food

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Sober thoughts

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Alcohol free zone - Stock Image - C008/3255 - Science Photo LibraryI don’t go to AA (alcoholics anonymous) although I have considered the option more than once. Who doesn’t during that morning after when your head feels like soccer ball batted around by Liverpool? I also think it’s a great organization that’s saved millions of lives. However, I do like to go “dry” several times a year. A plight that’s been particularly hard recently.

On a monthly dry surge, I ran into a few problems in places that sell alcohol. I get it. Restaurants and bars make a lot of money from booze and in these pandemic times, they need all the extra cash they can get. A reason why I always tip twenty-five percent. At least. (Even if I know my salad was just dragged across the floor.)

Recently, I went out for dinner at a popular pizza chain. A pleasant server came to the table and asked if anyone wanted something to drink. One person ordered a very over-priced glass of wine (I get it. Money. Pandemic.). Another asked for a something and coke. The daily special. Reasonable price if you don’t mind drinking alcohol, you could start your truck with. When it was my turn, I asked, “Do you have any alcohol-free beer?”  The poor server looked at me as thought I just got off the Martian shuttle. I ordered a diet soda.

The next night we went to a bar in the hotel where we were staying. This time I ordered a virgin Caesar – Clamato juice (Ok who came up with this? Some dude is sitting on a sunny patio, drinking tomato juice when an epiphany sounds, “You know what this drink needs? Clam juice.”), tabasco, spices and rimmed with salt.  The drink is also garnished with salad on a stick. This one, had a pickle, spicy green bean and celery. Now, the virgin, of course, means no vodka. With one of these sexless babies on the table you fly right under the sloppy, slurring radar, no one has a clue you’re sober.

However, my second drink was a bit of a scare. I ordered a soda with ice and lime. The thought here was a mock vodka and soda – the calorie conscious drink of the year. But the server brought the drink in a massive cup, super big gulp size. Not very inconspicuous. One look at this drink and, “Hey buddy maybe you need a meeting.”

Now, yea you’re right. I shouldn’t give a shit what other people think. And really, I don’t. But perhaps owners, bartenders and servers should have a bit of sensitivity. If a person orders a non-alcoholic drink. There’s a reason. Not only for health reasons, but the a sober person doesn’t want to be excluded from the excitement of vomiting, slurred words and a million “I love you, man.” Owners, managers, it’s not a big deal to have an alcohol free beer. Even Mexico has an NA beer. And that’s saying something.

NB: This Naked Mind is also a wonderful resource for quitting or slowing down alcohol use.

 

COVID Clampdown in Banff

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So we’re sitting around watching some predictable and boring show on Netflix when I say, “Hey I can get us into the Rimrock for a hundred and sixty a night.” Now the Rimrock is a very posh hotel in Banff,  Alberta – warm bathrobes, slippers and a chocolate on the pillow. (I’m sure they’ve junked all those amenities due to COVID. Who sneezed on the chocolate? Perspiration on the robe? I’m surprised you don’t have to bring your own sheets.) I recheck the price. It’s in American dollars, so one sixty is like a million Canadian. The plan is sinking faster than a Rocky Mountain boulder in Lake Vermilion.

I check again. A small condo at the place we love (Rocky Mountain Resorts) with a separate entrance, fireplace and kitchen is on for a reduced price of one twenty in the Queen’s dollars. A pop up, “Type snowday for a twenty percent discount.” Whooohoo!  A hundred bucks a night and we can bring the little dog and our own food. Yes please. The poor town is suffering due to COVID.  It’s my patriotic duty to help, right? Let the snowday begin.

Now the only rub is I’m in the middle of my “Dryuary” (no booze for the month – my Christamas liver is close to pickled) and I’ve never and I mean NEVER sat in front of a fire (condo or otherwise) without a glass of wine, single malt or beer.  Never. It’ll be a challenge but I’m up for it (for the sake of the town, right?). The next morning we pack up our gear and hit the road. Little dog is in the back seat panting and doing her, “We there yet? We there yet? It’s so hot back here. We there yet?” This lasts the entire hour and a half drive. You’d think she hadn’t had a drink in a month.

