When fish turns into fish cakes

I was going to make breaded pan-fried fish for dinner. Andrew bought some fresh whiting fillets. There was skin on one side. I read up on how to skin fish in Joy of Cooking. It looked pretty easy, really; but, they also make skinning a squirrel and preparing it for a stew look easy.

My attempts to skin one side of the fish failed. I instead SCRAPED the fish off the skin, fried the flakes in a pan, and made the usual mixture for fish cakes. It was still good, but things didn't go according to plan and took longer because of it.

The moral of this story is: when life gives you fish make fish cakes. But, there's more. My grandmother said her friends used to call her Angie Ingenuity because she was always rigging something up when they went camping-- a makeshift clothesline, sunshade for the kids; a way to keep many pots warm over one fire. Can fish cakes count as an A.I. moment? Maybe not the cakes themselves, no; but, maybe the A.I. happened when I decided that I simply could not throw the fish away, that I had to do something with it. Then, something turned out to be pretty good.

Have you had your A.I. moment today? What have you done to use what you've got? Do you trust the potential of your ordinary ingredients?

New Recipe from the Po' Bastard Kitchen

Hey all. This soup was created when I realized our celery would go moldy unless someone did something with it. That someone is me, because Andrew doesn't eat celery. I'm pretty satisfied with the taste of it; but next time I'd chop the celery smaller so it mashes easier, and doesn't leave tons of visible strings in the soup.

Note of warning to Munka B: do not try this soup, to you it would taste like "packing tape."

**Sour Cream of Celery Soup**
Ingredients:
-Bunch of celery: wash, trim, slice small and thin
-Half yellow onion: chunkily chopped
-One medium potato, I left the skin on but you don't have to
-three whole cloves of garlic, skinned
-2/3 c. sour cream, warmed up in the micro
-butter, 2-3 tbsp. more if you want
-salt and pepper to taste
-chicken broth
-6 cups water

Method:
Prepare the celery, onion, potato, and garlic as described in "Ingredients." Boil them for a long time in six cups of water; everything should be very soft. Strain the celery mixture, and reserve the cooking liquid. You will notice that the vegetables will have absorbed most of the water, so you'll probably only have two cups of reserved liquid. Put the cooking juices back into the pan, and dissolve your broth cube in it. I only needed one cube, but you should check how many cups of water your cubes take. Meanwhile, add about two tablespoons of butter to the vegetable mixture. Grind in some salt and pepper. Mash everything up until it's nice and smooth. Warm the sour cream in the micro. Then, add it to the vegetable mash, and stir everything together again. Take the broth off the fire, and stir in the sour cream and vegetable mix. Give everything a few good stirs to incorporate it together.

Notes:
As I mentioned in the intro, next time I'd cut the celery smaller. My soup, though it tastes OK, would be better if it were more smooth. One way to remedy the too-chunky problem is to use a food processor or a blender to puree it. My Po' Bastard Kitchen lacks fancy equipment. If you don't have any equipment and have to rely on the potato masher, make sure you pretty much dice the shit out of the celery. Also, If I'd had any white wine or vermouth, I would've replaced one or two cups of water with wine, because wine makes food taste good.

I make soup at least once per week with whatever leftover vegetables we have in the house. During our first week here, I also made a half-assed version of Mulligatawny Soup. But mine lacked chicken, and relied more on onions, carrots, half an apple, some broken up spaghetti noodles (instead of rice), and a handful of little raisins. Sounds gross, but it was actually pretty good-- spicy and sweet, like my sister Angela. I will put this recipe up if I make the soup again and it turns out as good.

Aerobics took me to hell. I'm not back yet.

I should really begin this story by saying that I am by no means an inexperienced exerciser-- I've tried all kinds: kickboxing, step, free weights, yoga (hatha and ashtanga-- in my circle, we call the latter ass-tango), dancefit. Before I left the US, I even checked out Punk Aerobics at the Belmont Bar (BTW, most FUN class I've ever been to). As you can see, I'm pretty democratic about the classes I choose; I'll try pretty much anything. I'm also not a lazy exerciser. If I can't make it to a class, I try to do my own workout. I will take Evan for a long walk, or, still go to the gym but use the elliptical, stairmaster, and recumbent bike. I don't think I'm lazy exerciser.

