On Top of Spaghetti...

Continuing what is becoming a regular feature, here's my big cooking extravaganza for the week. This week: Spaghetti and meatballs. I make the meatballs from scratch, and doctor some spaghetti sauce from a jar. I've made my own sauce before, but something's got to give when making meatballs from scratch.

[Fair warning before I continue: This topic is fraught with the possibility for double entrendre. Feel free to snicker like Beavis and/or Butthead at will.]

I started with a mixture of ground turkey and mild Italian sausage. As I removed the sausage from its casings, I remembered that this is not a recipe for the neat-niks among us. Let's just say that the sausage needs coaxing. It seems to respond best to firm pressure, starting at one end ... that's all I'm going to say about that.

Next, I dumped breadcrumbs, eggs, garlic, parmesan cheese, Italian seasoning, salt, and pepper into the mixing bowl. I looked at the gooey mess and knew that I needed to push up my sleeves and dig in. But, I wasn't ready to get that messy. Optimistically, I grabbed my spoon. I knew it wouldn't work and sure enough, it didn't. Oh, it stirred fine, but it didn't mix. Sighing loudly, I pushed up my sleeves and dove in with both hands. Within seconds, I had an evenly mixed batch of meatball goodness. I'd show you a picture, but the goodness doesn't digitally transfer. The goodness looks more like something that someone has already enjoyed once and no one wants to see that.

So, moving on. Using my gooey hands, I reached in and broke off a piece of goodness. Carefully rolling it between my palms, I shaped it into a rather sticky ball, like a ping pong ball. A ping pong ball that won't bounce because it's made of meat. There wasn't time to admire my handiwork because there was much more meat to handle. After more dipping, rolling, and shaping, I ended up with this:

And ... repeat. Made another pan just like this one. If you're counting, that's 30 meatballs. That's a lot of balls. Since I don't want to eat meatballs at every meal for the next 3 weeks, 20 of the little fellows headed to the freezer. They'll come in handy on a long workday when I'm too tired to think about food.

While the balls rested, I moved onto the sauce. Like I said, it's doctored jar sauce.

Mix all of this together and let it boil. (Not all of the wine, obviously. Must save some for the actual meal.)

After simmering for 10 minutes, I dropped the first balls in. They disappeared to the bottom and started cooking. Ten minutes later, they came out and the next batch went in. Another ten minutes and it was all balls in. Dropped the pasta in the boiling water and put the bread in the toaster oven. Ten more minutes and we had spaghetti and meatballs, with a side of garlic bread.

Everyone now: "On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese. I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed..."

Why I love the South

I know what you're thinking: What am I looking at? Here's a better picture:

That, my friends, is an open sunroof. Open on January 23rd. Open because it is near 70 degrees outside and with bright sunny skies. Open because it's not snowing, or sleeting, or slushing, or precipitating any other kind of winterness. Open a mere 3 days after it was 30 degrees at noon.

People used to wonder why I wanted to move south. I believe this blog entry, with pictures, answers that question better than I ever could.

Looking Backward and Forward

On my way to Big City University this afternoon, I decided to detour and visit an historic site with particular relevance. I stopped off at the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial. Seemed like the right thing to do.

There was a time in my not-so-distant past that I spent lots of time at the King Center. When I was researching for my dissertation, I ate my lunch at the reflecting pool, trying to thaw out from the overly-enthusiastic air conditioning in the archive. Didn't matter how many times I saw it, the memorial always moved me, as did the visitors. I haven't been to the memorial since my last research trip but I easily found my way back. I was heartened to see that the crowds and media hoopla had died down since yesterday's festivities. I'm all for celebrating Dr. King's life, but today, I just wanted a few moments of quiet reflection and to snap a couple of pictures.

I got the car parked in a near-empty parking lot and exited into what can only be described as the coldest day the South has ever seen. Holy crap! I decided that I'd save the quiet reflection for the car. Braving the cold, I walked the block or so to the memorial. I quickly realized that I was not the only person who had this idea. Loudspeakers from two different sources competed to see who could present the most meaningful message on this historic day.

