Reasons why a cooking show’s not in the cards

A relative who was hosting a large Thanksgiving gathering messaged me about how to make giblet gravy. I happily informed her. Gravy-making is a little-known ability I possess. Although I’ve never volunteered it during a job interview when asked if I possess special skills, it’s nevertheless a minor super power that comes in handy, especially in conjunction with Thanksgiving dinner.

I empathize with those who don’t make gravy regularly and find themselves in a quandary at holiday meal time. But it’s an age old problem. Husband and wife historians Larry and Priscilla Massey, whom I’ve met, addressed common gravy concerns in their 1990 book, Walnut Pickles and Watermelon Cake: A Century of Michigan Cooking, quoting an excerpt from an 1890 Detroit cookbook, which asks:

“Is any one perplexed by gravy? Will the grease rise to the top, and the thickening fall to the bottom? Is good gravy on your table an accident rather than a result of thought and painstaking?”

I kept that state of mind in mind, when reassuringly issuing my realistic instructions for giblet gravy-making:

“In a saucepan, boil for 20 minutes in two cups of water and a teaspoon of chicken soup base the giblets (all the creepy little organs except the neck from inside the bag inside of the turkey). Once boiled, food-process the giblets until paste-like.

“Put the paste back into the small, giblet-boiling pan and add a couple of cups of the clear gravy you’ve already made using roaster drippings, chicken soup base and cornstarch. Slowly bring mixture to a boil. The giblet paste will slightly thicken the gravy and turn it cloudy. Reduce the heat to simmer. Strain the larger giblet particles from the gravy so they won’t gross out your dinner guests. If you want more giblet gravy, you can add to your mixture more of the original, clear gravy you made from the turkey drippings.

“Oh, and please note that instead of boiling the giblets, you can always leave them in the bag inside the turkey while you cook it. I call that method the “Oh crap, I forgot to remove them again before cooking the turkey” strategy. It’s a very common approach. Unfortunately, that seemingly time-saving tactic ends up causing you to fart around and turn the giblets into paste last-minute, as guests are arriving and you are trying to cut up the turkey, etc.

“And here’s an unrelated Thanksgiving preparation hint: I cook my Thanksgiving turkey and make the gravy the night before. While the turkey’s in the oven, I drink wine while peeling the potatoes. That way the next day I only need to cook and mash potatoes and reheat the gravy mess. It’s a good system (especially the wine part). To make my house smell all Thanksgivingsy, I wait and cook some old-style sage stuffing on actual Thanksgiving Day, drizzling it with turkey gravy before baking it. File away that trick, too!”   

I compare my Thanksgiving dinner life hacks to those found in 1964’s The American Heritage Cookbook, edited by Helen McCully, which features historically interesting American recipes and 30 menus connected to notable historic figures, venues and occasions. It gives giblet gravy-making-wannabes too complicated advice:

“Cover the giblets and the neck with water and dry white wine (2 parts of water to 1 of wine). Add a teaspoon of salt, 3 or 4 peppercorns, a sprig of parsley, 1 onion stuck with 2 cloves and 1 carrot. Bring to a boil and boil for 1 minute. Skim, cover the pan, and lower the heat. Cook gently for 1 hour. Strain the broth, cook it down to 1 cup and season it to taste.”

Onions stuck with cloves?! Holy crap! That’s a lot of extra ingredients to make a little gravy. Seems like a lot of expense and extra work, too. Granted, it sounds more professional than my gravy-making, where I describe some ingredients I’m using as “creepy,” season my instructions with inappropriate language (“fart around”) and made-up words (“Thanksgivingsy”). And clearly, my recommendation for drinking while wielding a sharp knife disqualifies me as cooking show material; however, I can darned near in my sleep covert clear pan-drippings into delicious giblet gravy. Surely that counts for something.

The most wonderful time of the year – musically

Like many people, I found myself becoming irritated immediately following Halloween, as many retailers saw the wrapping up of trick-or-treating as a sign it was time to unwrap all things Christmas. Sometimes they didn’t even wait that long, as was the case at one big box home improvement store where they began hauling out all the red and green merchandise even before the orange and black holiday had even been celebrated.

Doing a double-take, I found that store’s timing even creepier than the haunted house or corn maze I had yet to visit during the fall season. I would have bet you a pumpkin spice latte that it was still fall, y’all, at the time.