How truly stupid and wrong I am.

Tonight I went to a class called Circuits. The course description clearly read "for all fitness levels." I heartily dispute that innocuous claim. Circuits is for bionic people with Herculean strength and iron-endurance, not puny human people. Like me.

There were about 14 "stations" set up around the gym. Each one had a different task: suicide sprint, jumping jacks, Spartan jump/donkey kick, push-up with hands in a diamond, regular push-up, electric chair (no, seriously-- squatting against the wall), lateral hold with weights, tricep dips, more running... the evil list went on. Flexible Brendan made these exercises look very simple. After the demo, we ran around the gym. There were tasks involved in the warm-up, too: when Flexible Brendan said "1" we were supposed to reach down and touch the floor with our right hand; when he said "2", the left; and on "3" we were supposed to jump in the air. By the time I caught on, the real evil began.

We ran to a station and did the prescribed activity for one minute. Then, we ran to the next station and did the next activity. We went once around the entire circle, and then did squats and lunges as a group for our "break." By this time the air was filled with the fragrance of sweaty boy-- oh yeah, did I forget to mention that there were only like 5 girls in the entire class? Then, we went back to the stations. The entire class, Flexible Brendan and his assistant "coached" people through the agony. At one point, while I was taking a break from my tricep dips, Flexible Brendan's assistant came over and said, "Dip on it, don't sit on it." This struck me as so RUN-DMC-esque that I decided to keep dipping.

By the time class ended everyone was tomato-faced and almost crying. We did some stretching, and then packed it up. Flexible Brendan's assistant asked, "Did you enjoy it?" I said, "That really sucked. It was great." This set Flexible Brendan and Assistant to peals of tinkly laughter.

I limped home. I will pay greatly for this tomorrow, I can already tell.

I would like to propose a revision to the Circuits course description. How about: for only super-advanced fitness levels. Or: don't come in unless you could take Mr. T, Arnold, and Mike Tyson in a fight, and win. Or, even better: if you try, you might die. As a kid, I hated gym class. Why would I willingly go back to Circuits, which is just like gym? Only two reasons: this time I didn't get picked on, and sometimes it's OK to have a fun fitness challenge to remind yourself that you will never become an Olympian.

Flexible Brendan and Assistant: Aces. Your class kicked my ass. That's why, from now on, I'm sticking to the aerobics classes wear I get to wear a tutu and dance around to the Spice Girls.

Love affair with my refrigerator

Those of you who've looked at the photos of our apartment know that we have a nice place. It's pretty new, there's carpet, there are plenty of windows and light, bathrooms are big enough, etc. You will also recall that the kitchen, though it has adequate counter and cupboard space, does lack space in other places: the fridge.

Our fridge is so small that even Emmanuel Lewis couldn't get a decent night's sleep in it. Actually, our fridge is so small that you could barely fit a chihuahua with a bag of Fritos inside. A small fridge is supposed to mean that you shop more frequently, which means that you eat more fresh food. Or, a small fridge could just be one fat-ass headache, when it fails to keep your shopped-for-this-morning fresh food fresh.

Example A: one week after living here, I go to get some milk to make some hot chocolate. When I begin to pour the milk from the jug, it comes out in chunks--white, globular, vile milk-chunks. I turn the temperature higher so things will stay colder and the milk won't curdle. Now, there is a glacier building up inside the freezer.

Example B: Last night, Andrew turns the temperature down some so the glacier will begin to digest itself. This morning, I suffer the consequences of Andrew's very poor decision. I go to pour the milk on a lovely, crunchy bowl of Tesco Value Cornflakes-- and-- again-- the friggin' milk chunks. I'm pissed because not only do I have to toss out what would've been a perfectly good bowl of cornflakes, I also have to eat a soft boiled egg without any toast because we don't have any bread. I resolve to kill the glacier this weekend.

I could put the milk on the window ledge outside my apartment and it'd stay at a more consistent temperature than it does in my pixie box-fridge.