I turned the corner into the courtyard in front of the new Ebenezer Baptist Church and saw the source of the noise. Someone, I'm assuming the National Park Service, had set up a jumbotron screen to show clips from Dr. King's most memorable speeches and marches. I thought this was a nice idea, giving people a sense of history. Would have been better inside where it was warm - but, a nice idea just the same. I noted that no one, and I mean no one, was watching the screen.

The rest of the noise was coming from a stage in the center of Auburn Avenue. I'm trying not to be an old fart, but there's no way that I'll ever be hip enough to appreciate the sentiments expressed by the singer on the stage. Let's just say that it provided a startling contrast to the jumbotron. As I rushed across the street to snap my pictures, I noted that a crowd had gathered in front of the stage. A crowd of approximately 10 very cold people.

The singer finished as I reached the gravesite and let out an enthusiastic, "OBAMA!" that lit up Sweet Auburn. I snapped my pictures, took a moment for quiet reflection, and got my cold little rear end headed back toward the car. As I crossed the street again, a new group of singers took the stage. Three young women began gyrating in what can only be described as "the seizure dance" and began singing. Again, I'm not nearly hip enough to understand what they were saying, but it sounded like, "Jiggle, girls! Jiggle, girls!" "Oh dear," I said, from my old fart vantage point across the street. Here, literally in between a jumbotron showing Dr. King describing his dream and his final resting place, were three young women urging all the females in a 4-block radius to "jiggle." Perhaps they were concerned about frostbite, and figured that people would stay warmer if they moved - or "jiggled."

I got back to the car, face frozen, and fingers tingling. I considered "jiggling" but decided to make my way downtown instead. I suppose I'm thankful that I live in a country where we can all decide if we want to jiggle or not. Perhaps that is the true meaning of Dr. King's dream.

[I'd include pictures from my visit, but I forgot the cord that connects the camera to the computer back at home. Look for pictures in the coming days.]

All About the Jeffersons

Last night, I satisfied my cooking urge by making white chicken fricassee. I found the recipe in my Southern Living cookbook, though the cookbook cites Thomas Jefferson's Cook Book as the original source. According to the write-up, the recipe uses "practically the same ingredient list as the original recipe." I figured that if it was good enough for Tom, it was good enough for me. Besides, fricassee is so much fun to say.

I started by dusting the bone-in chicken breasts with a mixture of salt, pepper, paprika, and nutmeg. Then, I browned the breasts in hot oil (insert sizzling sound here).

Step 2: Roux. I removed the chicken and added flour to the oil. Careful to whisk constantly, I waited until the mixture turned light brown (not shown in this picture). I've burned roux before, so I am familiar with disappointment, unhappiness, and the lingering bad smell. Luck was with me last night as I avoided this mistake.

Next, add a mixture of wine and water. If I make this again, I might try chicken broth instead of water. Tom might have liked a less rich sauce, but I think it might be interesting to see what happens with more flavor in the sauce. Anyway, added the liquid and whisked until it boiled and thickened.

Once I achieved boilage, I put the chicken back in the pot, covered it, and waited 50 minutes. I suspected that I'd chosen a winning dish as good smells filled the house. It also had all the earmarks of comfort food - perfect for a chilly evening.

Fast forward 50 minutes: I removed the chicken again. I knew it would be good when the meat practically fell off of the bone as I took out each piece. Then, like those cooks of yore, I strained the sauce (except they probably didn't have a plastic strainer. Otherwise, it was very authentic).
I returned the now empty pot to the stove and melted some butter. Using my handy dandy chopper, I made quick work of an onion and added it to the pot. More sizzling and stirring and voila - sauteed tender onion. Poured the sauce back into the pot, added some mushrooms, fresh sage, fresh parsley, and chicken. Oh - and a cup of half-and-half. Normally, I reserve half-and-half for coffee only, but I made an exception in this case. Man, was it worth it!

