other things (my failed taco attempts being but one example).

I foresee some problems:

1. Just what, exactly, is a ‘mealy’ potato?  And do I have any?  I’m not sure.  The best I’ve been able to figure is that (a) new potatoes probably won’t do, as they need to be shed of their skin; and (b) Martha Stewart (that world-renowned expert on all things Scottish – not) says to use russets, so russet it is.

2. Why, oh why did I not bother to learn the metric system?  Why did we all fight Jimmy Carter so hard on that one?  Then I could just get to it without having to either (a) convert grams and centimeters and such to something approximating what I can understand measurement-wise; or (b) search for a U.S. version of the real thing – I may not know metric, but Martha’s proportions are way off for all the Scots recipes I’ve checked out.  Now what?  How am I to choose?

3. To baking powder or not to baking powder?  I am no Jamie Oliver, hence I have no confidence in my choosing.  I’m going with no baking powder simply because the ones I’ve had where they really do know what they’re doing (in Scotland, of course) don’t (at least I don’t think they do – but can I really be sure?).

But how hard can it be, really?  It’s some potatoes, butter and flour.  Surely I can manage this.  I am a fairly competent cook, so again, I ask (knowing full well the answer before I begin), how hard can it be?  The answer?  Damn hard.  But it’ll be fun trying.  At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I’ve decided to go with Martha’s version, skipping her recommendation to baking powder the things and foregoing the cheese – cheese?  Really?  These are potato scones, not pizza.  Cheez.

Where is Tesco’s when you really need them?

Wish me luck.

9 Weird Food Mash-Ups in the U.S.

Actually, I don’t know if these are unique to us or not.  And I know other places have their own share of food oddities (don’t look over your shoulders, Brit friends – I am talking about you – prawn crisps?  Really?).  But some of the stuff we do to and with our food in the United States is downright scary.  My own list:

1. Mashed potato sandwich – just how much starch can one human ingest at one time and still live?  We’ve yet to discover the outer limits, but we’re still trying.  (Of course, we’ve taken the sandwich concept and run with it: potato-chip sandwiches [fried bologna optional], meat sandwiches [shout out, Carnegie Deli in NYC], there are really just too many examples to name and those of you from other countries would not believe me if I told you.  You'll just have to come and discover them for yourselves.  And I apologize in advance for what we call bread.

2. Pizza + anything – really, what is the point?

3. The cronut – croissant + donut = cronut.  Apparently all the rage in NYC, but then, I’m not in NYC, so what do I know? (and some folk apparently cut them in half and use them as bread and make themselves a sandwich of it, throwing on some meat and cheese).

4. The casserole . . . a casserole . . . any casserole . . . we sure do love them and they are (sometimes) quite tasty. . . sometimes not so much.  A cultural note:  the ubiquitous casserole is virtually a sacrament at church functions in the States (except that we tend to make our sacraments more special by their lesser frequency in our communal lives).

5. Fried everything – pickles – really?  What did the pickle ever do to you, I wonder?

6. Bacon with, on, or in, everything.  Now don’t get me wrong: I love me some bacon.  But bacon tacos, with the actual taco made of bacon?  Bacon ice cream?  Are there no purists left among us?

7. Sausage gravy on pancakes – like biscuits aren’t quite big enough for the job – really?  (But come out to the Highlands during Maple Festival – the sausage gravy at the Stonewall Ruritans is fabulous, especially on a pancake).

8. Just like we’ll make a sandwich of anything just by slapping a couple pieces of bread around it, we’ll make a cereal of about everything else by throwing some milk on it . . . torn pieces of stale white bread in milk . . . fresh tomatoes . . . you guessed it . . . in milk . . . and then there are just our garden variety of breakfast cereals – my latest fav (actually, I hate milk, but I love the combinations the cereal people come up with – makes me glad I don’t eat cereal) – some sort of grain-crunch product that encases marshmellow and is encased by chocolate – a sort of s’mores cereal.  What could be better than that for your child’s health?

Honorable mention – not a mash-up, really, but who can forget:

9. Bigger . . . everything – why have a meal for one when you can supersize it and have enough to feed your neighborhood?  I remain bemused by the sheer volume of food that comes on a plate these days.  We eat like we be giants.  I wonder what’s up with that?

