Pam's Tall Tales

My Own Private Grand National

Yesterday I took part in a horse race that held all the excitement of Grand Nationals from my childhood. Back in those days, my mother, egged on of course by her father, not to mention her Irish Toohey genes, would scan the newspaper for the odds and place half a crown on a promising horse. Then we would gather around the telly and watch with baited breath as the horses thundered round the racetrack and scream when they fell at Beecher’s Brook.

So, on the eve of this years Grand National, I decided to celebrate the old tradition by placing a bet on an Ebay horse. I’ve been looking for a nice picture to sit over the fireplace of our little  gatehouse and wanting something in keeping with its era I researched the famous 19C animal painters.If I were rich I’d pick one by J.F. Herring and sons or failing that George Stubbs Lincolnshire Ox would fit the bill because it makes me laugh.

Lincolnshire Ox. George Stubbs. Walker Art Gallery

But, as I was brought up to be thrifty, (we never bet more than half a crown), I found instead a 5-inch watercolor horse on Ebay called Ginger. 

I let Ginger walk around the paddock of my indecision for a week or two, eyed his form and checked out his fetlocks with the magnification tool. In the last half hour I decided I would place a bid.  I was under no illusion about the JFH signature in the corner of the picture - this was clearly a Red Herring - certainly not a J.F. Herring - nevertheless I decided a small flutter was in order because regardless of his pedigree I liked his looks. I waited until the the race was in home stretch before entering -  there had been a bit of a skirmish between two automatic bidders who had whipped and jockeyed each other along for a lap or two. I placed my bid ten minutes before the bell - all seemed well - one of the two previous contestants had fallen at a hurdle and I had a comfortable lead on the other who also seemed to have tired of the race. I was ten seconds from the finishing line and feeling the flush of imminent victory when a phantom bidder appeared and raced past.  It was neck and neck towards the finishing line.  Frantically I slapped down another ten dollars - but too late! I was pipped at the post and Ginger left the paddock with a different owner. 

Ginger on Ebay

My Husband, The Iron Chef

Tonight the temperature is forecast to drop 20 degrees.  This means it’s that sad time of year when the tropical plants have to come in from the balcony. Our view from the bedroom becomes bereft of life and once inside the plants struggle to adjust to light behind the windowpane. At first they go into shock, then revive and struggle on gamely through the winter shedding leaves, until the end of January when the heating system and dry air reduce them to bare twigs. I know I should just bite the bullet, toss them out, and accept this as the price of city dwelling. But being "the patron saint of lost causes" every year I try to keep them going, subjecting them to a slow death.

On the more positive side, this is also the time of year when it becomes cool enough to turn on the oven. We are the kind of tired professional couple who, despite living in the most exciting city in the world, most frequently reply to the question “what are you doing friday evening?” with the stock answer “Laundry”. But for some years now we’ve tried to introduce culinary adventures while the sheets tumble. The dogs are very excited by this. Any whiff of Sunday roast and they are glued to the base of the stove.

This year the long-suffering husband decided that he would like to reach down to his maternal Monticello roots and pull off a few Italian dishes. So, on his birthday, I signed him up for a series of cooking classes at the aptly located Hell's Kitchen branch of  Sur la Table. 

Personally, I have never felt the need for kitchen gadgetry and happily complete most kitchen tasks with the bread knife. From my perspective one knife is as good as another - I don’t care - as long as the handle is red. But for the long-suffering husband it is a different matter.  In his view, “culinary gear maketh the chef.”

It all started with the "Knife Skills" class.  He arrived home with three new fangled, lethal-looking Japanese sushi knives. Since then, every evening he’s dons his chefs apron, assumes a samurai warrior persona and smites the vegetables left and right julienning them into matchsticks regardless of whether the recipe needs it or not.  It seems I am married to a veritable Edward Scissorhands - but why should I complain when I haven’t had to peel a carrot in months.

Then came the "Risotto" class. In he burst with a bag full of gourmet goods – Italian Arboreo rice, Australian Murray River Pink Sea Salt, a special type of fungi, truffle oil and of course a set of very large wooden stirring spoons. He proceeded to chop and stir, boil and bubble, using every pan and dish in the kitchen. But, in the end, it was well worth all the mess. The risotto was divine!

 

His desire for professional implements, however, got seriously out of hand following the "Artisan Pizza" class.  We have a classic NYC galley kitchen – the kind where swinging a cat would be completely impossible, in fact you have to step to one side just to open the oven door. Undeterred by this fact, in he waltzed with one of those 4 ft long pizza shovels they use in commercial bakeries to slide the pies in and out of brick ovens. For want of a better place it’s now hanging on the bathroom door with the ironing board.  