Thick rich sauce over tender, well-seasoned chicken. No wonder Tom liked this recipe. As instucted, I boiled some rice and served up my masterpiece, with a green salad on the side. I decided to treat myself with one of my favorite green salads - Bibb lettuce, spinach, fresh orange, walnuts, purple onion, and homemade sweet and sour dressing. Yum! (Clearly, this picture does not do justice to the chicken. Trust me, it looked much more appetizing than a bas-relief representation of Greenland.)



Overall, I enjoyed my dinner from the annals of Thomas Jefferson's kitchen. I might even try some of the other recipes, though I think I'll pass on Carthusian. According to the cookbook, the dish consists of "blanched cabbage leaves ... filled with boiled carrots and pigs' tongues." Oink.

This close to being outraged

I'm on an antibiotic. I'm not going to say why because I believe that boundaries are our friends, and I know where this kind of conversation can lead and I don't want to hear about your medical problems. It's not that I don't care, it's just that ... who am I trying to fool? I don't care. The only reason I bring up my problem is to rant. Earlier in the week, my doctor prescribed a course of treatment: 3 pills for 3 days. Simple enough. So, I took the prescription to the pharmacy and learned that my insurance company would only pay for 2 pills at a time. Sure, that makes sense. I mean, paper-pushing penny-pinchers clearly have a MUCH better idea about what I need than MY DOCTOR. I took my 2 pills and came home.

Yesterday, I called in my "refill." I've just returned from the pharmacy. Seems the insurance company won't pay for me to take 3 pills in one week, no matter what MY DOCTOR (you know, the guy with the medical degree) thinks is an appropriate course of treatment. I tried to explain to the pharmacist that we've already tried it the insurance company's way and it didn't work. She was sympathetic but in the end, I lost the battle. In my frustration, I said, "You know, if this was Viagra, the insurance company would give me as much as I wanted anytime I wanted it." She nodded sympathetically, leaned toward me and muttered, "Yeah, we all know who makes these laws." Horny frustrated old men, that's who.

I took my outrage to Starbucks to refill my coffee supply. Good thing the insurance company isn't standing between me and my caffiene. Heads would roll and cities would burn, I tell you! As I waited for my beverage, I glanced around. Everywhere I looked, students had their noses buried in textbooks - on a holiday weekend. Warmed this cynical professor's heart. None of them were studying history and none of them were my students, but at least I'm not ready to throttle anyone anymore.

Now I remember why I wanted to do this

Today, it's cold outside. OK, it's not below zero or anything, but it is below 40 and that's cold in my book. Didn't stop a few jackasses from donning their shorts and flip-flops and wandering around campus. I wonder if their mommies will write them a note when they're sick with pnuemonia next week. (Crap - when did I turn 80?!)

I headed across town to the university to do something that I haven't done in a year - research on my own work. Lately, as the pressures of teaching have taken over my life, I've been feeling disconnected from my work. I do remember being excited about my research at some point in the not-so-distant past. I have vague memories of enjoying the process of piecing the puzzle together to create a narrative. I seem to recall an almost "high" feeling on particularly good days. Yes, I also remember the utter and complete agony of writer's block and the devestating realization that I will, once again, have to restart this chapter. But, I'm choosing to be Pollyanna and focus on the positive.

So, today, I packed up the laptop and headed to the library. It was great! A perfect afternoon. The books I wanted were in a special reading room, far from the undergrad crowd. And, there really wasn't an undergrad crowd because it's a holiday weekend. A couple of students trickled in and out, but mostly, I had the place to myself. I set up and got to work. Almost immediately, I remembered why I wanted to pursue this largely thankless career.

I'm not really sure what I'm looking for at this point. I have a vague outline of a narrative that didn't really fit into my dissertation. It has all the earmarks of a compelling story: interesting historical actors, deep-rooted tension, rich local context. I'm sure there's a story there. So, I'm digging without a clear direction or purpose. Just digging. It's great! I feel like an academic glutton. I'm not on a research trip where I have to try to make the most of my travel money. This resource is right across town. Ready and waiting for me anytime I can get over there. Now, if I could just get rid of all of my pesky students at Big City University...

