The Great-Floor-Egg-Disaster (or Hardwood Eggs, Anyone?)

 I’m not a morning person. Let’s just say, I struggled to convince myself to get out of bed this morning by reading an article about the ten best ways that helped a sleepaholic get out of bed. That hadn't really helped.

I’m the kind of person who shouldn’t try to cook breakfast until I’ve had a cup of coffee. I shouldn’t even try to make coffee until I’ve had a cup. My spouse knows this.

As I stumbled into the kitchen, he had three frying pans full of food cooking—onions and peppers—which he alone eats nearly every morning, corned beef hash, which he hadn’t made in some time, and a pan for fried eggs.

He started my egg first since I like mine “over easy”, which takes longer and requires greater subtly than hard- fried or sunny-side up. As a result, when that egg was almost done, but before I had sipped any coffee, he consulted me on whether my egg was ready for flipping for its eight seconds over.

I said it was about ready and took the spatula in hand. As I did so, I noticed there was a lot of oil in the pan, so I pulled a paper towel to blot the egg before its planned landing on my nearby plate.

You know what’s coming next. Somehow between pan, paper towel and spatula my egg, with the yolk perfectly runny and the white just set, did a belly-flop on the hardwood floor of our kitchen.

My two pandemic passions have been baking and cleaning. Granted they usually overlap in expected ways. This morning they overlapped in unexpected and nearly spectacular synchronicity.

The night before, in the hopes of having dinner prepared for several nights to come, we had cooked a lot of foods, resulting in major messes on all counters and the floor.

So, I had run our robot vacuum-mopper not once, not twice, but three times. The floor in the kitchen not only was cleaner than the countertops, but also most surgery suites. So, yes, I used that spatula to slide my egg off the floor and onto my plate, wiping it lightly with my waiting paper towel. I had invented the over-easy-onto-the-floor egg, not a dog hair or bit of grit in sight.

The floor had taken most of the runny yolk and also excess oil. Not only have I invented a way to produce a healthier egg with much less cholesterol, but perhaps a way to make your breakfast overall better for you.

Stay with me for just a moment. There are those who claim many of our modern auto-immune diseases, allergies and the like can be traced to our too-clean environments.

Of course, my recipe for “over-easy-onto-the-floor-egg” will only test that hypothesis if one omits the three-moppings of the floor before making the crucial flip. Perhaps I’ll try that tomorrow.

The Great Baking Disaster, Time of Coronavirus Series

Yesterday my project was baking bread. I have celiac disease so I counted myself lucky to find and order a box of gluten-free bread mix with hard-to-find yeast. I carefully followed the directions, making substitutes only when necessary because of the limitation of ingredients we had on hand.

I set the loaf carefully in the oven to rise, utilizing the “proof” setting on the fanciest oven I’ve ever had. When the dough had nicely risen above the level of the pan, I pulled it out of the oven and set the temperature for baking. In the meantime, I sat and rested as I again checked Amazon to see if they might have one of the items for which I had been searching in vain.

The oven beeped to signal the correct baking temperature had been reached. So, I opened the oven door, picked up the glass pan of bread dough, and, oops, it slipped from my hands, just as I was setting it on the middle rack. The glass pan did a sideways landing. As I tried to right the pan it tipped all the way over (another “oops") and very sticky bread dough dripped from that rack onto the rest of the racks. If this had occurred on I-65, the guy in the traffic copter would have called it a rollover accident with probable fatalities. I must have said something, (probably not “oops”) as my spouse, god love him, came running.

If I’d had my wits about me, I would have taken a photo or just sat down and cried. Instead, using spatulas, knives, pot holders, and our hands, we both tried to scoop the dough back into the pan. In doing so we only made the mess worse. I felt like I was in an old Woody Allen film, back when they were slapstick funny. We had spread the sticky dough everywhere, including on the oven door, between the oven door and the frame, and the floor.

We wiped the mess as best we could and I looked at the dough we had managed to recover and put back in the pan. It was a lot less dough and the top of the dough was covered with little black specks of burnt-on food picked up from its adventure on the oven shelves and door. You clean-food people will be happy to know we tossed the dough that had landed on the floor or outside the oven.

If you truthfully are repelled by a little dirt, do not read the rest of this post--REALLY! STOP READING NOW!--because I scraped some of the black spots out of the dough, smoothed the top, and put it back in the oven.

By dinner time the smell of fresh-baked bread filled our kitchen. I carefully took the bread pan from the oven and, after letting it rest, removed the loaf from the pan.

The great baking disaster ended well. We each enjoyed a slice of the bread with a little butter, proclaiming the taste excellent. No apparent traces of oven debris were found in the loaf—at least so far as we could tell. Maybe it’s helpful our old eyes don’t see as well as they once did. We also concluded, with some scientific-sounding pronouncements, whatever bits of previously burnt food that might remain no doubt were safe to eat after baking.