Isn't technology supposed to WORK? Isn't technology supposed to HELP US? Someone in the crowd: Can I get a "Hell, yeah?"

Dumb grocery delivery and Andrew's Good Day

Well, let me be one of the first people to congratulate my husband, Andrew, on already beginning to reap the benefits of Fulbright-hood. Andrew got two pieces of good news: 1) he (well, WE actually, but since I don't know anyone who can babysit-- HE will be going) was invited by the American Ambassador to attend an Election Night Viewing Party at the Guinness Storehouse on 11/2; and 2) In March, Andrew will be attending a conference on EU politics, integration, blahblahblah in Brussels, Luxembourg, Mons, and Brugge (some of that list I'm sure is spelled wrong) all of which will be funded by Fulbright and other participating foreign governments. I've told him many times that if he came to me with a plan to study Irish national identity and European integration, I'd turn him down on the grounds that it's too nebulous a thing to study, but, if he wanted to write some poems, then maybe I'd shell out the cash.

What did I do today, you ask? Well, waited for my groceries to be delivered. We shop online once a week, and buy all the heavy things that would be too hard to carry on a long bus ride with Evan in tow. Yes, I waited for my groceries to arrive-- only 2.5 hours late. I'm debating calling Tesco Customer Service to turn on the American and demand that the delivery fee be eradicated from my previous bill, or else that they give me a gift voucher equal to the delivery amount so I can be compensated for loss of my precious time. I have plenty of time, I just don't have that much time to WAIT.

Well, the thing is, I'd feel sort of bad about turning on the American. Because people here are pretty nice. Two delivery girls showed up in the Tesco truck and were apologetic to the point of stammering: "So sorry we kept you waiting. Hope we didn't keep you from going out. Really, we're just so sorry..." So, of course I said, "It's no problem." I offer one tip to those looking to have groceries delivered to their home: expect unreliability, you're paying for a convenience service, not promptness.

Because Tesco has failed to deliver my things on time two out of three deliveries, they get a total F- on the customer service report card. And because they ask you to sign up for a time slot which they cannot guarantee or abide by, again, a total F-. But, they get an A for making it so I can still shop like an American, once a week instead of every day. God knows I am still too American-lazy to shop every day.

The delivery girls get an A too, because they were still polite in spite of the fact that steam was coming out my nostrils. I didn't really want to yell at them or complain to them. They didn't design a company scheme that's completely unrealistic to adhere to. It's no good complaining to the plebians, they're just trying to make an honest living under the iron thumb of The Man. I know how that goes-- having worked ALL SUMMER LONG in bloody retail hell.

Slainte to Munka B: she has answered the question from my previous post about Velasquez and Lavery. She wins some barmbrack, hot from the oven.

Hopefully better inspiration tomorrow.

Johns: Kerry and Lavery

Today we went to the National Gallery. Before we checked out the 20th century Irish art-- which includes paintings by Jack Yeats, WB's bro-- we had lunch at the cafe. Evan was busy charming the older couple sitting next to us. The lady was wearing little clock-shaped earrings and she had an asymmetrical haircut, two things that mean: I have a career in the arts. Unique jewelry and weird hair always give it away.

So, she leaned over to me and asked, "Does your baby like art museums?" I said I hoped so, because we did. Her husband was smiling and nodding along. "It's good to expose kids to art early," he said, "because they grow to have an appreciation of it." I agreed heartily. She showed me some postcards from the German Romanticism exhibit and recommended that we go; she cautioned that it shouldn't be too expensive because there was a family price available.

Then, her husband did something very strange. He reached into his pocket, cupped an object in his palm, and flashed it at Andrew and I like a secret police badge. It was a John Kerry button. "You voted, right?" he asked, both optimistically and accusingly. "We can't let this go on anymore. It's terrible what's happening to the country..." I assured him that we turned in our absentee ballots before we left, and that we, too, were a Kerry family.

