Kitchen Gadget A-Go-Go

A devoted I Hate to Cook Book fan, Michele Bartlett, recently wrote about a trek through Target where, in what she cleverly calls the “culinary distraction aisle” she spied what has to be the end-all of kitchen gadgets:  an egg cracker.  

According to her, you put the egg in what looks like one of those old meatball scoops, squeeze the handles and voila!  Your egg is neatly cracked and the insides slip out sans any sign of a shell.  It also has a separator attachment, she reports.   Truly amazing.

Michele’s missive sparked a recollection of my mother, Peg Bracken, as being quite enamored of time-saving kitchen devices, as you would expect.  (Once, before concerns about Salmonella, I actually saw her eat an egg raw to save time).  And with all this rattling in my brain I went off looking for some of the weirder kitchen conveniences available today. 

Now that my research is complete, all I can say is, “Wow, people really buy this stuff?”   Here are some of the highlights:

• A quesadilla maker for those who can’t bear the agony of spreading cheese between a tortilla and pressing Start on the microwave
• A motorized, self-twirling spaghetti fork, apparently designed for chronic carpal tunnel syndrome sufferers
• A microwave s‘mores maker for those who abhor campfires

And perhaps the most absurd:

• A so-called toaster kettle, which boils water and toasts bread simultaneously.  I presume this is sold with its seemingly mandatory companion:  a contraption that dips tea bags and spreads butter

Am I naïve?  Or has it simply been too long since I darkened the door of Target, Williams and Sonoma and other stores of that ilk?

 I invite fans to talk about their oddest kitchen doodad on the newest IHTCB Facebook® discussion board.

Walking in Mom’s Footsteps

Obesity has reached epidemic proportions in our country.  Or so I am told.  Here on the Left Coast we’re all supposed to be tall, tanned and svelte, spending our lunch hours playing volleyball on the beach, our weekends beating our personal 10K bests.  (Okay, if you say so.)  Silly as that sounds, you must be blind not to notice a growing degree of girth in our nation, most alarmingly among kids.

Yes—news flash, millions struggle to keep the pounds from piling up, and God knows I’m one of them.  Let’s face it:  after age forty your body just naturally wants to sit in a Barcalounger®; and dieting alone is simply not enough to maintain a healthy weight.

Now my mother, Peg Bracken—who advocated eating and drinking pretty much what you wanted in moderation, never really had a weight problem.  She walked a treadmill daily well into her eighties, propping an enlarged-print book in front of her and striding on for an hour or so.

Likewise, because the Great American Media Machine tells me I need to lose five pounds to be happy, I walk in Mom’s footsteps, mounting the elliptical trainer most days like some two-legged hamster.   The only difference is, I’ve got NPR on the headphones, or my favorite crime show on the flat screen.

At the other extreme, I know many grey-haired folks who push themselves to the limit athletically and eat like a hummingbird trying to look like a twenty-something.  But does having a six pack or buns of steel really make you a beautiful human being?  I wonder.

In the end, I again find myself following my mother’s advice, which was:  enjoy cooking and eating as two of life’s many pleasures.  Exercise regularly to avoid getting fat.  And maybe spend a bit more time trying to love and accept what you see in the mirror.

Suffering the Slings and Arrows

Well, I’m happy to say the newly released I Hate to Cook Book has found an eager audience, and is selling well.  The book is now in its third printing.  My publisher is still cheerfully answering my calls and e-mails.  And the majority of reviews have been quite favorable. 

Good thing.  Because, unlike my mother, Peg Bracken (who had rhinoceros skin when it came to bad press), I tend to take criticism to heart.  There have been one or two unkind critics who have looked dimly upon the idea of bringing out the book again.  And while Mom would surely slough these off if she were here, I admit to bristling when I read them.   (It’s not even my book, for heaven’s sake.) 

Now, under most circumstances I’m decisive and confident.  I’ve founded two successful businesses, and in my early retirement I’ve quickly transformed a passionate avocation into a packed weekly agenda.  Call me the classic go-getter.  Whatever.  It hardly matters.  Because despite my confidence in some areas, I simply do not have what it takes to endure what my author-mother and most artists do every day:  face the self-imposed censure that comes with the process of creation, then subject themselves to the glare of critics and fans. 

