Costco Moments

I have avoided Costco for many years, put off by the crass commercialism and over-consumption of a place where everything comes in gargantuan quantities (do I REALLY need four 36-ounce jars of cinnamon toasted almonds? Or eight 22-ounce cowboy steaks? What cowboy is going to eat 22 ounces of steak at a sitting, anyway?)

But.

There are some good things about this shrine of bargain prices. Like, buy in bulk, save much money. For large families – and yes, small ones too – this can be smart and keep folks afloat during tough times. If you have room to store 16 rolls of toilet paper at a time.

And I just discovered Costco has eyeglasses at deep discounts. Cool ones. So we headed over recently, and chose a pair for Joseph. They look fabulous – and cost about a quarter of what he’d seen elsewhere.

Then we moseyed around the store, thinking we wouldn’t get much but, ha ha! Of course we did. Even me, the cynic.

Get this: they have organic foods! I got a double-size clam shell of Earthbound organic mixed greens for $4.99. Half that amount costs a dollar more where I shop! Joseph and I split the container, as all that lettuce would go bad if it were just me and Clara eating it (or just Joseph).

I also got several cartons of Pacific Crest organic tomato-roasted red pepper soup, and Amy’s organic lentil soup. I got orange juice. And underwear. I got organic peanut butter. And socks. And shrimp. (But don’t buy the shrimp, they were not only from Vietnam (oh so far away and inefficient to transport here) and farm-raised, they tasted old, so disappointing.)

But I loved the Mayorga stand – the guy was super friendly and the Cubano coffee was outstanding. And the man demonstrating the super-duper, change-your-life blender was a stitch, he just needed a TV screen around him to complete the late night commercial picture. “Soup in minutes! Smoothies at the press of a button! Even a man can do it,” he said, “Here, you, sir, go ahead and push this button,” and Joseph grinned and complied. Voila! Grapes, berries, apples, mashed into a milkshake sans milk. Delish! We didn’t buy the miracle device (for $300-plus) but wow, were we impressed!

The best part – another surprise – was the lunch counter. A set of big (everything is big at Costco) photos set high on the wall above a service counter shows various fast food-type choices – the photos are so big, you can see them from the lines at the registers and make your choice while you’re waiting to be checked out. Among the possibilities: hot dogs, burrito-looking things, and pizza. I went for the Italian sausage. And Joseph ordered a hand-dipped ice cream bar.

Italian sausage in hand, I waited and waited as the server went back to get that ice cream, thinking wow, she must be reaching deep into that freezer where the ice is starting to bury drippy ice cream sandwiches, this’ll be a freezer-burned disaster. Why would Joseph order such a thing? Maybe it was his Costco moment. Then the server came out with something on a Styrofoam plate. And I said out loud (to the chagrin of the people around me who were all politely keeping to themselves) “it’s on a plate!” “Yes,” she smiled, as if I were an idiot, of course it’s on a plate. “You just dipped it!” “Yes,” she smiled again.

Right at Costco. A freshly dipped ice cream bar, still glistening with liquid chocolate, and covered with real, roasted, fresh almonds. Yuh-UM!

And we didn't have to buy it in bulk.

Bone With a Hole

Winter brings on a craving for stews. Meaty stews. All vegan experimentation aside, I do like a rich, weighty piece of meat every once in a while, and there’s nothing like the smell of a slow-cooked pot of meat and vegetables to make the house seem cozy, homey, and the perfect place to be on a windy winter-like day like today.

In keeping with my proclivity for naturally raised, grass fed meats, the stew I made recently was from local, grass-fed bison. I bought it from a bundled up young woman at the Gunpowder Bison and Trading stand at the Takoma Park Farmers Market, where the farmers were sporting bright red cheeks in the wintery wind on Sunday, and using those mittens that fold over fingerless gloves, to give you alternating warmth and enough agility to handle coins and bills from their customers. Farmers Market gloves.

Instead of the chunks of bison she was selling for $10 a pound, the woman behind the folding table guided me instead toward the cheaper stew option: $1.50 a piece for chunks of bone with some meat still clinging to them. These were called “osso bucco,” which I thought was a fancy dish. It is, kind of. Here’s the definition from my food encyclopedia (one of my favorite books ever, The Food Encyclopedia by Jacques L. Rolland and Carl Sherman): “braised shank, usually veal [not this time!] with a rich tomato-and-onion sauce, originally from Milan. Italian for “bone with a hole,” from the Latin os, meaning “bone.”

