When I was a child, I always had a rather up and down relationship with food, a kind of uneasy truce. I was what adults liked to distainingly call a “picky” eater. Not that I out and out rejected food on my plate as being just weird looking (although there were some food stuffs that definitely fell into that category), I was just acutely aware that I would get pretty sick to my stomach if I ate certain foods. Nowadays this is referred to as Hyper Sensitive Tastebud Syndrome, the possessors of this syndrome called Supertasters. It is probably the only group of individuals with the prefix super that I will ever be a member of. I know of several occasions I defied Newton’s Third Law of Physics where there is an equal and opposite reaction to an exerted force. I could put one piece of broccoli in my mouth and spew over three quarts of “unequal opposite reaction” back out.. It was definitely Linda Blair quantities. Still, food was more often than not, ordered from my plate to my mouth and then I involuntarily and inevitably delivered it back to my plate, the hallway and bathroom floor and point in between as I ran with hands plastered over my mouth. This always seemed to take people by surprise. It wasn’t that I didn’t particularly dislike the taste of whatever food it was, it was just once the flap of flesh at the back of my throat started the Sammy Davis Junior tap dance on the roof of my mouth, it was a foregone conclusion that whatever went down was going to come right back up and out.
Over the years my attitude towards food changed. I am not sure if this empowerment of having a choice in what I ate, when I ate or even, if I ate. During my teens I often compared eating to an addictive drug. My rather flawed logic was you could die of an overdose of food, you suffered from withdrawal pains and you had massive cravings that only using food could ease. I would often trot this out when people told me I ate like a bird. Considering my past experience of regurgitation, they weren’t far off. However, as I got older I started to appreciate not only eating food, I should add that I did eventually get over the throwing up part, but also cooking has become one of my favourite things to do. As any cook will tell you, there is nothing more gratifying than having people enjoy what you have made.
Cooking is like any other pastime, the more you do it the more you find that you never seem to have enough tools to complete the job properly. I find this is true whether you are building a house or making a cake. On top of that, throw in enticements from any number of cooking shows on the Food Network where you’ll see an array of seemingly indispensable tools that every cook should have. Having the right tools just makes things easier, the secret is when to know you have enough of them. Unlike most guy’s, my attraction to gadgets didn’t stop with electronic stores or golf stores. Cooking stores have become one of my favourite haunts. I can browse the shelves for hours, first off trying to figure out exactly what the tool is for and then whether or not I would have any use for it. I am sure there are just a handful of things that are really needed, but that never stopped me before. I should show you my electronics drawer sometime. My wife is a bit more pragmatic about things. When in the height of strawberry season I thought we should buy a strawberry huller to take the cap off the strawberries she just looked at me, held up her hand and pinched her forefinger together with her thumb. My defending reason that the huller was shiny carried very little weight. I won’t go into her responses for (in no particular order) a pickle container (okay, she said “What? A jar?”), the difference between a vegetable scrubber, a potato scrubber and a mushroom scrubber, pizza scissors or an avocado slicer.
It was during one of these trips to a local store that when I looked down the row upon row of gadgets that included among other things, an individual slicer for every vegetable and fruit on the planet, planers, mandolin’s and graters of every size and configuration, pot holders, spoon holders, hard butter holders, soft butter holders, plastic banana, apple and orange holders (I am still waiting for individual ones for grapes) that it occurred to me that I would need a pantry the size of the master bedroom to hold every utensil that there is available. Although this was certainly an entertaining thought, the idea of determining which of the slicers is for which fruit or vegetable would probably send me into a spasm of indecision. Then there would be whether or not I would be violating some code of cooking ethics if I used an egg slicer to slice a small tomato. But I guess until I have one of those Food Network kitchens the size of a stadium and a budget to match, I will do with what I have available. If it was up to my wife, a utensil drawer would probably consist of a sharp knife or two. But fortunately for me, as long as I keep my strange little utensils out of her way and continue serving up some delicious morsels, she is quite happy to let me indulge in my collecting habit, however useless they may be.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
It's not polite to stare, but sometimes....
There are many times when your eyes lock onto something or someone and for all the power in the world you just can’t tear your eyes away. I know it is not polite to stare. I was taught that when I was a kid and pretty much adhere to what I was taught as a kid, but sometimes you just can’t help it. I seem to get so curious about things that I find myself not only staring, but then analyzing what I have just witnessed.
You can sometimes see this with rubber neckers on the highway when an accident has occurred and try as you may, you find your own eyes, almost on their on volition locking onto the scene as well. Of course, this behaviour isn’t reserved solely for the highway, there are many instances where you know you shouldn’t stare, but again, try as you may, your eyes zoom in for a second confirming look. This also happens when it comes to fashion sense. I don’t get in trouble too much anymore, now that I have the troika of fashion police living at home with me. I have had my alertness honed to the point that all I need is one quick glance cast in my general direction that will send me scurrying back in my room to change the offending outfit.
I know it is beyond me to reproach people about fashion and the manner of their dress. When I was younger, if I had a function to go to, the extent of my fashion sensibility was to make sure that I wore the cleanest jeans that I could find on the floor. These were hopefully the ones without 6 months of cigarette ash rubbed into the thigh. If it was a really formal affair I would have at least put a pile of books on those jeans to put a nice crease down the front of the leg. Nothing but the best was my motto. But I was at one of those big box stores the other day and I found myself in wonder as I watched people drifting by in what appeared to be their pajamas. I looked for any signs proclaiming, “Pajama Bargain Days” or something, but there were none. I would have stood there forever with my jaw hanging down if it were not for a quick jab to the ribs from my wife and an admonishment not to stare.