I spent the afternoon with a few books about focus of my initial investigation. All colorful histories by equally colorful writers. I also found a pictorial history of the county and had much fun looking at pictures of people I didn't know and would probably never meet. There's something about the rural south, particularly Georgia, that connects with me. Mind you, I don't want to live in rural Georgia, but the people, places, and history fascinate me.

While I was researching my target county, I allowed myself to get sidetracked and took a look at a book about the county where my mother's family lives. I think I squeaked when I found a reference to my great-great-grandfather. I also found references to freedpeople living in the county before the Civil War. "What's that story?" I wondered. Made a note to check it out later.

Tomorrow, I may head back to look at local newspapers. Microfilm isn't my friend, but in this case, I may make an exception. I am, without a doubt and without apology, a geek.

Having an Apartment Complex

Today, I received the monthly newsletter from my leasing office. I live in a corporate-owned apartment complex, so much of the newsletter is generic filler. This month, my corporate slumlords passed on a recipe for Microwave White Chicken Chili, offered advice on reducing credit card debt, and reminded me that January 28 is "National Write to Congress Day." All useful information. The column about snow is less useful, particularly since it was 60 some-odd degrees today.

The monthly newsletter usually finds itself on the fast track to the recycling bin. Today, as I prepared to be environmentally responsible, two colored sheets drifted to the floor. I picked them up and read two very important announcements from the bitter, humorless leasing agents.


This month, the Little Leasing Dictators (LLDs) alerted us to "damage to the main gate during the holiday break." I should back up a bit and explain that the apartment complex prides itself on perceived exclusivity. Yes, we have a gate, and yes, you need a special card to gain entry into the enclave. But, there's no fence. Just to review: Gate? Yes. Fence? No. In case you're wondering, I do pay extra for this service.

Anyway, at some point during the holidays, someone got really annoyed with the gate and rammed it. Rammed it hard enough to break the little motor and leave half of the gate hanging at a terribly depressing angle. I'm not sure when it happened. All I know is that there is a little piece of crime-scene tape still dangling from the privacy-not-security gate.

So, the LLDs want us all to know that "the damage was so severe, that we are having to have extensive repairs done. This may take a little bit of time." They "apologize for the inconvenience" and ask for our patience. Yeah, I'm torn up about being able to drive on to the property without having to stop and press my magic card to the metal plate.

In other apartment news, "There is a serious problem with pet owners being irresponsible!" Serious enough to warrant an exclamation point! Apparently, the LLDs "are seeing more and more pet waste left on the grounds" and they ain't happy. Not happy at all. In this full-page reminder, they inform pet-owners and non-pet-owners alike that "cleaning up after your pet is easy and REQUIRED." (Emphasis in original). They're not taking any more crap from you, or your little dog.

I can just imagine the discussion at the monthly leasing office staff meeting:
Groundskeeper #1: Man, I saw 4 huge mounds of pet waste today.
Groundskeeper #2 (no pun intended): Oh yeah, well, I saw 6 mounds, and one was still warm.
Brown-nosing LLD intern: Gosh, what can we do to address this problem of critical importance?
Head LLD: I know! I'm going to fire off one of my flyers on bright orange paper with BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS and exclamation points!! That's sure to fix this problem!
Brown-nosing LLD intern: You're so smart. I can't wait until I can send out orange flyers with exclamation points!
Slacker LLD intern: I can't believe we're spending all this time talking about dog crap.

So, the Head LLD went to her computer and composed the flyer. Not content to merely remind pet owners that cleaning up is REQUIRED, she added the following: "Pet owners - We have seen the culprits that are not cleaning up after their dogs. We are watching to see if you CLEAN UP your act."