But I decided to let it go. We each have our illogical desires.  Our marriage works in part because, for example, I know when his heart is set on a four season tent - we are talking here about the kind Scott would take to the antarctic, and he in turn, encourages me to pick a Bertazzoni cooker, knowing full well it has nothing to do with its BTUs but because its bright red. 

Minimalism versus the Messy Life: My own take on Chaos Theory

When I was twenty or so I read an article on life-work balance that recommended, “ditch the curtains and tablecloths because when you buy one item to cover another this means there will be two things you will have to clean.” Sage advice - I have been curtain-less ever since.

However competing with this desire for minimalism is an equally intense drive to save, preserve and repurpose everything.  Inevitably, over time, it becomes increasingly difficult not to accumulate a goodly amount of paraphernalia. A move certainly helps to clear house, but, after a quarter of a century in one place, a fire would be better. Periodically, I am driven, by some vain fantasy of “getting ones life in order”.  Inevitably this means a trip to IKEA, where it is statistically impossible to leave without acquiring another $300 worth of stuff, purchased in some futile attempt to organize the existing detritus.

Here’s how stuff leads to more stuff. Take the dogs for example. One dog leads to a second dog to keep the first one happy. Together they produce 2X bales of dog hair that blow around the living room like tumbleweeds.  A new fangled robotic vacuum is purchased to back up to the conventional one so that friends can visit us without dying of asphyxiation. By the time the second dog is successfully housetrained the floors need renovating.  This involves moving thousands of books twice and on the second move our thirty-year old IKEA bookshelves disintegrate.

The book problem

The first dog promptly chews the piles of books while the other develops an insane desire to wrestle requiring the purchase of rugs to protect the newly refurbished wood floor from its claws. The robot cannot cope, throws a hissy fit, and shreds the rugs. The dogs join in chewing and regurgitating the remains, generally on cue, under the table, just as guests are sitting down for dinner. 

When I was younger and a single parent struggling to hold together family and a job with a workaholic supervisor - an old flame suggested I consider a second career in crisis management since I dealt with it (on reflection he probably meant created it) on a daily basis. If he’s reading this now he’ll be laughing and thinking “lucky escape - people don’t change” and, alas, he would be right.  But mercifully with age the concept of “getting ones life in order” becomes moot since three quarters of it is already over. Moreover, somewhere along the way you make your peace with the fact that life does not take place in some minimalist Calvin Klein Home showroom and begin to embrace its glorious riot of messiness. So I am now considering built in bookcases with bulletproof glass doors because the only other solution is to burn the books or shoot the dogs.

My Husband's Love Affair with Siri

 

The Long Suffering Husband excitedly burst out of the shower this morning to tell me Siri's latest:“Siri” he asked “How did the Detroit Tigers do last night”. There was a slight pause then she replied: "They thumped the Minnesota Twins 8:1". Enraptured he stomped around in his towel yelling “She said thumped - thumped”! Ironically, in real life he’s the silent type. Yet here he was smitten with his own personal electronic siren. 

Of course the central seductive elements of Siri are that she takes commands and can be molded by her owner. Its not her fault - she was made that way. Like 1950’s secretaries, she’s designed “to make life easier and more fun”. It only adds to her appeal that in addition to behaving like a faithful genie in a bottle she’s blind to the faults of her master and doesn’t know he snores like a freight train.  

“Hmm, what else have you been asking Siri lately" I inquired casually, all the while thinking: “Well, thanks be to God they haven’t yet made blow up dolls that read the base ball scores or the human race might go extinct”.  On he chirped: “Well a few days ago I asked her: “Siri, can you sing to me in the car”. Now, last Xmas, we came to an understanding that I would buy him the requested CD by Nora Jones provided her breathy songs were restricted to the car but crooning along with Siri was a new development. As it turned out, Siri had declined,  replying coyly "David, you know I can’t sing". To which the old billy goat had responded "But I can teach you". "You? teach me!" she purred. "Yes" he simpered. Then, like any real life woman whose been cornered by some old codger demanding that his ego be stroked, she  gave a repost that made me laugh: "That figures".