But what do I know? I may have somewhat lost my calendar bearings, probably from listening to a particular southern Michigan radio station (you know which one I mean!) committing its annual seasonal crime (Oops, I meant to say “enacting its annual tradition”) of playing Christmas songs exclusively for the last couple of months of the year. Or maybe from Labor Day forward. Whatever, the case, their deejays certainly send me into a tailspin from spinning their Christmas records non-stop as a subliminal way of getting us to shop, shop, shop ‘til we drop, drop, drop.

That plan always backfires with me, as the more Christmas decorations I see out too early and the more Christmas songs I hear while it is still 70 degrees outside, the more I need the plop, plop, plop of some kind of stomach-settling drug that will prevent me from upchucking the holiday campaign that is being shoved down my throat and up some other cavities!

While I’m not a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas traditions and festivities, I’m also not a fan of obscuring the true meaning of Christmas behind department store Santas. However charming they might be, harmless they are not. You would be well advised to not sign any hold harmless clauses due to the potential effect on you caused by stepping up seasonal mayhem.

Why not establish a universal rule that Christmas trees, tinsel, ornaments, twinkling lights and fat, white-bearded men in red suits are not allowed to appear until after the ice cream shops with outdoor seating have closed for the season? Insist on first things first toward the start of a more sensible seasonal policy.

That said, I was organizing my music books at the end of October when I discovered a forgotten volume I had purchased in Cincinnati back in March: “Creative Piano Solo: Christmas Collection.” I couldn’t resist sitting down and leafing (a fall term, to be sure) through it.

Unfortunately, the place I chose to sit was on my piano bench, which may have contributed to my seasonal musical delinquency. Unconsciously, my hands gravitated to the keys and my right foot to the sustain pedal. I couldn’t resist the Latin-style arrangements of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland,” or the 60’s rock beat version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Before I knew it, I was going to town, playing the whole book.

Next, I did the unthinkable on an unseasonably warm October day well before the start of Christmas season: I pulled out of storage my legal-sized banker’s box of Christmas music. Soon I was whistling a happy tune (I haven’t been able to sing one since diagnosed with pneumonia) while sorting through a wealth of well-arranged Christmas songs in styles ranging from classical and New Age, to swing and ragtime. You name the Christmas song, secular or non-secular, and I probably have at least one version of it, for the big box of Christmas music houses my entire musical history of Christmas piano pieces. It’s quicksand in entrapping this pianist.  

Thanks to arranger Faye Lopez, I get to play sacred Christmas piano pieces in the styles of various classical composers. Next, I’m attacking the keys the same way Kenny G did with his soprano saxophone – on a jazz version of “What Child is This?”

Playing “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies,” I’m like a kid in a candy store. My sweet collection of tunes makes this the most wonderful time of the year – musically.

It’s the apron strings binding independence

We celebrated my son’s 22^nd birthday this week by dining out. Although we had a good time, I couldn’t help but notice something: he’s nowhere near ready or willing to leave the nest. And why would he want to? He’s got it too darned good.

Conversely, at 22, I’d been a college senior, studying, working part-time year ‘round, dreaming of graduating and landing a professional job to bankroll getting my own place. My son’s in a different place than where I found myself. I know because I recently found the following I wrote about finding independence at 23.

I have either fallen from the nest or flown the coop – I’m not sure which. At any rate, I have abandoned the security of my parents’ home to brave the frontiers of single living. At 23, after graduation from college and years of acting like a human sponge where my parents’ generosity was concerned, I decided to strike out on my own.

Actually, it was not all my decision. My two younger sisters, ages 17 and 19, played a large part in it. They let me know in subtle ways it was time to move out. I first got the hint when I overheard them making redecoration plans for my room. I felt like they were spending the inheritance before the body was even cold.

Their desire to see me leave home became even more apparent when I was benched from the bathroom starting line-up weekday mornings. “You are old enough to have a house and a bathroom of your own where you could get ready for work,” my youngest sister informed in a none-too-kindly snarl. Then they took my seat at the dinner table, but quit taking my phone messages.