Good to see my rent money going to good use. Apparently, I'm paying people to watch dogs relieve themselves. I wonder if everyone on staff is required to perform this duty (or "doody"), or if one fellow literally got the shit end of the stick. Wonder if they've designated one of their golf carts for the Poopy Patrol. The groundskeeper drives around all day in the now-brown cart, waiting for pet owners to bring their dogs outside. Then, he screeches to a stop, disembarks, and watches. I believe the dog might be thinking, "Dude, I don't need an audience." What's next? The groundskeepers start sending samples to the College Town Crime Lab for definitive identification?

Wonder if the groundskeepers get into arguments about particular evidence:
Groundskeeper #1: "Oh yeah, that's from the golden retriever in Apt A."
Groundskeeper #2: "Dude, you're crazy. That's not from a golden retriever. That's from that schnauzer in Apt B."
Groundskeeper #1: "Schnauzer, my Aunt Fannie. The only way that came from a schauzer is if that schnauzer was a golden retriever."
[If they have these conversations, I might recommend that they seek other employment.]

The flyer concludes: REMEMBER: IF YOU DO NOT CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PET, YOU WILL LOOSE THE PRIVILEGE OF HAVING A PET AT [name withheld to protect the innocent] APARTMENTS."

I certainly wouldn't want to "loose" the privilege of having a pet. Wouldn't want poor Fido to be evicted.

Finally caught up with me

Today, I awoke in my own bed, having survived the first week of classes. This is shaping up to be a semester of ups and downs. I'm particularly pleased that none of my classes are full. I don't care why students are avoiding my classes. The end result is less work for me - and I'm not complaining about that. Another plus is that I'm teaching the same class as last semester, so most of the prep is done. This semester, I'm intentionally working on incorporating more in-class assignments. This is a much easier task than starting from scratch.

A major downside is my schedule. I start at noon, have three classes back to back to back, then I cool my heels for 3 hours. Three whole hours. Just think of all the things you can do in three hours. You could watch "Saving Private Ryan." You could cook and eat a pot roast. You could enjoy a gala charity event. In the context of my daily existence, I could drive from Big City University to my house in College Town and turn around and drive back.

Instead of doing any of these things, I cool my heels for 3 hours. This extended break is late enough in the day, not to mention at the end of three consecutive classes, that my brain doesn't work anymore. So, if you're going to suggest that I use that time to get real academic work done, save your breath. I'm good for the first 90 minutes, then I can actually feel my brain shutting down. I'm mentally closed for business around the time that all of my colleagues pack it in for the day. I can literally feel a curtain coming down in my head. The little lights in my brain go out, one by one, each one calling out, "OK, that's it for today. See you tomorrow." This is not good, particularly since I have one more group of students to entertain.

This week, I've tried two strategies to try to stop the curtain. Neither were successful. On Monday, I tried to complete administrative tasks (code for: catching up on email and other internet happenings.) I had dinner at about 6PM, thinking that the food would perk me up. Nope. Leftover beef stew just made me all warm and cozy. Curtain continued to come down. Luckily, Monday was an easy night. I reviewed the syllabus and called it a night.

Wednesday, I tried something new. I got coffee after my late afternoon class. I enjoyed a caffiene high for about 90 minutes. Then, the curtain came. Not only was I mentally and physically tired, but I was also in caffiene freefall. Crap. Again, dinner didn't have the desired effect and I struggled through the class. It took every ounce of mental energy to concentrate on what I was saying. I'm not convinced that I was coherent. Next idea: Coffee injection 30 minutes before class. If that doesn't work, I'm bringing a pillow and blanket and settling in for a long winter's nap.

One bright spot in all of this is that the Evening Edition students seem to be good students. Enough of them read the assignment so we had a good discussion. I think that the only way we'll get through the semester is if I ask a lot of questions and they keep participating. We'll just hold hands, take a deep breath, and muddle through together.

So, today, I woke up at home. I felt sluggish most of the morning and by early afternoon, I decided to settle in with my reading-for-fun book. Three hours later, I woke up. I'm no genius, but I think this means that I was tired.