Belatedly, I realized my error that had caused the calamity. Following the bread-making directions, I had spread butter on the top of the dough as it proofed in the oven. But I had not covered the bread. When the dough rose, the butter had melted and apparently dripped down the outside of the pan making the glass pan slippery.

There were many beneficial outcomes from the great baking disaster. In addition to having fresh bread for dinner, giving the kitchen floor an extra cleaning, needing to wash all the towels, pot-holders and the like that had become bread-dough encrusted, I also learned a lesson of what not to do when baking bread. And perhaps most significant, I don’t have to worry about my next project: reading the manual for cleaning the oven.

Happy fun in the kitchen to all of you.

Hunting/ Gathering in the Time of Coronavirus

I am now part of the hunter-gatherer society. Don’t worry, I am not roaming around with a weapon in search of a deer to shoot. But two days ago, I did forage for food. Since we are senior citizens in the time of coronavirus that means I ordered groceries from Whole Foods from my iPad.

Finding the items we wanted and clicking on them to put them in my virtual cart took approximately an hour. Some of that had to do with the slowness of my iPad or of our internet. Or both.  I’d rather not admit it, but perhaps some of it also had to do with my clumsy fingers.

An example--it took multiple clicks, at least for me, to get an item in the basket. Then I got to the screen that said which items were not available. And I had to go back and see if I could find something else to substitute. This also took me substantial time but I was proud of myself for being so capable as a coronavirus virtual-shut-in.

The real issue occurred when I went to select a delivery or pick up time. No time slots appeared available for the next several days. And I, the virtual shopper, could not proceed to any later dates. The message appeared, “check back regularly and see if any times or dates open up in the future”. So that is what I did.

In between anything else I was doing that day I checked my Whole Foods order to see if any delivery or pick up slots had opened up. By dinner time I was about to quit checking when suddenly a delivery slot for that night between 9 and 11 PM opened. I immediately scooped up the available slot, added a tip and danced around our kitchen. I was a successful gatherer in these times of coronavirus!

I also accepted Amazon’s suggestion that I sign up for text messages on the status of my order since it included fresh items that needed to be refrigerated immediately upon delivery.

I found my spouse puttering around another room and shared my success story. He did not mimic my happy dance. Instead he responded,

“What were you thinking? Who wants groceries delivered at 11PM at night?”

I refrained from complaining how he had failed to notice I’d spent the whole day trying to get these stupid groceries for pick up or delivery. Instead I said,

“We do. Be happy you are married to a successful

gatherer.”

Luckily, we have those kinds of open, honest, spousal communications.

Later that evening, as we made and ate our dinner from what we already had in store, I received numerous text messages. Some told me about the status of other Amazon packages I had ordered over the last few weeks. Some for other family members or friends, some for us.

Interspersed with the truly boring details of other orders, such as that two bottles of shampoo and contact lens solution were getting ready to be shipped in a few days, I also received real time details on where our fresh food delivery driver was. I was able to follow his or her route around a nearby and then our neighborhood.  Earlier than originally promised and at about the same time our collie’s ears perked up, I received a notice that our groceries had been delivered. Our collie is at least as good, actually better, than the Ring Doorbell in letting us know someone or something is on the porch.

We waited until the driver was no longer on our stoop but safely back in his or her car to open the front door and start carrying the stapled, heavy- duty paper bags into our kitchen.

We emptied everything from the bags, and since we weren’t sure what might be contaminated, washed our hands repeatedly in the process as we unpacked and put groceries away.

As we did so I was a little startled to see what exactly had and had not been delivered. No eggs, even though I had ordered two dozen and had not gotten a notice that they were not available. Or at least I thought I had. Almost four pounds of ground beef were delivered even though I thought I’d ordered one pound. Two GIANT boxes of fresh spinach when I thought I’d ordered one box. But not some of the other vegetables I remembered ordering. Four packages of Italian sausage when I thought I’d ordered one. One can of crushed tomatoes, even though I thought the notice had said they were out of crushed tomatoes. And so on.

As we assessed the situation, we decided it would work out. We froze most of the meat. And looked up recipes for fresh spinach and Italian sausage or ground beef.

As I was wiping down all surfaces with my improvised disinfecting method, a paper towel soaked in rubbing alcohol, a thought occurred to me. Perhaps Whole Foods had not erred at all. Perhaps a more likely a scenario was that my multiple clicks on my iPad had instead resulted in the mass quantities of some items, as well as the absence of other items.

As we eat spinach with every meal during the next few weeks, I’m hoping our teeth don’t turn green. I also suppose I need to reassess my self-rating as a coronavirus-gatherer extraordinaire.

Maybe next I’ll take up hunting.