What's strange about this occurence is NOT that we met some other Americans in Dublin and had a conversation with them about America. What's strange is that somehow this guy trusted it would be OK to brandish his badge to complete strangers. I don't think he assumed we'd vote Kerry just because we're American. It was a more complex assumption: layered with deductive reasoning, and perhaps certain traces of presumption, as well. We are a young family, living abroad, avid attendants of museums of all kinds (at least when they're free), eating lunch at a cafe whose proceeds support the museum, and on and on-- did he guess that I listen to NPR, and that when abroad I search for the station most like NPR? Or did he guess from my patchouli smell that my kid eats organic baby food and I buy free trade coffee? Whatever set of assumptions he developed about us were all right by me.

It could've gone horribly wrong for him in the wrong type of setting, but this guy knew it was right. It was OK to flash Kerry-ism in our eyes. We flashed it right back. It was a cool feeling to be reminded that we are an important part of a specific American community. Maybe he wanted to make sure we knew that we could be a force of change, even when living away.

We spent most of our time in the museum looking at the 20th century Irish art. There was one painting, called The Artist in his Studio, by John Lavery, that used Velasquez's Las Meninas as a compostional model. Now, I've seen both these paintings, and I think it's a very interesting point. However, Lavery's is missing a key amusing feature that Las Meninas does have. Whoever can tell me what Lavery's is missing wins a very luxurious prize.

I do like the Lavery painting so much that I will buy a poster of it and maybe hang it where ever our nomadic wandering take us next.

When we came home, Evan practiced crawling. He gets up on all fours and rocks back and forth. Then he whines in the general direction of whatever he's after-- a toy, Dad's keys, etc.-- in hopes that the object will sprout legs and walk over to him. When he's pretty sure that won't happen, he takes a few crawling steps toward the object, reaches for it, grabs it, and then plops down onto his stomach in complete exhaustion. I ask you, is this drama?

Poop and Potatoes

This morning I realized that too much of my life revolves around bowels. Not mine, mind you, I don't find my own very interesting at all. However, Evan's bowels are another story. At least twice a day, Andrew and I have conversations about poop. They usually go like this:

Andrew: Did he poop yet today?
Me: Oh, God-- yes.
Andrew: Was it that bad?
Me: Oh, God-- yes.

The conversation also usually includes a description of color, texture, and smell-- if a stranger didn't hear the first part of the conversation, he or she would think we were talking about wines of the world.

Part of what made me realize that too much of my life revolved around poop was that I actually had a dream about it. I pooped on the white marble floor in a very rich person's bathroom, though I was careful to lay out some overlapping layers of paper towel first. And then my mother-in-law came in while I was surverying the mess, and made me scrub the floor on my hands and kness until it (the floor, not the feces) turned a different color. Weird. After this I quickly resolved to spend less time thinking about poop and talking about poop. So, onto other things...

I made mashed potato soup tonight. I have to say, it was really pretty good for coming from my brain. Andrew and I steamed some broccoli florets and tossed those, a spoonful of sour cream, and a sprinkling of sharp cheddar on top.

Irish Mashed Potato Soup (the only thing that's really Irish about it is that the potatoes themselves were bought in Ireland, and that I live in Ireland)

Ingredients:
-4-5 medium-large potatoes-- wash, peel, chop
-6 cloves of garlic-- peel
-1/2 a large yellow onion-- slice chunkily
-Chicken broth cubes (I used three, mine make two cups of broth per cube. Make sure to read your own package at home)
-salt
-pepper
-butter (maybe about 4-5 heaping tablespoons)
-Worsty (if you want)

Method:
1. Place the potatoes, garlic, and onion in six cups of water. Salt the water a little if you want. Boil as for mashed potatoes.
2. When the potato mixture is soft enough to be mashed, drain them; reserve the cooking liquid.
3. Tip the reserved liquid back into the pan, and put it back on the fire. Dissolve your chicken broth cubes in the potato-ey water.
4. While the broth cubes are dissolving, get on with mashing your potato mixture. Add butter as needed to make a very smooth mash.
5. Once the broth cubes have been dissolved, and you have the mash, put the mash back in with the broth. Give everything a few good stirs. This is also when you would add the worsty, if you wanted to. Add some salt and pepper to taste.
6. Serve with toppings of choice, as you would for a baked potato.

