Mac-ing on Suite, Greek Food

Adam MacMilliam, sometimes called MacDaddy (probably out of self promotion), has claimed my sister as wife. Making a two into one household. She goes from P. Murph to MacPatti.

Maybe P. Mac..?

Not sure yet. 

Up for debate. 

I mean, it’s only been a couple of days since I blotched that signature as witness on their wedding certificate. While the priest intently watched. In the house of the Lord. 

The ceremony where Patricia Anne Murphy became Patricia Anne MacMillan was straight up traditional Roman Catholic. Pretty self explanatory by the sight of her name. 

And after the ceremony her name changed to slightly Greek Orthodox. 

There was a bunch of crap food housed in the hospitality suite for all the post-wedding madness. The leftovers are now housed in the Murphy House. 

One being “Naked Pita Chips.” Simply delightful. They are “suite.” 

In my father’s toast he reflected on his bitter suite-ness of my sister leaving our family. Starting a new chapter. Changing names. But as he continued, he told wedding guests, “…as Patti reminded me, I’m not losing a daughter but gaining a computer specialist.”

My father went into the fridge today to collect dip for the fantastic toasted chips and saw hummus and feta cheese. Proclaiming “now that we have a Greek in the family, we’re eating hummus, and pita and, well, Greek.”

A little Greek in our Irish house. It suits me well. It’s hospitable. Makes life sweet. 

Now we need a little of the computer geek in our house. So that my internet connection stays on long enough to post cheesy blogs. 

 Toast. Cheers.

Say (Feta) Cheese.

Racing Mind

Before heading to San Diego for the annual, national dietetics conference I got a call from a freelance writer slash reporter from Web MD who was covering the nutrition findings presented.

After she read (and followed) the beneficial findings of coffee, she excitedly called me to talk about my study and way to improve her race-as she was participating in the LA half marathon.  

She called while I was en route to a coffeehouse to prepare for my nutrition presentation and I was excited to talk to her too-even before the coffee hit my lips.

The explanation of my study to the interviewer was probably the best way to prepare. It resurfaced all the hours I had spent in coffeehouses writing and researching my thesis. And all the coffee I drank.  

2 hours for each morning, fasted participant trial, 2 trials for each participant, 11 participants, lots of coffee for me. 

And that’s not including their orientation visits.

As I anticipated, at the end of the interview, the reporter asked if I was a runner and if I used my findings to enhance my performance.

My answer? “Not a competitive one. And I can’t get behind the taste of beetroot…although; I could go for an alternative spinach salad before a heavy workout.” No one can call me dishonest.

I figured watching hours of participants running, drinking copious amounts of coffee and being on high alert stress mode was exhausting enough. Felt like a half marathon anyways…?

…And what better way to conclude the excitement but in the sunny, sea salted airs of San Diego. While eating anti-inflammatory omega three loaded sushi. And walking along the bay. With a cup of coffee in hand.

A Southwest War on Oil

So my sister, Patti’s, southwest-themed bridal shower was successful.

It was a day of menu planning and grocery shopping. Which straight up brought me back to ISU’s FCS 113: Food Preparation.

Then it was another day of catching up on some seriously good music while ruining my roommate’s (parent’s) kitchen.

Taco bar. Quinoa salad. Egg soufflé.

An entire tin foil pan of black beans, in all their rigged up glory, gave options to vegetarians and non-vegetarians alike.  And possibly some heat later on. The kind that makes your significant other irritated. When you share the couch. And the air.

But at the end, my FCS 113 failed me. I overestimated the bean consumption of Midwesterners. And gave way to leftovers. For some later heat-ing up.

My sister’s bridal shower was followed by my cousins wedding in Ole Milwaukee. Before the big event, my wedding date and I had brunch at a sweet little spot called Beans & Barley.

The menu was danger and so was my date. We couldn’t decide.

All the Beans and all the Barleys looked too good.

We got quiche. We got almond French toast. We got biscuits and gravy. We got fruit cups. We got coffee. We got carried away.

We overestimated our stomachs.

The menu had a walnut burger. I almost got so carried away that I thought about getting both breakfast and lunch at the same meal. Isn’t that what brunch really should be? C’mon.

But I didn’t. 

But it did give me an idea..!

Back at the roommate’s, I opened the fridge and thought to myself… “Self, you must use the beans up. You spent all day listening to Neko Case and cooking them!” And then I said to myself “black bean walnut burger bingo!”

So I gathered up my vegetarian cookbook. I gathered up my beans. Walnuts. Texturized vegetable protein-planned on barley but didn’t have any in stock. Bread crumbs. And trusted the vegetarian cookbook-and did not gather up an egg.

I should have gathered some trust in my instinct. Because these black bean “Pattis” just did not stay together well without that egg emulsifier. So the goal was to emulsi-fry them together. 

Let’s back up a second.

I don’t fry. Because I never did. Because it would bring some serious heat to the kitchen-and not the stovetop kind.

But rather in the form of anger.

From mama murph.  

And thus born (into my Murphy family) my inability to judge when oil is hot.

Sooo I quickly grabbed my apron. Because things were really heating up in my roommates kitchen. 

And by up…I mean in the air…

It was dangerous. Literally. I felt like I was in war with oil. Not to be confused with war over oil. Although, I guess I was standing over it before war began. And let me tell you, oil won.

As I recounted my black bean burger mishap with Danger (the date), he brought up grape seed oil. Apparently it's a magical oil that allows even non-fryers to fry! With a high smoke point and an ability to sear the outside without seeping into foods, it may just be a non-fryer and dietitian’s dream alike!  

But until I buy grape seed oil I’m going to leave the heat in the kitchen to the ingredients in southwest cooking. And their byproducts-the kind that make roommates irritated but not mama murph's angry. 