Closer to home, we were eating supper the other night, just the four of us at the table now that my son is engaged and living away from home. We were having a late summer meal of corn-on-the-cob, nothing offside about that. I was just tucking into my cob when I looked around the table and saw my wife and youngest daughter nibbling away on their cobs after applying the required amount of butter, salt and pepper. Each of them proceeding down the length of the cob with their teeth moving in a rhythmic workmanlike fashion. But something struck me odd about our eldest daughter as she ate her cob. That was when I was locked into a stare. Something was not quite right in what I was staring at, but nothing seemed to register on me what it was. I felt like a character in a Stephen King novel. You know the character I am talking about. He is always the one who is staring at something intently just before the head explodes and a creature comes charging out of the blood spurting neck. I didn’t really expect that to happen, but I was preparing myself nonetheless. Then it struck me what was wrong. She was eating the corn off the cob in an entirely unacceptable manner. She wasn’t eating down the row of corn, she was eating around the cob, over the top. She stopped in mid bite when she sensed I was staring at her. “What?” She asked inquisitively. ”Do I have something on my chin?”. “Why are you eating your corn that way?” I didn’t try and sound too accusatory, then I illustrated what I meant. She just shrugged her shoulder and said, “I don’t know, I just like to eat it that way”. “But that’s not the way to eat corn on the cob. We all know that. Didn’t you ever see the old cartoon where they eat the corn like it was a typewriter and it dinged at the end and then they started on the next line? That is the proper way to eat corn-on-the-cob”. She fixed me in a stare that my daughter always uses when she puts me in my place. “First of all, what’s a typewriter?” She always knows how to hit deep. “Secondly, if it happened in a cartoon before the Simpson’s it doesn’t count and finally, I didn’t know there were rules about eating corn. I thought it was more a matter of nutrition than it was in following a set of arbitrary rules as set down by some fictional animated rendering that came from an age where grown up people thought the height of hilarity was watching a duck with a speech impediment dressed up in clothes and talking like a human.” It was at that point I realized we shouldn’t have sent her off to university to develop her critical thinking after all.
I did eventually tear my eyes away, even before I got a jab in the ribs from my wife, but I did punctuate my point. At the end of every row on my corn-on-the-cob I dinged and started on the next row down. Let her stare for a bit.
You can sometimes see this with rubber neckers on the highway when an accident has occurred and try as you may, you find your own eyes, almost on their on volition locking onto the scene as well. Of course, this behaviour isn’t reserved solely for the highway, there are many instances where you know you shouldn’t stare, but again, try as you may, your eyes zoom in for a second confirming look. This also happens when it comes to fashion sense. I don’t get in trouble too much anymore, now that I have the troika of fashion police living at home with me. I have had my alertness honed to the point that all I need is one quick glance cast in my general direction that will send me scurrying back in my room to change the offending outfit.
I know it is beyond me to reproach people about fashion and the manner of their dress. When I was younger, if I had a function to go to, the extent of my fashion sensibility was to make sure that I wore the cleanest jeans that I could find on the floor. These were hopefully the ones without 6 months of cigarette ash rubbed into the thigh. If it was a really formal affair I would have at least put a pile of books on those jeans to put a nice crease down the front of the leg. Nothing but the best was my motto. But I was at one of those big box stores the other day and I found myself in wonder as I watched people drifting by in what appeared to be their pajamas. I looked for any signs proclaiming, “Pajama Bargain Days” or something, but there were none. I would have stood there forever with my jaw hanging down if it were not for a quick jab to the ribs from my wife and an admonishment not to stare.
Closer to home, we were eating supper the other night, just the four of us at the table now that my son is engaged and living away from home. We were having a late summer meal of corn-on-the-cob, nothing offside about that. I was just tucking into my cob when I looked around the table and saw my wife and youngest daughter nibbling away on their cobs after applying the required amount of butter, salt and pepper. Each of them proceeding down the length of the cob with their teeth moving in a rhythmic workmanlike fashion. But something struck me odd about our eldest daughter as she ate her cob. That was when I was locked into a stare. Something was not quite right in what I was staring at, but nothing seemed to register on me what it was. I felt like a character in a Stephen King novel. You know the character I am talking about. He is always the one who is staring at something intently just before the head explodes and a creature comes charging out of the blood spurting neck. I didn’t really expect that to happen, but I was preparing myself nonetheless. Then it struck me what was wrong. She was eating the corn off the cob in an entirely unacceptable manner. She wasn’t eating down the row of corn, she was eating around the cob, over the top. She stopped in mid bite when she sensed I was staring at her. “What?” She asked inquisitively. ”Do I have something on my chin?”. “Why are you eating your corn that way?” I didn’t try and sound too accusatory, then I illustrated what I meant. She just shrugged her shoulder and said, “I don’t know, I just like to eat it that way”. “But that’s not the way to eat corn on the cob. We all know that. Didn’t you ever see the old cartoon where they eat the corn like it was a typewriter and it dinged at the end and then they started on the next line? That is the proper way to eat corn-on-the-cob”. She fixed me in a stare that my daughter always uses when she puts me in my place. “First of all, what’s a typewriter?” She always knows how to hit deep. “Secondly, if it happened in a cartoon before the Simpson’s it doesn’t count and finally, I didn’t know there were rules about eating corn. I thought it was more a matter of nutrition than it was in following a set of arbitrary rules as set down by some fictional animated rendering that came from an age where grown up people thought the height of hilarity was watching a duck with a speech impediment dressed up in clothes and talking like a human.” It was at that point I realized we shouldn’t have sent her off to university to develop her critical thinking after all.
I did eventually tear my eyes away, even before I got a jab in the ribs from my wife, but I did punctuate my point. At the end of every row on my corn-on-the-cob I dinged and started on the next row down. Let her stare for a bit.
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