 

 

Crazy Ways of Coping in the Time of Coronavirus

Schools are closed in Kentucky as in many states. Restaurants and bars also are closed here. Salons and gyms were ordered closed yesterday.  Many other venues we’d ordinarily go to are closing to help slow the spread of this particularly contagious and particularly deadly virus.  

We’re told to exercise social distancing, self-quarantine if we may have been exposed. And we’re told by our “youngsters” to “Stay the f---at home”. At least they care. Or they’re just relishing the chance for turn-around in giving unsolicited advice. No, I’m going with they care.  

So how are we to cope? This is a time of coming up with novel strategies for a novel virus.  

Many have responded by rushing to all still-open stores by buying hand sanitizer (Ok, that makes some sense.), toilet paper (Not really so sensible in huge bulk quantities unless your home cooking is really bad), and firearms (Just crazy. The virus is too small to effectively eliminate with bullets and the virus has yet to turn any victim into a brain-eating zombie.)  

Some folks also have rushed to hair salons for color and cuts. Before they have to stay home for weeks. I’ve got to ask—does anyone you live with not know your hair grows and is a different color than given by nature?  

This particular behavior brings to my, somewhat-warped mind an old episode of I love Lucy. Lucy and Ricky who, in the midst of one of their more nasty squabbles, have divided their home into “his” and “hers” sections. Somehow, Lucy got the half with the kitchen and Ricky got the half with the bathroom. Lucy, uttered, in what was shocking dialogue for the times (remember this was the 1950s), “There’s going to be a lot more brown roots around here.” 

But enough with remembrances of simpler times past. Though if you can find I Love Lucy re-runs on a TV station or streaming, it surely will be a mood-lifter.  

Given that the CDC now recommends medical professionals caring for coronavirus patients who have run out of masks use scarves or bandanas we can all use some creative coping mechanisms. Maybe that's why Trump's latest new medical person-in-charge, Dr. Deborah Brix, as she stands silky shoulder-to-shoulder with the President and Vice President as they emphatically stated at today's news conference there is no shortage of protective equipment or tests, wears all those silk scarves--for when the masks run out at the White House.

 

I promised some coping mechanisms for some coronavirus problems. I didn’t say any of them would actually work. But maybe they will give you a laugh. Or, who knows, maybe some of them will work. So here they are:

·      Order a clear, plastic, bubble umbrella as a self-protection device for when you absolutely have to go out shopping. If nothing else it will help with the social distancing as other shoppers will decide you are a risk because you are half-crazy. I’d suggest spraying with cleaner or disinfectant when you get home. I don’t know what the CDC guidelines are—probably still “Stay home.” But, if you order a bubble umbrella, at least on rainy days, even in non-apocalyptic times, you can use it as just an umbrella.

·      Order a bidet toilet seat—or add-on bidet sprayer for when the toilet paper runs out. I’ve heard the Japanese swear by these devices as much cleaner than toilet paper. If you have unlimited cash or credit, go for the “Rolls-Royce” model with not only water but warm air dryer, night light and heat. If you go for the top of the line, I may break my self-imposed, staying-home mantra to come visit your home—I promise with trusty bubble umbrella in place—to check it out.  

·      This one’s for those kiddos stuck at home and their parents who think half-crazy would be an improved state of mind, why don’t the cable channels, network channels, or whomever start showing school lessons? After all, not everyone has high speed internet but most people have a TV.  Grade school classes could start early in the mornings. Afternoons, evenings and the wee hours would be reserved for high school and college-age folks. Teachers could assign tests or papers based on the lessons and collect them at some future, theoretical time when it’s safe to congregate again. In anticipation that many students would fail to complete the assignments, creative writing assignments could be doled out to explain what happened to their homework.

·      Start fun, family cooking projects to cook from items in the back of the pantry. For example, yesterday I made gluten-free bread from a package that had been in the pantry for, oh, five, maybe ten years. I knew there was something not quite right when the yeast failed to fizz even a little bit despite the recipe saying it would. The final result was not so much bread as matzah or communion wafer-loaf. But a fun project that amused me for several hours, including scrounging until I found an old bottle of cider vinegar, and the eventual cleanup of every bowl and measuring cup we own.

·      Discourage ill-advised spousal cooking plans. For example, my husband, ordinarily an excellent and thoughtful cook, suggested his own cooking from the back of the pantry project—spicy, black bean casserole. The thought of ingesting that and the likely intestinal distress from my gastritis (and had he forgotten there’s a toilet paper shortage going on), gave me emotional distress. If he follows through, I may eat the rest of my left-over project—stale, gluten-free, flat bread. Hmm…maybe with peanut butter or jelly? Or canned tuna? Time for another pantry check. And an internet search on do-it-yourself gel polish removal. Maybe with something I find in the back of the pantry.