…especially when every fresh ingredient is subject to
radically changing availability. The
easiest way to avoid recipe catastrophe is to not follow a recipe at all. What is a recipe, after all, other than a
list of rules? And aren’t we all at
least slightly rebellious? Throw off the
chains of regulated meals, I say! Reject
the ambiguity of nonsense measurements like a dash or a pinch! Make your own menu and be proud of it!
We had two chicken breasts thawed in the fridge and half
a bag of penne pasta. So I decided to
make a pasta salad. I would cook the
chicken and dice it, toss it with the cooked penne, add some diced tomatoes and
wilted callaloo*, throw in the last of our sharp cheddar, and stir it all
together with a miracle whip/garlic/vinegar mix. Serve chilled.
I thought it sounded good. All I needed were the callaloo and
tomatoes. I had yet to visit Ali’s and
not find both of these ingredients in stock.
Until today, naturally. They had
neither tomatoes nor callaloo. Thinking
on my toes, I grabbed an assortment of fresh produce as a replacement: local
carrots, seasoning peppers (which resemble habaneros, but are nowhere near as
spicy), and okra. I figured, If I’m not following a recipe, then I can’t
be disappointed, right?
My replacements turned out to be a big hit. Ivan and I loved it. Since it never was an official recipe, I can’t
claim my substitutions made it better than the original, though. In fact, maybe I’ll just claim that this
version is the original.
Yesterday was Ivan’s first real day of classes (Monday
being more of a syllabus review). Today
he was in the thick of it also. The
professors dove right in, leaving Ivan to spend his last couple evenings
hunchbacked over a pile of notes, flashcards and textbooks. Now I find myself living with Simulation
Ivan: sure, you can see him and, corporeally he exists, but he is not existing
like I am existing. He has handed himself
over to a world of unfeasible expectations, paralyzing stress and sleepless
nights. He’s devoting his time to
memorizing six-syllable terms for obscure muscle groups and how to coerce a terminal
patient into donating their corpse to science.
Caught in a whirlwind of hypochondriacs, malpractice anxiety and
cadavers, Ivan has no time to notice the little things, like what he’s eating,
what time it is, where he’s walking, who he’s talking to, what day it is, et
cetera.
Of course I am exaggerating. His studies will be very difficult, but we
anticipated the time and effort he would have to devote to them. Sim-Hubby is doing fine. He just has a little less free time now.
Now on to the subject of animals. Her majesty, Crazy Cow, is still stationed at
the end of our road, as far as I know. I
am not sure if her owner knows she is there and doesn’t care, or figures she
was stolen. Either way, she gives me a
little tilted crazy-eye action every time I walk past. Since she hasn’t charged me again, though, I’m
considering forgiving her. After all, I
was able to befriend John Cougar MellenBat after he scared the Bejebus out of
me. Plus, every woman is entitled to a
crazy moment or two. (Come on, ladies,
haven’t you all at one point gone on a seething, frothy-mouthed, rolling-eyed
stampede?) We have been able to confirm
that Crazy Cow is a woman, also. Maybe
at some point in the future, we’ll become friends. Then, maybe Crazy Cow will introduce me to
Ben & Jerry’s cow.
Yesterday—also fondly referred to as egg day—we were
walking back to the apartment from campus, me carrying a tray of 30 eggs and
Ivan doing his best to stoically hold up the umbrella without jabbing me with
one of the metal tips (it was raining, fyi).
We came across a gaggle of goats.
(Can I refer to goats as a gaggle when they gather to graze? It’s seems like an alliterative law, but I
could just be a freak.) We counted six
in all, and none taller than my hip. As
we passed, I realized my only fear was that the hungry looking white one might
take a bite of my capris. So I said, NO, like I do to Sheba when she gnaws on
my feet. White Goat Gruff did not eat my
pants. Now I have a renewed appreciation
for goats and all the fear they do not instill in me.
As a side note: I noticed today that Sheba is in
heat. It’s kind of a bummer that she isn’t
spayed because she spends a lot of time wandering around the neighborhood. I can only assume this is her first heat
since she is so young and has not had a litter yet. Hopefully she gets spayed soon, but
unfortunately a litter of puppies might come first.
What you might not know, and might not care: we keep the
discards of freshly minced garlic in our bedroom garbage to ward off
mosquitoes; we keep our AC at 26°C
which is about 78.8°F
and we run it about 12 hours a day during the evening, when the bugs come out;
our stove is fueled by a propane tank and we have to use matches or a lighter
to light the burners and oven; we rarely have warm water for our showers and,
no matter what climate you live in, a cold shower isn’t that great; the soda
here contains sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup; I’m not sure if I can
buy contact solution on the island.
*Callaloo is actually the name of a dish (according to
online references). It is commonly used
to refer to the leafy plants used in the dish, which are actually taro or
dasheen leaves. Since the grocery stores
refer to the leaves as callaloo, however, I will too.
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