So this was definitely “bone with a hole.” But how much meat was really on those bones? The farmer first suggested they’d make a great stock, then assured me if I bought six of them, it would be the equivalent amount of meat to the package of chunks, so I decided to give them a try. I plunked down $8 for 6 packages frozen like rocks. I brought them home and left them on the counter (well away from where the dog could reach them!), then realized I wouldn’t have time for the slow-cooked stew I wanted to make, so I put them in the frig until the next day.

I’d looked for a good beef stew recipe, but not very thoroughly. The one in Jamie Oliver’s book, for Jool’s favorite beef stew, became a loose model for me: he cooks it for 3 to 4 hours in the oven, and I took my timing cue from him. This also allowed me to leave the stew in the oven while I went to dance class (probably not the best idea, if you asked the fire department, maybe I’ll do the crock pot next time).

The girl at the market recommended dredging the meat in flour, then browning before cooking. I liked this idea, it seemed like it would make the whole enterprise more substantial, so I followed that advice but added salt, pepper and thyme to the flour. Jamie Oliver uses cubed squash and Jerusalem artichokes, but I didn’t want to take the time to peel the hard-skinned acorn squash I have and I didn’t have any Jerusalem artichokes, so I went with the traditional carrots, onions and potatoes, hoping they’d be sufficiently flavored by the end of 3 hours in the oven. And they were, the carrots brilliant orange and sweet, the potatoes—also from the farmer’s market—becoming little pillows of buttery flavor. I also threw in whole, peeled cloves of garlic – apparently I have a reputation among Clara’s school friends for throwing whole garlics into my roasted veggies (and giving her leftovers for lunch), so I figured I’d continue the trend and use whole cloves in the stew. I was glad I did: they became soft little bursts of flavor in the finished dish.

Bison is leaner than beef so I was apprehensive about it getting dried out. Not to worry. I also thought the absence of red wine in the broth would make it less hearty – again, I needn’t have worried. The only possible problem with this dish was that my Dutch often ALMOST didn’t hold it, since some of the bones were so big. But it all fit in, and I had a feast when I got home from dance class.

Ginny's Bison Stew
6 osso buco bison bones
about 2/3 cup flour seasoned with 1/4 teaspoon thyme, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 onions, chopped
4 carrots, chopped and sliced (peel 'em)
2 potatoes, chopped (no need to peel 'em)
thyme to taste
sage to taste
5 cloves garlic, peeled but not chopped
1 quart plus 1 cup vegetable broth

Dredge meat in flour mixture and brown lightly in olive oil heated in crock pot. Remove meat, saute onions in the same pot. Add vegetables, meat, broth and herbs and bring to a boil. Cover and put in preheated 300 degree oven. Cook 3 to 4 hours, until meat is falling off the bone.

Hot Breakfast

I know it’s cliche, but I love a bowl of steaming oatmeal on a cold morning. I am not talking about Quaker Oats instant oatmeal packets, which carry a thin essence of what a good, sturdy bowl of oats should be (along with a few unwanted extras, like sugar and guar gum—though to give credit where credit is due, Quaker also offers organic options with no additives at all). What I like is homemade oatmeal, complete with loads of chunky fresh fruits and nuts, done up in my favorite little bowl and served with a scalding hot cup of tea.

My favorite is ginger and pear oatmeal, but I’ll also go for apple and raisin, or plums, or frozen blueberries or raspberries. Any fruit, really. Yogurt is good on top, cream is better (though I’m still going without dairy, so it’s hemp milk or soy yogurt these days). And nuts: for crunch, for protein, for rich depth and flavor. I like toasted pecans the best, but walnuts are good too – whatever’s around. Sweeten it with honey or maple syrup – or, as I discovered recently, a bit of apple cider will give you sweetness and a blast of autumn, straight from the farmer’s market. This reminds me of college, when one of my friends ate raw oats with apple cider on them to avoid having to start the fire in the wood cookstove at his house (remember that, Chuck Mecho?). It wasn’t too bad – chewy and flavorful. But I like cooked better.

A great bowl of oatmeal doesn’t have to be a production: it’s as easy to make your own as it is to rip open a packet of (overpackaged) premade stuff and zap it up in the microwave. Don’t bother with instant oats – just go for the regular, rolled ones. They hold up better and stay a bit chewy, instead of turning to complete mush. You can get them from Quaker (in those great cylindrical boxes that, after they were empty, became toy drums when our kids were toddlers), but I buy mine in bulk at the Food Co-op.