At a time when they were ready to pack my bags for me, I found a roommate and somewhere else to live. Eagerly, they helped me move my things. The parting was not tearful. My eyes were dry as I watched them from the U-Haul, fighting over possession of my dressers and closet space. Mighty nice to see the depth of their feelings where their sibling is concerned.

Living away from home has been quite a shock. No offense, Mom, but what I miss most are the laundry and catering services I took for granted. Remember when you accused me of treating your home as a hotel? You were right. And I’ll openly confess to being a bad guest.

Remember when you told me how easy I had it? Well, this is a public admission you were right. I have gained new respect for your cooking and cleaning since I have been on my own. All it took was a little dirt and a few too many microwaved meals to bring me to that realization.

While living under my parents’ roof, I never quite grasped the extent of the household duties and details for which each was responsible. Dad, you must have been the reason the plumbing always worked, right? And weren’t you the one who stocked things like toilet paper and toothpaste, Mom? If you could see me now!

When I lived with my parents, I used to believe all those household tasks were performed by fairies, which apparently deserted me during the move. And the condition of my new home leads me to believe they went AWOL. I was surprised to find dirty dishes and laundry don’t just go away overnight. They have to be WASHED. And food doesn’t just happen into the refrigerator: someone has to BUY it and prepare it.

As of this week, I’m an adult who is on her own. The psychological umbilical cord has been severed. Time to grow up and become responsible. I don’t need to rely on my parents. I can make it without them.

Enough for now. I can talk about it when I phone them again tonight. Was it 7:00 or 7:30 when I promised to call? Hmm. I need to find out what time I’m supposed to show up for dinner tomorrow night. Maybe I should offer to help with the meal – I could use the cooking practice. And should I wear my apron, or just the apron strings?

‘Tis the season for countryside feline drop-offs

While I’m not an animal activist, I have striven to be a responsible dog owner who makes sure her animals are spayed/neutered and up-to-date on their vaccinations. As an adult, I didn’t take on the responsibility of dog ownership until I was certain I could provide my dogs with the appropriate level of care. That simply seemed like the right thing to do all the way around. 

Of course, that was back when I had more time for play and grooming and knew for sure I could afford to have a pet. In the 11 years since the death of my cherished English Shepherd, Sousa, I have truly felt priced out, as well as timed out, of dog ownership. When I weighed the variables associated with having a dog, I was unable to justify signing on a companion who would end up costing money I don’t have and being neglected for work. So I’ve remained dog-less a decade-plus.

However, while I was foregoing dog ownership for what seemed to be right reasons, I simultaneously found myself with multiple unsolicited cats on my hands for the wrong reasons. There’s something inviting about our small farm that subliminally suggests people deposit their unwanted cats here. Perhaps the promise of a dog-free existence?!

So whatever money I’ve had that I could have put toward the care and feeding of the dog of my dreams has lately been spent on the welfare of drop-off cats. It’s maddening to have to deal with animals that just show up. I’m not talking about feral ones out tomcatting around, but rather the youngish variety that didn’t make the pilgrimage on their own.

Our family is not alone when it comes to kitty drop-offs. Back in August my son messaged me at work with a tale of woe and photographs of an ultra-friendly Russian Blue female kitten that had been tossed out near the home of friend in the middle-of-nowhere.

I could already see where this was going, as my son has a thing for gray cats and our family was still struggling to overcome the summertime death of my daughter’s big orange, ultra-friendly, longtime feline friend, Alex. Five of us went after work to meet and ultimately return home with the gray stray, which turned out to be male. Welcome to our home, Mr. Grady.

Four days later, my daughter and another friend were pulling into our driveway when they saw another kitten, a female tiger, hanging out in our east side yard by the Quonset barn. “She’s really friendly,” reported my daughter, feeding her some over-priced cat food from what had been the only bag left on the store shelf when I’d last shopped, “and just about the same age as Grady.”

Uh oh. Here we go, again. We’d be adopting a second kitten to provide companionship for the first. I could clearly see the distance widening between me and getting another dog. Approximately $300 later, the little tiger kitten, “Sequel” (she looks like a miniature version of our long-resident bachelor cat, “Tiger”) is spayed and immunized against everything that could potentially kill her, except the vehicles that travel too fast up and down our road.

For his part, if Grady is to become a full-fledged member of our family, parts of his gray anatomy must also go on the chopping block. That might have been up to and including his neck, had he not finally caught on to our household toileting requirements, in which litter boxes play a central role.