Make no mistake there is a subculture out there, of men, whiling away the hours, flirting with Siri, the full extent of which is known only to Siri and, of course as we now know, to the NSA.  One can only imagine the treasure trove the latter must have gathered on politicians caught unawares, iphone in hand. What, for example, might the candidates in the recent New York City Primaries have whispered to Siri on their lonely campaign trails? Did Siri discretely locate and keep a list of Eliot Spitzer’s call girls?   Did she activate the camera flash for the now infamous below-the-belt snap of Anthony Weiner and then take revenge by Twittering it to his public rather than private  account. 

Lately I've been musing on how to tap into this aspect of Siri’s adaptability so that she can, by becoming just a tad more Mae West, make my life "easier and more fun”.  Already, when the Long Suffering Husband tells her  “Call Pam”.  She replies  “Your wife or the other Pam” (in this case innocent enough since the other Pam happens to be his sister).  But now I’m planning to have her lure him into her confidence with a few sassy lines like “David, Do you really want me to call the old bitch again?  - you know she doesn’t appreciate you - when's the last time she cooked you dinner?”.  Once he’s snookered in to the point of confiding “Siri, its terrible, my wife hasn’t made me dinner in weeks” I'll train her to say  “But Honey, did you remember the flowers” - or - “Well, maybe you do need to lose a little weight around the edges”

I also think Siri could be upgraded to successfully  help with a variety of common husbandly "arrested development" and “wardrobe malfunctions” issues.  
When he asks her “Siri where can I buy a shirt” she could petulantly reply “David, I’m not your mother, next you'll be asking me to buy your damned socks and underwear as well!” But when he insists she’ll say
“OK, go to Lord and Taylor and while you’re there ditch the mighty whities and buy some snazzy boxers”. While he’s shopping and asking her advice she’ll say: "David what are you wearing" and when he replies she'll say “That sounds nice, but David,
surely you’re not wearing those hideous grey socks pulled half way up your calves and the long shorts with twenty-five individual zippered compartments that house your penknife collection are you?”

 

 

Mishka the Book Fiend

It can’t be helped. I have become one of those batty middle-aged dog ladies.  

Mishka at Dag Hammersjold Park NYC

 

It started innocently enough with a casual perusal of the City Animal Care and Control (CACC) website. On a whimsy I filled in the “breed request” and pictures of plaintive bedraggled huskies started appearing in my mailbox. “Lets just go and have a look,” I told the long-suffering husband.  Foolishly he tried to dissuade with logic. But then he made the fatal blunder of forgetting our 25^th anniversary and guilt forced him to capitulate.  We trekked up to 110 and 2^nd Ave, the Spanish Harlem neighborhood that houses many waif and stray organizations.

 

No one with a heart enters the CACC and leaves without a dog. This is exactly how we got our old friend, Jack, seven years ago.  The city has an impossible task. A long queue of kittens in boxes and puppies on bits of rope preceded us to the sign-in. Once upstairs, forlorn dogs gazed out from row after row of cages.  Mishka was in the corner, unkempt, rail thin and according to his card owner abandoned. Even I was a little taken aback and nervous about his wolf-like stature but we took him out – he licked our faces - the die was cast. 

 

Mishka (aka Shadow) advert at the CACC

We picked him up the next day.”  Dazed and confused from the anaesthetic for his “operation” he stumbled out into the bright lights of the crowded waiting room like a convict on a perp walk.  We removed his “cone of shame”, bundled him into the car, and arriving home attempted to stow him quietly in the bedroom.  He let out a long and plaintive wolf howl. Jack sensing the intruder gave us a look of betrayal.

 

The main problem was that Mishka stank to high heaven. Soon, so did we, and every room we put him in. Even the vet said he had never met a dog this ripe. But baths were banned for 10 days and so we were relegated to sneaking in and out via the service elevator along with the garbage.  Unfortunately, Jack caught wind of him too, and, his suspicions now confirmed, he let it be known by throwing a 48 hour hissy fit that “the guest” had overstayed his welcome. Haggard from sleepless nights spent comforting one dog or placating the other I called our daughter the dog groomer for advice. Sensing her mother, who is generally a well-seasoned expert in self-inflicted crisis management, was at the end of her tether she refrained from the “I told you so” and, like the alpha female that she is, took charge and prescribed a crate for each dog.  It worked like a dream. Dogs love dens and as the crate was half the size of the average NYC studio the new arrival thought he was the Hilton.

Mishka thinking about brunch.