Arrival and lunch at our favourite bakery (Wild Flour). We eat in our vehicle while overlooking the frozen Bow River. Breathtaking. Up to this point no contact except to grab lunch and walk it to the car. The town is so dead I feel sorry for all the business owners and employees. Masks everywhere. No mask. No service. Very strict here in the Canadian wilds.

We get to the hotel. Check in is quick. It’s Tuesday at two in the afternoon. Quiet time indeed. We get to the room. Take care of some business and we go for a walk. Normally we use the road behind the hotel. But the town’s had a major snow storm and every ten minutes a gravel truck filled with snow zooms past us. I’m afeared for the little dog. One slip and she’s a new pair kid’s slippers at the Rimrock. I pick her up and dash home.

At home after I get the fire going, I prepare some lovely charcuterie for a session by the fire. Another first.  I’ve NEVER eaten cheese, cured meat, baguette, pickles and fig jam without a nice glass of vino. I’m starting to sweat. Tea. I make some tea. It goes very well with the cheeseboard. Relax. I can do this. Time to break some traditions. New associations. Chamomile and charcuterie.

We hike the next day. Not a single soul on the trail. Well except for a lonely male elk. Midweek – excellent for social distancing. The COVID clampdown is great – barely no contact. We eat inside or order take out. The suite has it’s own entrance so no contact with people in the hall. I consider the gym but I walk and hike instead. The trails are calm and quiet. It’s not only midweek but winter so the vacation spot is nearly dead. In summer you have to step over people to get anywhere. The best part? Who knew that chamomile and cured meat is a match made in sobriety.

Earl’s Spicy Cajun Sandwich with Cheddar

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Aged cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, on a toasted bun

The next stop on the Spicy Chicken trail is Earls, a sit down restaurant chain popular in Canada with a few American locations in Illinois, Colorado and Florida among other spots.

This time out, I had the pleasure of dining with a co-worker who has many “conditions.” One time we went to a lake for a day picnic.  We get to this beautiful oasis in the middle of the prairies and as we’re driving around she  notices there’s not a tree or sparkle of shade anywhere. The look on her face. I’d say she went as white as a ghost, but that’s her natural appearance.  As she stepped out of the car, I swore I heard her skin sizzle like a raw slab of meat on a barbecue. Five minutes later we headed back to the city. Air conditioner on full blast. We never went on another picnic.

We get to Earl’s and after moving to three different tables – “I’m freezing. Is this under the air conditioner?”  “Oh my God will those children please shut up.” “I can’t see the fire exit. What if there’s a fire?” We finally find a seat. Our pleasant server comes over and takes our order. My friend asks for water and lemon, no ice. She’s got enough ice running through her veins. The server returns.

“I said no ice. Gawd. Do you understand English?” I have to lower my head. I can’t look at the poor server who doesn’t deserve this.

“Can’t you be a bit more pleasant?” I ask. I look over and watch the the waitress stir her new drink with a freshly sanitized finger. If not for the pandemic, I know what she would have done. I don’t blame her.

Our food arrives. I have the Spicy Cajun Sandwich with cheddar. My friend has a Caesar salad and a very soggy margarita pizza. As we are leaving she says, “I hope you didn’t tip her very well.” I tipped her thirty percent for the trauma she had to deal with. Loss of work due to the pandemic and shitty customers, servers should get an automatic fifty.

Now on to the Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Liking dining with my ex-friend, it was a horrible experience. Firstly who puts cheddar with cajun? A terrible combination. The meat was very very dry and covered in so much breading, I thought I was licking the floor of a sawmill. And way, way too much bun (I also wondered if the bun wasn’t left over from the last pandemic shut down three months ago). The meat was as hidden as a turkey at Thanksgiving and the spice as scared as a bleached skinned woman at a scorching beach.

Well the good thing is I won’t go back to this restaurant for awhile. Not only was the sandwich horrible, but I need many many months before the memory of my friend dissipates from server memory.