This is so simple you probably don’t need a recipe, but here’s how I make my favorite

Ginger Pear Oatmeal

Pour some oats in a bowl, add good shake of cinnamon, a pinch of salt and some diced up ginger (maybe a tablespoon. I love this stuff, and it’s great for digestion). Add water to a half inch or so above the oats, and zap in the microwave for 2 minutes (more if all the water isn’t absorbed). Or, if you’re in a mood (which strikes me occasionally) that dictates avoiding the mysterious who-knows-what-it-might-do-to-our-bodies microwave, simmer the mixture in a small pan on the stove until it’s the consistency you like. It only takes a few minutes more – just be sure to stir it up or it’ll stick to the bottom of the pan.
When the oats are finished cooking, add cut up pear, maple syrup or apple cider, and toasted pecans. Top it with (optional) cream or yogurt.
Yum.

Spinning

When the kids were small, and dentists were new to them, I decided I’d reject the old dreaded trip to the dentist routine and use spin to make it more appealing. As someone who cringes when approached with sharp tools near my mouth, this was no small feat. But I knew other people who liked the feeling of clean teeth, who didn’t mind so much going to the dentist. Maybe my kids could be like that.

The result? They never clamored to go to the dentist, but they didn’t protest, either, and they never bit him – as one of their young friends did once. I’m not sure their lack of dread was due to anything I did. You never know, really, whether our children do something good (or bad) because of us parents, in spite of us, or just because that’s who they are and it has nothing to do with us. But. If I did have any influence, I’d credit a small turn of phrase I intentionally used each time we headed off for our check-ups.

Instead of “having” to go to the dentist, we “got to” go to the dentist. It helped that our dentist, Michael Bernstein, was kind of a goofy guy who joked around with them and let them choose new toothbrushes at the end of each visit (which, when you’re that young, seems like a big treat). But starting the anticipated trip out as if it were a fun adventure, that might include a treat afterward, couldn’t have hurt.

The best thing about this verbal trick is that it now works with other things, and I can actually trick myself. Tricky, no? The other night, for example. I went out with a friend for a glass of wine. Anticipating that I’d be cutting off the evening early because Clara needed help studying her vocabulary words for school, I began to think about “having to” drill Clara with vocab flash cards. But my new habit caught me, and instead I thought, I’m “getting to” do vocabulary. Which is really closer to the truth, anyway. I love words. I love learning new ones. I love sharing them with my daughter. And the way we do vocabulary flashcards, with dramatic exaggerations of pronunciations and facial expressions meant to give gigantic, give-away hints (Dessicated. Corruption. Calumnious.) often turns into a hilarious session for both of us.

This trick works to varying degrees, and requires different amounts of stretching. For example, now I “get to” sign off the blog and pay bills – not so appealing (though phrasing it this way makes me more likely to feel grateful that I have enough money to pay them all). I also “get to” go back to work assignments – depending on which ones, that’s a mixed blessing.

Switching the Soundtrack Around

When I was a small girl, my sisters and I took turns having “sleepovers” at Grandma Jean’s house. This was a treat, when we’d get pampered and bathed in one-on-one attention. Literally bathed – Grandma Jean had a big, deep tub with bubble bath and bath oil beads. Her bathroom smelled like Camay soap, and she had a mirrored tray crowded with fancy perfume bottles in exotic shapes, some of them with puffy atomizers we could squeeze for a spritz of scent. Sometimes our grandmother took us to the beauty parlor, where we got “nailish,” – nail polish – and all the old ladies would coo over how cute we were, and give us sloppy lipstick kisses.

I was the youngest of the four girls, and while spending the night at my grandmother’s was a treat, it was also a little scary to be so far from my own house. To make me feel more at home when bedtime came around, Grandma Jean would busy herself outside my bedroom door with noisy activities – I don’t remember what, but it might have involved clattering dishes as she washed them, or listening to the radio. She was trying to simulate the comforting sounds of a household full of family – that background noise that provides the soundtrack to so many young lives.

It’s like hearing your parents talking in the front seat of the car, while you doze in the back. Or like listening to adults clink glasses and laugh downstairs at a party, when you’re already tucked into your bed. Or hearing your older sisters giggle and chat in the cockpit of the boat while you rock gently in your bunk below. You might not understand exactly what’s being said, or even what’s going on, but there’s a certain quality to those muted voices that makes you feel safe and easy.