With their territories now amicably staked out the more serious problem emerged that Mishka continued to starve himself. Noting his runny nose the vet prescribed smelly foods, but his cold turned to kennel cough and then to sneezing blood up the walls and all over us – the vet warned us it could turn to pneumonia that would require hospitalization if he didn’t eat within three days. Of course it was a weekend followed by a bank holiday. We boiled up vats of liver all to no avail. As the 11^th hour approached and hospitalization looked inevitable I decided on one last tactic and planted Jack in front of Mishka’s crate. The sight of Jack scarfing down a big plate of liver dripping with Heme caused pack instincts to click in.  Recognizing it’s eat or be eaten, Mishka sat up and promptly wolfed down a bowl of dog food. We spent the next two days feeding him up, scrubbing the apartment and finally bathing the homeless man. 

Husky Meet Up 42nd st. Dog Run

 

Now that Mishka has settled in his cantankerous young husky personality is emerging. For example, he responded to being briefly shut in the bedroom by gnawing the bottom off the door. Last week he shredded a wicker dining room chair (after 25 years of service – it was a mercy killing).  Yesterday he ate the Calvin Klein bedspread. 

Mishka the Book Fiend Sharpening his Teeth

Of late he’s shown a literary bent – first he cut his teeth on “Treasures of Cheshire” and then took a fancy to “A Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Costa Rica”. I plan to channel his urge to recycle books, creatively, to rid myself of all the authors I don’t like. To this end all works by Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner have been relocated to an appetizing level.  Then, of course, I'm trying to interest him in Dave’s pile that’s been gathering dust in the corner for twenty five years. Dave shares with Hans Castorp, the hero of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain, a love for excruciatingly boring books of the “Great Steam Ships of the World” genre – food for thought just waiting to be gnashed to smithereens.

 

 

Cookery in Congleton

On these trips home, for reasons that I can’t fathom, I have become “the fly-in cook”.  For the last five years I’ve crossed the Atlantic to feed the five thousand.  Cooking in Aged Parents kitchen is not easy.  First, as a loyal card-carrying employee of the Midlands Electricity Board, Aged Parent refused to have gas in the house.  This means his offspring must master the dastardly infrared electric cooker. Passive aggressive is the only word for it:  the menace refuses to heat, then when your back is turned it boils, burns and charcoals everything in sight.  Second, all my recipes are in New York where we function in Fahrenheit not Celsius, and then there’s the wretched convection adjustment to calculate in. Not to mention Aged Parents love affair with Delia, who in my humble opinion -- as a professional biochemist -- can’t cook to save her life. I cleave to the Elizabeth David school myself: all recipes can be greatly improved by ditching the herbs and throwing in a glass of wine. 

Over the years I’ve learnt to tame the cooker beast.  But the real spanner in the works is Aged Parent and his cantankerous ways.  Aged Parent has a burning desire to die with only one knife and fork left in the house. He has a great need to rid himself of all earthly goods.  Oxfam has benefitted greatly from this tic and the local birds are the fattest flock of starlings in East Cheshire.  I have been caught out enough times now -- missing some key ingredient like salt or flour or a rolling pin -- that before I leave New York for JFK I go online to Ocado and order everything, bar the kitchen sink, to be delivered before I land. Still, this doesn’t stop Aged Parent from taking advantage of the time difference to eat some item critical for culinary success, like the cheese plate that he took a fancy to last Xmas, or, more often, stashing it somewhere, never to be seen again, all the while claiming Ocado forgot to deliver it.   

Is Aged Parent grateful for all of this cooking – not a bit.  He moans about how much food he’ll be left with after the visit is over and how long it will take him and the starlings to eat their way through it. Worst of all, in his desire to be rid of all life’s shackles and accoutrement, he’s taken to throwing away any booze that’s left after we depart.  My siblings and I have tried to hide it away in unlikely places so that we can count on a nip in future visits. But Aged Parent must scour the house because it’s always gone. He found it under the stairs -- where he must have got down on his ancient hands and knees to drag it out -- and he found it in the shed.  Of course, it’s entirely possible that he drinks the lot himself to recover from our visits.  For a while, when he was learning how to order his groceries online, we shared the same password and, while checking that he knew what he was doing in this digital world, I found myself privy to his substantial weekly Jonnie Walker orders. He claimed they were “on offer” and that he only bought them by the crate-load because he had to get his order up to qualify for free delivery. Aged parent is quite the master fibber.

