What's up?

Not me. I'm not up.
I'm bedridden, with a broken foot.
Broken foot. How do you break a foot? Well, I just did a dramatic ladylike tumble in the living room, both hands holding things I didn't want to drop. Whoops, major damage on the ball of my foot, four broken toes (all but the Big Piggy) that bent back towards the top of my foot.
It is so creepy.
This happened on May 10, thank you for asking. I was put in an immobilizing boot in the emergency room, but it was so uncomfortable, I switched to a yummy, perfect cast a few days later. That's the cast in the picture. I was allowed to choose a color, and I picked pirate black. Yarrgh!
Oh, and also in the picture? Mama's got a brand-new wheelchair. Not the kind you can self-propel, though, so "somebody" is constantly shoving me to the bathroom, blush. I'm not allowed to bear weight on the broken foot (though it just keeps happening by accident when I'm trying not to break my other foot getting up from the toilet).
Cranky is pleased with my spirits throughout this whole thing, even though he's the one doing all the shopping, cooking, cleaning. I can be in good spirits, but the truth is I expect complications when the cast comes off.
That will be sometime in the second half of June.
You know what would have lifted my spirits? If I'd had a camera when I visited the podiatrist. He took off the boot, and my foot was a riot of zombie colors. Green, black, purple and hot pink. Swear to god, hot pink.
Yeah, that made me feel better already.

Blearrgghhh!

This might be it. I might be done.
I am not a genuine chef, and these days I'm hardly cooking at all anyway.
When I look back at some of my exuberant posts, it's clear I was having fun, but not contributing much more to the food blogosphere than snapshots of what I ate. Zzzz.
If I find I have something to say, on any topic, you might find me here in the future, but right now I'm bored and cynical and keeping mum.
Mum.

St. Tatty's Day

I learned, quite late in life, that I am of part Irish heritage. I guess my parents had more pressing topics of discussion, like, "No, he set the table. You're washing dishes and don't make me say it twice!"
If I'd had a deeper knowledge, a deeper respect for my ancestry, I almost certainly would not wear the Irish Drinking Socks. But there they are; you see them on my skinny ankles.
And why wouldn't I wear the socks? Sure, they're silly and trashy. On purpose. Come on, St. Patrick's day is silly and trashy, the way we maul it in the US. But it was the look of dismay, disgust, really, on Sam's mum's face when she saw the socks on me last fall that drove home how horrific they must really be.
The history of the socks is that they were a gag gift from Sam's sister, Beccy, who lives in Ireland.. She warned me then that they were quite tatty (not natty). Just for fun. So, when Sam's mum and Beccy came to California for a visit last fall, I insinuated myself into the crowd, suggesting we meet for lunch so I could meet Sam's mum for the second time, and Beccy for the first. Oh, and of course, Sam and Fred for the zillionth time. I wanted to salute Beccy by wearing the socks she had sent me, and as she strolled up to our party, I lifted my cuff to show her. I thought it was funny.
Sam's mum nearly died. I could read her lips as she mouthed "You shouldn't wear those." I think she looked around for an emergency sock vending machine, so grave was my sartorial error.
Well, I just tucked my feet under the table, and we had a splendid afternoon.
You'd think I would never wear the socks again, but today, I did. Just junky, inauthentic stuff, kinda like the corned beef we ate.
Really good.

It's International Women's Day

Not Quite Bowled Over

Trust me, there is not any interesting food going on chez nous. We rely on old reliables for sustenance and nutrition, with the occasional chips'n'dip frenzy. There are dark vegetables, beans, rice. It's healthy but ugly.
Thus the tedium with the food blog world. All of a sudden I'm noticing people putting together interesting combinations, dietarily conscientious, in chunks, and usually in a bowl.
We have reinvented bowl food. Yours looks like mine, and I'd like to give your flavors a try. Easy, comforting, yet still homemade. You can even freeze them for later.
Hence, my boredom. Everything you are turning out could have been invented by me, and vice versa. I'm stunned by your use of good ingredients, for the most part. I try my best as well. But, see, there's nothing new here.
We're all just doing the same creative dance in the kitchen, with kale or spinach and garbanzos or lentils and radishes or turnips and hard-cooked eggs or cheese and herbs and a light dressing (we will call this a salad; seems lighter). Ennui in a bowl.
We are in a rut. Creatively. No complaining, though, because the ideas have usually been good. But I don't really need more ideas. I get it: You put some lovely food in a bowl and flavor it.
I can't wait for spring to really begin, so I don't crave comfort food in a bowl.
Let's see, what kind of bowl meals are going to appeal to me in another month? Yeah, 'cause... I'll still be cooking this way, bored, well fed, and keeping it a secret from you.

Daffodil Pickle

Daffodil season will have been a bust. They burst out of the ground prematurely, and found they don't like the warm weather. Anyway, we think it's going to rain again, maybe pour.
So they're doomed.
I sometimes try cutting a bunch of daffies and putting them in a water-filled vase, indoors. It never works. The daffodils want to be in the ground, and no heroic messing with their lifespan will null their death wish, indoors or out.
Why do people plant daffodils? They have such a short spectacle. Maybe it's because they come early and help ease the tortured, midwinter psyche, just with their bravura. They have a very minor aroma, a good one, but skimpy. Once the flowers have died, you are supposed to leave the leaves. A brown, drying mess that somehow helps the soil or the plant, so you don't remove them. I only have daffodils because I inherited some in two of my houses.
I will have taken care of them for 20 years, now.
You'd think I like them.

Little Old Lady Food

Well, sophisticated little old lady.
Yikes, it is not my style. A salad of leftover salmon and leftover artichoke hearts, some minced scallion, heartily (or heart-stoppingly) bound with mayonnaise, and paved with macaroni. This was not a pasta salad, it was a "pass"-ta salad, as my mother in law used to call it. Eek!
Old-fashioned. Horrors, and not at all retro-cute like casseroles and slow cookers.
It turned out neither of us really wanted this meal. Signals got crossed when we were trying to decide how to use the leftovers. Cranky actually cranked a little, until he shut up and a look of mild bliss (I'll give him mild) came over his face. The longer you ate it, the more satisfying it became.
It was pretty good, but we made too much. We didn't save the extras...