Festive suggestions:
1. steamed broccoli
2. sour cream and chives
3. sharp cheddar and worsty sauce
4. parmesan and rosemary
5. any fresh herbs-- dill? parsley?
6. ranch dressing
7. Tabasco sauce and chunks of velveeta
8. a wee garden of other vegetables: small slivers of carrot and zucchini, maybe diced tomato
9. ham, bacon, small chunks of sausage
10. dried cranberries? Probably not....
11. seasoned croutons

Other notes:
I think this would be a fun but cheap way to feed a lot of people, and get the whole party interacting together. I would probably add a green salad with a vinegarette dressing, and some chunks of bread to soak up the traces of potato. As far as the ideal drink, my guess would be a light wine that would cut some of the heaviness of the soup. For dessert, try something with fruit in it-- Andrew says an apple or cherry turnover. I'll extend that to include apple or pear crisp. Or, maybe some plain old cold red grapes.

If anyone else tries this, let me know. You could win a very exciting prize.

Thumbs up for American invention....

Note to self: wrong-size vacuum bags can not be custom fitted. I would know; I tried.

I love, love, love this apartment. It's huge; it's carpeted; it's across from the park-- which has a fenced in kids play area. I do NOT love the vacuum that came with this apartment. It is a Philips Mobilo 300 Watt, and despite its cutesy appearance-- it's one of those vacuums where the actual sucking mechanism and the cord drag far behind the vacuum hose and head, following you around the house like a belly-crawling baby on wheels-- I'm pretty sure it was made in the 1980's and that you can't get proper bags for it anymore.

I only found out the vacuum needed a bag because I'm a great wife: I keep the house very, very clean. In my effort to rid the carpet of excess dirt, I noticed a foul smell creeping through the air. The stench was not unlike burning, moldy bread. I opened the vacuum bag compartment and pushed on the bag with one finger-- it was as full as a binge-eating sorority girl. This would not do. I told Andrew he had to look for a bag the next time he went to Tesco.

Well, the only vacuum bags they sell at Tesco are for vacuums made in the 1990s. We asked the apartment supervisor for her advice, and she suggested a small neighborhood store about two blocks from campus. So, today I braved the wind and rain, and-- came back sans vacuum bag. I went to the campus grocery, and again, no bag. You'd think that housing services would buy a whole truckload of these bags, mark up the price by 100%, and sell them to desperate American housewives who are eager to vacuum their campus apartments. That's what I would do. They could make a mint!

So, after I exhausted these two other avenues, Andrew, Evan, and I walked over to the Omni Shopping Centre, where there is a Giant Tesco and also a store with the sexually-connotative name of Home Base. In Giant Tesco, we found the vacuum bags next to the car care supplies. What? Who devised that shelving system?! Again, only bags for vacuums made in the 1990s.

After a coffee stop at a place selling "American" bagels, we went to Home Base (heh-heh). There, we purchased a bag of vacuum bags that looked similar to the one I'd tore from the belly of the machine at home. We walked home, and I waited with baited breath to unfold the new vacuum bag and place it in the void of my machine.

I tried it. And I tried again. Finally I told Andrew, "Bring me the scissors. The hole needs to be a little wider." After a bit of surgery, I was sure that the bag would fit. I tried vacuuming. The vacuum sucked, backfired, and started blowing out gray dust. I opened the bag compartment. After all my attention to detail, the goddamned thing had fallen off. I'd never wished for tape more feverishly than I did right then.

Andrew was able to buy the right type of bags online.

I ask: what kind of world is this that does not freely enable or encourage women to vacuum as we desire? We want all types of vacuum bags at our immediate disposal!

Reading for the week:
1. My Master's thesis, "Spare Change," can be ordered from Central Michigan University's inter-library loan. The first person to write a 750-word essay on the subject of character in "Hedvika Tells about Crossing the Equator" wins some barmbrack.

2. Joyce's Dubliners. Anyone who comes up with a legitimate-sonding literary term for the continuity of heaviness of ending in all the short stories also wins some barmbrack.

3. Nigella Lawson's Feast. I haven't bought it, but have browsed and salivated online. First to buy it and also buy a copy for me wins something other than barmbrack.

Suck it up (because my vacuum can't)-- Andrea