Anyway, we are never sure if he likes our rowdy get togethers or not. But we like it, so he doesn’t really get a say in the matter. When the Morris clan assembles we make a lot of noise, Aged Parent removes his hearing aids and hides in his bedroom, and we get in the kitchen and cook.  That is, I cook.   My brother-in-law, “The Soul of Patience”, claims to be my obedient slave in this enterprise, but, under the guise of Sous Chef, he abuses his position to gain access to the cooking sherry and consumes vast amounts of liquor while peeling the odd carrot. And as for DDS, who, by the way, is certified not only as incurably insane but also as a fully qualified chef, -- she languishes on the sofa waiting for the “CRISE de NERFS” to happen. The “CRISE de NERFS” is always caused by the fact that Aged Parent has disposed of, consumed, or left to rot, at least one vital ingredient. I am sure that he and DDS conspire to bring this about.  As soon as she arrives he pretends to be frail and complains how terrible it’s been to go shopping with the Chef.  She encourages this, pampers, pets and plays the “good daughter” to the ungrateful old goat, and then she waits, knowingly, on the sofa for the moment when the doors start banging and shouts of “where’s the damn flour” or “what did he do with the bloody vinegar” reach a certain volume. Then, in she breezes, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and asks, “is everything is under control?” Of course she doesn’t lift a finger until you are reduced to begging.   And only then, when the roast for ten is burning, or the gravy is tar, or smoke is bellowing out the back door, does she roll up her sleeves and transform herself into the TOTAL TYRANT that she was born to be. Let me tell you, Pol Pot takes lessons from my sister.  Commands are issued: MUSTARD she cries.  We scuttle to obey. Then HERBS DE PROVENCE she’ll scream, or WOUCESTERSHIRE SAUCE.  The Soul of Patience, who by this point is usually so inebriated that he can hardly stand, is treated abominably:  MICROWAVE THIS, WARM THOSE PLATES, STIR THAT. Ours is not to question why -- no insubordination is tolerated in the ranks -- otherwise, and it has happened so we know, she’ll flounce out of the kitchen, and we’ll be back to trying to rustle up a substitute for eggs in an omelette.

This trip was no exception.  There I was, beating through the rain with the umbrella for the third time to the local supermarket, the one that catering to old fogies has never heard of an olive, trying to put together two three-course meals for ravenous flesh-eating siblings and a vegetarian-in-law. Aged Parent was being uncooperative and kept insisting that there was nothing wrong with thawing out a few of his “Wiltshire Farm” frozen dinners to feed the ravenous horde and what was all the fuss about. As Aged Parent eats like a bird he thinks we should all do the same and because he has no teeth that means we would be on gruel all week. 

I decided to start the night before Bro and DDS were to descend. The kitchen to myself, I set about to beat the stove into submission. I smote it with two soups and a Bolognese large enough that Aged Parent could freeze down enough bird-like portions to get him through to June, a Goulash for supper the next day and a Ratatouille for the vegetarian.  In the morning I slathered the bird in bacon and got it in the oven, baked two apple pies – one for those with teeth and another for those without, and while in pastry mode slapped together a quiche for good measure, then sat down and had a fortifying sherry. Big Bro arrived and was put to work hauling in the chairs from the garage and setting the table.  This he does well. But, when tasked with “decorating the soup”, a certain mental paralysis ensued that required he first break open the wine and give this foreign concept some thought. The Soul of Patience had deserted his post – his excuse for going AWOL this year was “staying home to feed the cats” when in truth he’d “had enough of driving the old bag around Romsey the weekend before”. Despite his absence, things were going smoothly.  That is until the point when DDS came through the door. Then, they got seriously out of hand. The apple pies were brown but the chicken wasn’t, the cooker had a midday power surge and incinerated the gravy.  DDS looked at my sweaty brow with a little smirk and waited. Not until I pointed out that her “divine intervention” was necessary to save us from Aged Parents 91 year-old packet of BISTO, did she spring into action.

And then she was off, like a racehorse at the starting post, screaming MUSTARD, HONEY, ESSENCE OF MUSHROOM, HERBS DE PROVENCE.  I slaved to keep up. Bro emerged from the dining room announcing “one for the chef”. As I reached for the glass the LITTLE MINX seeing her opportunity to dominate claimed this was now her due, swiped it from his hand and downed the lot. At this, my sister-in-law, "The Only Sane Member of our Family", sensing the need to intervene to prevent sororicide, found where Aged Parent had hidden the plates and took charge of the “dishing out”. At last we sat down to eat. Aged Parent, resuming the role of patriarch, gave a magnanimous "Toast to The Chef(s)", we all fought to claim credit for the gravy, Bro proclaimed his soup decoration to be the artistic post-modern masterpiece of the century, and a merry feast was had by all in Congleton once more!