While Sequel took to the toileting program like, well, a cat to litter, Grady pooped anywhere BUT inside the litter box. Economically, returning to purchasing cat litter again was not on my agenda, especially with its recent 25% increase in price. But the kittens left me no choice.

To worsen matters, only one box of cat litter remained on the shelf at the store: a special, essential oils lavender variety – one I’d never normally buy, but in these inflationary, scarcity times, I couldn’t leave without! As soon as I poured some in the litter box, Grady couldn’t poop there fast enough!  

Hmm. Must be the spirit of over-priced cat food moved him to make his contribution.

Might sleep become a new travel destination?

To open in integrity, I need to disclose I am writing this while fighting sleep. I should already be in bed by now, but I got caught up cooking and assisting my daughter with homework earlier in the evening, so I am now attempting sleep-writing to make up for lost time. 

As someone who’s decidedly not a night owl, I have great difficulty fighting sleep after the Sandman shows up and gives me the nod that it’s time to nod off. I follow obediently and often beat him up the stairs to my bedroom. It’s no secret I’m basically worthless after 10:00 PM, even if I manage to keep my eyes open and to continue to walk and talk. Behind the wakeful facade, I’ve already checked out. 

My ability to get to sleep quickly and to acquire adequate rest has always been my secret health weapon. No matter what’s going on, I always manage to get some shut-eye, even though I experience a natural awakening after six-seven hours of sleep. Restful sleep has been a wonderful thing that’s kept me in the game of life without resorting to pharmaceutical interventions. 

Unfortunately, two months ago, that changed when medication for an ear infection blew up my stomach and ushered in GER. Suddenly, I lost the ability to get sleep. I was too busy experiencing acid reflux and coughing my head off nocturnally. Even I couldn’t sleep through that! Disrupted breathing has a way of ripping a person straight out of sweet dream territory.  

This was a double-whammy: first, I was unable to enter into sleep – tossing, turning and coughing for two to three hours after going to bed. Second, if I did somehow manage to engage in sleep, I would awaken in the wee hours of the morning, unable to go back to sleep. Up for the day at 1:30 AM. Yee haw! 

Several nights of this in a row proved to be butt-kicking. I’d show up to work in the morning having trouble staying awake and looking as if I’d been worked over by a group of thugs: hungover-feeling without having enjoyed a party. There wasn’t enough concealer stick in the world to hide the deep furrows insomnia had plowed under my eyes.  

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I developed pneumonia, which only intensified the furor of my coughing and accompanying insomnia. My sleep-deprived prayers for rest and healing were interspersed with prayers for a swift and sudden end to my suffering. You get that way sometimes.  

Thanks to a big drop in oxygen saturation levels that led to an intense medical intervention, I am finally on the mend. That blessed turning point was marked by my first full night of sleep in forever, achieved while in the hospital – my lungs newly nebulized, my coughing muted with Tussin DM. I awakened rested, but wondering if I’d slipped out of this world into Heaven. 

Unfortunately, that was not the case. I’m still here. But while hospitalized, I caught an article at cnn.com on “the rise of sleep tourism”. Say what?! Yes, you heard right: a new trend in tourism involves sleep-focused stays at popular destinations around the world. I wasn’t dreaming. 

According to the October 5, 2022 article by Tamara Hardingham-Gill, the global pandemic is fueling the trend. She cited a study published in the Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine where over 40% of adults surveyed reported reduced quality of sleep since the start of the pandemic.  

In response to the needs of sleep-deprived travelers, tourist hotels have begun supplying sleep-enhancing amenities, ranging from soundproof rooms, to essential oil diffusers, sleeping masks, soothing linens and sleep-inducing meditation recordings. Today’s travel sleep aids go far beyond merely feeding quarters into the vibrating bed box. Serene sleep is treated as a destination in itself. 

Sleep researcher Dr. Rebecca Robbins, co-author of Sleep for Success! is reportedly pleased with these steps toward prioritizing sleep over the American narrative of staying up to get things done. I’m happy about it, too, but won’t be giving up my concealer stick just yet, as there’s still too much “to do” on my list. However, I’ve never more appreciated falling into bed and quality sleep!