First Days are Never Easy

The new semester is officially underway and what an introduction I've had. I made every effort to avoid the "first day scramble" but it happened anyway. I left the house 15 minutes later than I'd planned. I struggled down the 3 flights of stairs with suitcase, bag of trash, school bag and purse. Got to the car and realized that I'd forgotten the lunch and dinner that I'd painstakingly prepared. Back up the stairs to retrieve the food. Back to the car. Realized I forgot my hair accoutrements. Back up the stairs to retrieve the implements that keep me from looking bedraggled (all evidence to the contrary). Back to the car. Finally decided I had everything I needed and drove out of the apartment complex and turned west, remembering to throw away the trash before I left.

I got into downtown without incident, then all hell broke loose. I didn't print my notes, syllabus, or class rosters at home yesterday because my printer ran out of ink and I simply didn't want to buy more. I figured I could print at Big City University. Nope. Seems my computer and the printer had some sort of falling out over the holidays and now they're not speaking to each other. To further complicate matters, the internet also went down. Yes, the entire BCU internet system stopped working. By this point, I was a cursing machine.

The internet came back about 15 minutes before my first class. I rushed to print my class rosters from a colleague's computer and we rushed off to class......where the computer was cold from non-use. So, I had to wait for it to warm up - which took forever. Then, I couldn't find the remote for the overhead projector. I called the IT help desk and launched into a spontaneous stand-up routine. "So, anyone from out of town," I asked my students. I was about to say, "Funny thing happened on the way to the classroom..." when the IT guy arrived.

There we were in front of the whole class. I explained that I couldn't find the remote and he pulled up a window on the computer and clicked on a button. "We don't have remotes in these classrooms anymore, and we haven't had them for a while now," he said, condescendingly. Fighting the urge to slap him and call him any number of obscene names, I said, "There were remotes in these classrooms last semester." "In this building?" he interrogated. "Yes," I responded, fully aware that I was in front of my students and therefore could not rip the man's head off. He explained something else in his "oh, poor little stupid woman who can't work a computer" tone, and then he left.

OK, in all fairness, he'd probably had a bad morning. I'm sure I wasn't the only one cursing IT's name this morning. But still. My students were relatively forgiving and we stumbled through to the end of the class. My next classes went better. Now, I'm "enjoying" my 3 hour break before my last class of the day. In case you're wondering, 3 hours is a long time.

Elevator Entertainment

Today, I made my way to the Big Apple. I successfully navigated through the airport, negotiated ground transportation, and arrived at my hotel. It's significantly colder here. Like half as warm. Literally. It was supposed to be 55 degrees at home today. Here - 27 degrees. That was last night's low in the southland. I haven't been this cold since I left the NEPIW (northeastern post-industrial wasteland). I wore my hat today, as my hair will attest.


But, since I'm not 80, I'll talk about something other than the weather. I checked into the hotel and got in the elevator, alone. The doors closed and I heard voices. These weren't the regular voices I hear in my head (oh, admit it, you hear voices, too.) No, these voices were different, strangely familiar but strangely out-of-place.


I looked above the elevator doors and there was a TV screen. You're probably expecting me to say that the screen advertised hotel amenities, announced upcoming meetings, or broadcast the ubiquitious CNN headlines. Well, you'd be wrong on all counts. Instead, this hotel decided on a Popeye cartoon. That's right - Popeye the Spinach-Eating Sailor Man.



I believe that my mouth actually dropped open. I was speechless and completely baffled. It was as if I'd entered an elevator to the parallel universe where endlessly-looped Popeye cartoons made sense. Because I'm not from this parallel universe, the situation defied all logic. Why have a TV in the elevator? Why show cartoons? Why Popeye? Why....?


I've been in the elevator several times since this initial trip to Popeye-Land, and every time, there are Popeye and Bluto. I think it's the same cartoon. Something about Popeye fighting with Bluto and eating spinach. I know that narrows it down for you.


Much to my chagrin and disappointment, I've been humming, "I'm Popeye the Sailor Man" for hours now.