The predominance of the Internet, blogging and social media have sharpened this debate, I believe, inviting more non-professionals to throw their hat in the ring, and giving more people in general a bully pulpit from which to sound off.  But it’s also given the cover for some pretty shrill language and a lot of anonymous stone throwing.

At any rate, hats off to those artists who willingly lay themselves bare.  And, yes, a nod of respect for professional critics who have mastered the delicate art of disapproval without disrespect.

Food Can Be Fun

You’re not hungry.  But there you are, on the couch, reading a book with a sleeve of Fig Newtons® by your side.  When you finally close the cover you look over and are shocked to see there’s nothing left but a cellophane wrapper and trace evidence of the crime.  Or maybe you’re at the county fair.  Long after the cotton candy, deep-fried Snickers® bars, funnel cakes, churros and God knows what else, your ears still perk up when the barker yells, “Get yer Kettle corn right here!” 

No, it’s not snacking, nor the classic cry for love, nor a carpet party, but what I like to call ‘recreational eating’:  ritualistic, often wholesale consumption simply to romance the palate. 

FYI, I’m all in when it comes to this sort of thing.  I love county fairs.  And I can consume a cavalcade of crap, hop on a roller coaster, shake vigorously and still be swayed to suck down a Sloppy Joe.  Along with gawking at the bearded lady, profligate eating is all part of the fun.

My mother, Peg Bracken, on the other hand, never bought into this business.  Nevertheless, she did have a serious sweet tooth, most often sated with cookies and milk, doughnut holes (see my earlier post), or what she deemed the ultimate thrill ride, Sees Candy.

Unlike her daughter, she never “pigged out,” but treated Sees Candy much like precious jewels, hiding them from thieves (including yours truly), and bringing them out to savor one, maybe two at a time.  (Her favorites were dark chocolates with almonds.)

Far from quirky, Mom’s approach may well have been generational, I think.  Back in her day, stores offered one tenth the variety they do now, eating was centered around the classic “three squares,” and treats were just that, not part of one’s daily calorie count.

Obesity rates aside, we seem to have an adversarial, love-hate relationship with food.  Yet it’s one of the pleasures of life, isn’t it?  So unless you’re facing serious health problems, or having trouble buckling your seat belt, I say go ahead, stroll down the midway and enjoy the carnival.

Portrait of an Artist as a Young Mom

Are great artists made or born?  The answer is probably ‘both.’  But I can tell you that my mother, I Hate to Cook Book author Peg Bracken, was destined to write and create from the moment she drew breath.

In general, she was always writing, pen in hand or not.  A casual comment, or a passage from a book or newspaper article, could easily send her into the intellectual ether, parsing out a phrase under her breath until it sounded just right.  And in actuality she probably wrote something every day of her life—a short poem, a simple observation, or just a new phrase she wanted to coin.  (When my husband and I spurned martinis for awhile in favor of tonic, soda water and lime, she was so aghast that she went and crafted the phrase “marred-tini.”)

Even when she wasn’t writing, though, she was always doing something to get into that creative space.  An excellent caricaturist,  she sketched her own drawings for the Emily character who adorned On Growing Old for the First Time.  She fashioned hand-made paperback book covers (so you could read something racy, she said, without anyone knowing).  She made beautifully embroidered cloth hangings.  She forged jewelry from odd pieces of metal.  She sewed amazing Hawaiian quilts.

These were not hobbies or pastimes to her, but the very fabric of her day.

So what happened to me?  I founded two successful multi-million-dollar companies.   I’m on various executive boards.  I can do eight things at once.  So in my own way I guess I made Mom as proud (and in awe) of me as I was of her.  Yet, while I use my imagination plenty enough, don’t ask me to paint a picture, spin a pot or play a musical instrument. 

I once took a sewing class and spent nine months making a jumper I wouldn’t be caught dead in.  I tried knitting and never made it to purl two.  I crafted a long and gaudy blue scarf I laughingly dedicated to Isadora Duncan.

What did I inherit from my mother, then?  Along with a love of cats, martinis, Ireland, plus cookies and milk, an appreciation for the fact that one person’s waste of time is another’s way of life.