Over the recent Thanksgiving holiday, I remembered those voices when I heard my own kids rattling around the house, gathered together with friends home from college. I’d be reading in the living room, and hear their laughter and conversation while they made cupcakes in the kitchen. Or I’d be making dinner, and hear them singing together, then playing the piano, then talking two rooms away. It was that same soundtrack of muted conversation and activity that I didn’t quite understand when I was small—this time with younger voices.

It was the sound of home.

Performance Art

I love that I am surrounded by art.

Recently, it was performance art, courtesy of my friend, Melissa Leebaert. Bold woman that she is, she put herself out there on stage, bravely looking at her experience of young love--in front of God and everybody.

Melissa was one of three artists performing last Monday night at the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop, as part of a showcase following the DC Solo Performance and Presentation Lab (taught by Laura Zam). The genre is a sort of story-telling session for grown-ups. Think This American Life (my favorite radio show). It also seems a little like blogging on stage (except there’s a lot more rehearsal involved).

Rob Cork went first. A self-proclaimed space geek, he took the audience from his third grade classroom, where he was inspired by a visiting NASA scientist; through Trekkie fandom; to the crushing loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger and on through his continuing fascination with space travel. Sylvia Meinert, a German world traveler, danced her way through a comic look at language and culture, her search for common ground, and a wry take on the politically correct.

But it was Melissa’s story that moved me most.

It helped that this story happened to take place in an exotic locale – Australia – and involved a wealthy man, and topless sunbathing by the pool, and lunches with ladies who had lovely accents and probably perfect manicures as well. Melissa nailed each of these elements and more, lounging by the imaginary pool and mimicking that peculiar Euro-English-worldly accent of the globe-trotting elite, pedaling an invisible bicycle down High Street and cruising behind the wheel of a new jag. With no props.

Okay, not all of us get to jet around the world on the arm of a wealthy Australian (and re-enact the dream). But I think that’s one of the elements that made the story work – the contrast between what seemed so exotic, in some ways, and the story’s center, which had nothing to do with glamour and wealth. Melissa told a simple tale about love and longing and vulnerability—with a healthy dose of adventure and independence, because that is who she is.

This is art: telling a story that is uniquely our own, yet resonates with others.

And I got to sit in on it.

Ain't art great?!?

Schooled in Shakespeare

For most of my life I’ve been one of the many people put off by Shakespeare’s twisted old English, a tangle of unfamiliar words coming so quickly from the stage that I don’t have time to unwind them and get their meaning. Did people really talk like this? Or did Shakespeare deliberately obscure his meaning? All the words seem switched in order, with oddities dropped in here and there to further confuse me. I know if I study the play before I hit the theater, things will be clearer but I rarely feel up to the effort.

After seeing Macbeth – finally – I may have to change my mind. This month’s performance of the iconic play, done by the acting troupe at Montgomery Blair High School, was well worth the prep time I took to get to know the story (not much, actually: No Fear Shakespeare, the modern equivalent of Clif Notes, plus a crash course in the story from Clara, who was part of the cast). The tale of raw ambition coupled with doubt and moral struggle so deep it leads to madness truly speaks to the ugly side of our human condition. What could be more relevant in these times of scandal and greed? Does the lure of power ever really change?

Plus. This is one impressive high school drama program. The acting was great, the sets fantastic (arranging the performance Globe Theater-style, with a smaller stage than usual and the audience inches from the actors, was an especially brilliant move and made the experience much more intimate and impactful).

Yes, the cast was all kids—stage crew, too—and they are young. Which adds an intriguing element to the experience: I remember some of the actors from my days as a volunteer in their fourth grade class. But wow, some of them got some chops! Including my lovely daughter, Clara, who turned heads even in her small part(s) as an attendant(s). Seems that once she showed her competence and commitment, she was used again and again to carry baskets of linens or trays of cups across stage, a servant to the Macbeths; she even carried Lady Macbeth from stage when she fainted, and sobbed violently upon the news of King Duncan’s death. Yes, Clara, it was convincing!

Lady Macbeth was truly chilling, and Macbeth's famous monologue right on target: "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (ah! I thought, this is from Macbeth?!?!) Macduff’s devastation after the death of his family was heart wrenching. The best part, though, was that I know these kids had a blast producing this play – and they get to do another one in the spring. No Shakespeare this time: we’ll get Guys and Dolls.

Can’t wait.