So own it, fellow citizens – what weird little food secrets are you hiding as your own secret delight?

On God's Word*

A thought – perhaps God’s word is more comparable to food than to knowledge.

Knowledge, once you ‘know’ it, is yours, filed away in the data banks of the mind.

But food – that must continuously be consumed in order to live.

Thus understood, God’s word is our nourishment, not our encyclopedia.



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*From my prayer journal entry of October 14, 2008.

ChicagoDiaryDay1 - This Ain’t Kansas, Dorothy

Walking the streets of Chicago today, I am struck by contrasts, obvious and not so obvious, between a living space shared by millions of people and a living space shared by millions of birds and squirrels with a few humans there on sufferance.

Hence my homage to Chicago (and it is an homage to Chicago, make no mistake):

1. Heard on the street – young man to young woman: Let’s go to the Feminist Bookstore.  Two points: Yes, Chicago has a feminist bookstore (Chicagoans will be bemused that I point out the obvious while those from whence I come will likely wonder just what a feminist bookstore is or how it differs from other bookstores.  Not to say we’re not savvy folk – but we don’t run into much feminist anything in my neck of the woods).

2. Contractors drink tea, not soda or coffee, and at least one of them recently saw The Book of Mormon.  I don’t know if he knows a thing about hunting or farming or the changing of the seasons or when the finches turn yellow or when lambing season comes, but Mike knows a thing or two about theater.

3. There are restaurants.  Lots of them.  Really good ones.  With lots of choices.  Did I mention that there are restaurants?  So Anita, my hostess on this journey, says to me: do you want to go to a play tomorrow night?  I, of course, am thrilled.  Then comes the bonus question: Where do you want to eat?  Anita, knowing how happy I am just to see these many choices in dining possibilities, told her friend who suggested the theater that the only condition is that I get to choose the restaurant because I so seldom get to.  Last night, it was Vietnamese Pho (like the rube I am, I thought it was ‘fo’, but Anita kindly corrected me) – a lovely simple soup from the restaurant (how many times can I use the word ‘restaurant’ in this paragraph, I wonder?).  Tomorrow night we (at my choosing) will enjoy some Spanish Tapas.  I knew I was forgetting something – did I mention that we began our day at Svea* (a Swedish restaurant) with Swedish pancakes (and yes, with lingonberries, for those of you in the know on such things) and yes, I also had a side of potato pancakes (don’t panic, I brought much of it home) with applesauce and sour cream.  Hard to know how, but we’ll try to top that tomorrow morning at the Jewish Deli with blintzes (and perhaps some latkes).  If this keeps up, I'll be bringing the Chicago pizza home in my purse.  Wonder what Homeland Security rules are on the importation of food from Chicago to the western Highlands of Virginia?

I am one happy girl.  If I had a cardiologist, she’d be weeping right about now.  Lucky for me, I don’t have one.


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*"Lingonberry. Pancakes.  Go.  Now.  (Or at least go before their strange and interesting closing time of 2:45pm.)"  Yelp

How to Know a Good Italian Restaurant (in West Virginia) When You Find One

Where you just know some of your fellow diners have been coming every Friday night for years.

Where from the first bite of bread, you know you’re in the right place.

Where maybe there’s no carpet on the floor - only concrete, but you don’t notice.

Where the food is quick in the coming because taking a long time doesn’t necessarily make it better.

Where you take some of your main in a to-go box just so you can try one of those great desserts.

Where the waitress (and yes, here she’s a waitress, not a server) goes to check if they’ve got any of the wine you want only a glass of open so you can have your heart’s desire without having to buy a whole bottle of it.

Where paper-napkin-wrapped silverware banded by that brown paper band that’s like a post-it note but not doesn’t even bother you because the lack of fuss is part of what makes the food taste so good.

Where (you guess but don’t know for sure – but would if you were from here) the young man who, though not your server, comes frequently to your table to make sure all is well makes you think he’s surely part of the family who own the place and you’re glad he’s coming up in the business.

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Shout out to La Trattoria in Martinsburg, WV, a new fav, joining Clarksburg's Oliverio's and Julio'sand Wheeling's Undo's on my personal list of fab WV Italian restaurants.  No offense, Olive Garden, but really, who needs your franchise when we've got these folks?