Fear and Loathing for Liver and Onions

Who likes liver and onions?  Not this gal.  Even penning the words causes a gag reflex.  And, at the risk of offending, I might even admit to being something of a food fascist in this way, seeing liver lovers as an outgrowth of an evolutionary branch that reached a dead end long ago.  Because, truthfully, I know of no one under age sixty-five who admits to liking this stuff.

In my view, where you stand in the liver-and-onions line-up goes far beyond a mundane Stones-versus-Beatles type of debate.   For instance, I can appreciate why someone might prefer mayonnaise on French fries, or mustard and ketchup on a hamburger.  I can sit shoulder-to-shoulder with those who sprinkle salt and pepper on cantaloupe (try it; you’ll like it).  And I fairly tolerate seeing sardines piled high on a soda cracker, utterly repugnant as it is.

But, back to my theory of evolution, I find Leakey’s Liver and Onions Man physiologically different than the rest of us in his ability to chew, swallow, keep down and digest something I simply cannot.

Alas and alack, my mom, Peg Bracken, also happened to love liver with onions, and tried—as I’m sure many readers’ parents did—serving it up and singing its praises.  (Good luck, Ma’!)

How many creative ploys did I hatch to avoid forcing those potty-tasting pieces down my throat?  Let me count the ways.  (And see how many of these you’ve tried yourself.)

• Sandwiching them between you and the chair seat
• Burying them in mashed potatoes
• Faking a fainting spell
• Making dinner table declamations with sweeping gestures that plop them into your dog’s waiting mouth
• My personal specialty:  making mom pay by choking them down and waiting for the whole mess to come right back up again

Many IHTCB fans are my age and older.   And I’d be very interested in seeing where they stand on this issue.  But a word of warning:  send me no recipes; and I’ll tell you no lies.

Eats on the Street

A friend phoned the other day.  A few minutes into the conversation it was clear she was calling from her car.  And amid occasional munching sounds I soon surmised she was grabbing a bite to eat at the same time.   Quick math told me she was one appendage short of the ability to either drive or dine safely.  (Shame on her: she still hasn’t gotten a hands-free headset.)  It made me shudder.  So did the vision of the woman (I’m not making this up) forking away at a plate of food balanced on the steering wheel while hurtling down the interstate.  I remember pulling over, flipping on the radio and waiting anxiously for the sig alert.

Put away the trade journals.  A good look around tells you it’s no longer about fast food but what the industry now calls ‘hand-held’ foods.  Not ‘on the go,’ mind you.  No, this is stuff is literally consumed while in motion—so far beyond burgers and burritos it’s not even funny. 

Seems we’re all in such a mad hurry get from here to there—or be done with our to-do lists—that we haven’t the time to sit down and eat.

No wonder the acknowledged master of the craft, McDonald’s, is now marketing the Big Mac Wrap, which calls to mind blinged out thugs, not the re-cloaked, straight-jacketed burger it truly is.  Backing this debut are, undoubtedly, focus group studies showing that the poor old sesame seed bun just couldn’t keep up.  

(Strap on a Budweiser Foam Dome, Cletus, and you’ve got yourself a freeway feast.)

Part of the appeal of the reissued I Hate to Cook Book, I suspect, is nostalgia over a time when a trip to the drive-through was an occasional treat, not the preferred way of putting food on the table.  I certainly hope that, scaling back and staying closer to home, families will look there for great, easy-to-make recipes that let them spend quality time together over supper. 

It beats the heck out of getting cited for dining while distracted.

Behind Every Great Woman

If a great woman stands behind every great man, is the converse true as well?  Not to fly the flag of feminism, but we all know the answer:  a resounding ‘sometimes.’ 

I will say, though, that back-staging one singularly great woman—my mother, Peg Bracken—was another just as noble:  Selma Haynes, a name familiar to I Hate to Cook Readers as the creator of Selma’s Best Oatmeal Cookies.

What made her grand?  While my mom toiled away eight hours a day, writing her world-famous bestseller, Tante Selma, as I called her, opened her home and looked after me from early morning till early afternoon, Monday through Friday. 

Much more than a babysitter, it was Selma who enabled Mom to don the writer’s millstone and lock herself away.  It was Selma who let her pursue the dream that would lift us out of a sorry home situation.  And it was Selma who kept me from becoming a casualty all too common in literary families:  one keeping a lonely vigil outside the garret. 

Like the eponymous dessert, Selma was a real treat.  From the time I was a tike till we left Portland, Oregon, when I was nine, Selma enveloped me in a world any young lass would love:  learning to knit; making tapioca pudding and, of course, delicious oatmeal cookies; strolling through the park; or just doing little gratifying girly things.  (These were the days when fun didn’t need AC power or a graphic user interface.)

Ask the family of any author.  Serious writers like my mother have rich internal lives, and often find it hard to stop parsing phrases while passing time with those around them.  Try though they might, sometimes they can only share part of themselves.  I knew that about Mom, even early on.

Still, I felt so lucky.  She gave me everything she had.  And sweet Selma gladly gave me the rest.

Al Gore Makes a Mean Meatloaf

Why buy a cookbook when you’ve got Al Gore, inventor of the ‘information superhighway’ that runs right into your house?  So the next time you want Turkey Tetrazzini, just type it into your search engine, print out a recipe and go.  But be careful. 

Here’s a little cautionary tale:  Looking for a Thai stir fry dish, my dear husband went online and found one that called for chili paste—a dangerous substance in the wrong hands.  The measurement indicated three “tbsp.”  And I vaguely remember him remarking, “Wow, that seems like a lot.”

Later that evening, heading back from the emergency room, he vowed never to use a recipe off the Web again; although he later recanted, promising merely to check for boo-boos that turn a “tsp” into a “tbsp.”

My mother, Peg Bracken, had similar gripes about shoddy online instructions.  So the recipe calls for a cup of rice.  Is that cooked or raw?   How often, too, did she read at t-minus 10, “Working quickly, stir in the…” only to find the critical component wasn’t mentioned in the ingredients list.   

The fact is, Al Gore’s brainchild has turned everyone into a publisher, or a published chef.  Back in the day—as my mom did for The I Hate to Cook Book, you compiled your recipes, tested and re-tested religiously, then submitted them for publication.  Thereafter , they went through a gauntlet of editors, the dishes were tried and vetted again in test kitchens until, finally, months later, the book found its way into your kitchen.  By contrast, today’s cooks are mere clicks away from unleashing indigestion on the entire world.

Now, I’m not saying printed recipes are better.  But maybe, just maybe, books are a bit more reliable.  Turn to a page that’s dog-eared and stained with soy sauce and you may have found yourself a fine dish.  Online?  Who knows?  Most of the major sites are good about scrutinizing their submissions.  (For example, my husband and I love Epicurious.com.)  But weave off the main road and you might be whipping up Auntie Doreen’s dinner disaster from the night before.

“I Hate the Way You Cook!”

“Chop those shallots!“  “Stir that sauce!”  “Move your arse!”  “Yuck!  You call this Roast Duck with a Port Wine Glaze?”

It’s typical banter for today’s ever-popular cooking reality shows.  Yet compare and contrast this with my mother’s now world-famous line from The I Hate to Cook Book:  “…let it cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink.”

So, the question becomes:  Was Peg Bracken—the original kitchen iconoclast—a fan of such shows, which seem to lend new meaning to the word ‘pressure cooker?’ 

The answer is a resounding no.  As I’ve said before, while Mom was far from an avid cook, she did not really hate doing so.  But she would never dream of disparaging another’s culinary skills.  (At least not in person.)  Though blessed with a dark sense of humor and rapier wit, she seldom strayed far from her Midwestern manners.

Closer to home, these shows never light up our living room, either.  My husband, who finds kitchen-work relaxing, considers them offensive and simply can’t watch.   As for me, I already put plenty of pressure of myself to make a decent dish.  An overbearing overseer would turn me into another Lizzie Borden.  And getting pleasure from seeing others go through the same the horror is unthinkable. 

Consider this:  Unless you’re a seasoned pro, shouldn’t cooking be easy and, God forbid, fun?  Whatever happened to enjoying the sweet sound of vegetables simmering in a pot, savoring the seductive aroma of bread in the oven—okay, even shaking that hideous orange powder into a pot of Kraft Dinner®?

Sometimes I wonder:  what’s the next cherished American pastime to fall?  Quilting?  “Knit one, purl two.  Now drop and give me fifty, dammit!”