...Or I may have to reinstate the FCS 113 syllabus prolicy that required a signed clean up sheet at the end of each lab.

I Get Around on Good Vibrations

I attended a wedding with my dear friend Charlie Hall last weekend.

Charlie is going to be a farmer one day. His cousin has a farm. It is a beautiful place. Let me stress this again. It is a beautiful place.

I often ask Charlie if his cousin will host weddings in his barn. Because that would be beautiful as well.

This wedding was at a garden in Sycamore, Illinois. It was moved inside due to acclimate weather-so it felt a bit more barn-like than garden-like. A rustic wooden building with delicate charm held the very blue grass, hipster, green, attention-to detail wedding.

Eclectic. Relaxed. Vintage. Perfect. Obsessed.  

The groom previously studied abroad in Manchester and had 4 British guests in attendance. They sat at our table and my mind brought me back to my cafeteria and accommodations at Leicester Uni.

Sycamore, UK? Fun Fun Fun.

I couldn’t get over how tiny they were. British men. I tell you. They are small ones.

Is it the genes? Is it the food? Is it both? Is it society’s gender preferences and norms?

I don’t know. But if there had been an open-bar fight, I might have been able to take em.

Charlie drove me back to my roommates (parents) and hung around a bit. Unfortunately for the newlyweds and fortunately for us, the weather turned gorgeous. So we sat on the deck, at sandwiches and talked. I found out that Charlie and the groom bounded in high school over psychedelic beach boys.

His passion for beach boys was unparalleled. And slightly infectious-in that way that you’re more intrigued with the enthusiasm and knowledge one holds for something rather than the thing itself. But I mean, who doesn’t love a little Beach Boys? God only knows.  

Charlie played a song on the Smile album entitled Vega-Tables.

“Sleep a lot eat a lot brush em like crazy,

Run a lot do a lot never be lazy.”

The background soundtrack is Brian Wilson, I presume, eating carrots. 

Snap. Snap. Crunch. Crunch.  

 Brilliant.

Apparently the Smile album was released much later than expected due to band discrepancies and Brian Wilson’s growing mental illness. I mean, even wikipedia follows the subtitle “Smile, group tension and Brother Records” with “Mental illness” and goes on to say “Wilson spent the majority of the following three years in his bedroom sleeping, taking drugs, and overeating.”

But the real question…was he brushing em like crazy?

It’s clear he was not running like crazy. Nor was he never being lazy. Because according to Charlie, he reached 300 plus pounds and allegedly wrote a detailed song giving direction to his house-which gave his home health nurse the added job description of shewing off crazies that showed up at his door.

Yesterday my sister’s future mother-in-law and I bought food for the upcoming bridal shower. We started at the Cosco, Sams Club, superstore kind of places and ended up at Garden Fresh Market. What a good find. This store had good vibrations. Brian Wilson could surely eat a lot of vega-tables with the market’s plethora of produce.

As I unpacked the bridal shower groceries, a song played on the family room TV.

“We’re sooo fresh (so fresh) Sooo fresh (so fresh).”

 It was an advertisement for Jewels’ produce. A northern Illinois grocery store. One that Charlie thought was a jewelry store-possibly triggered by all the wedding talk. And songs.

The animated carrots were singing. It was so fresh.

...Possibly a frightening image for vegetarians.

Is this why Americans are heavier? They have some meat in their produce?

Or, is it proof of Brian Wilson sanity? I mean, they’re both good singers. No wonder he wanted carrots for the background track.

People don’t get hooked on carrots or broccoli.
People get hooked on caffeine and sugary foods.
We are wired all sorts of crazy. Maybe Americans are more susceptible to sugary temptations than the Brits? But I’d like to think, walking down the [grocery] aisle, that Americans prove we can compensate with fluoride, pearly whites.

That we brush like crazy. And [Brian Wilson] present with a 'Smile.' 

Mad Good Man Made Meal

I just got back from NOLA.

And by “just,” I mean like a week ago.

And by “NOLA,” I mean New Orleans. Said “New orlans” or if you’re real local, more like “N’orrlans.”

A beautiful trip. Just lovely.

I’m almost certain I ate the best meal I’ve ever eaten there.

Let me paint a little picture:

Pink painted wood façade building with a hand painted sign that did not scream “best food ever” to me but this is N’orrlans, places never appear how they appear until you’re inside.

Tablecloths, wine glasses, dim lighting, low ceiling, rosy walls, several eclectic plates hung haphazardly-like the old building had been knocked around by a hurricane or two and a bar that lined an entire wall within the restaurant like a true European establishment.

Now, a little picture of the meal:

Pecan encrusted, freshly caught redfish garnished with fresh crab and diced red pepper atop a bed of sautéed arugula paired with rice mixed in the most amazing earthy, sweet, buttery, nutty sauce you can imagine. Oh yea, and served with a fine glass of pinot noir. And eaten with exceptional company.

So good. So So good. Brains shut down for 10 minutes. Easily.

I never thought fine dining, casual dining, local cuisine, American and European would make sense but this place, I swear, epitomized it all. And did it well. Exceptionally.

Okay, enough about the meal. What I really wanted to say was that I went to NOLA and saw my best friend.

And I saw her new apartment. Charming.

And I saw her kitchen. Also charming.

And I saw the lack of Microwave. Can one see that?

I asked sweet Melissa, “do you guys have a microwave?”

SM: “No”
Me: “Is it a like a health thing? Is it a radiation thing?”

SM: “No…I don’t know. We just heat things up on the stove. Things just taste better.”

…I’m convinced everything tastes better in N’orrlans anyways.

I always thought microwave ovens were odd. Food gets hot…but how?

That’s why people dropped the word “oven” after the word microwave…

It seems trippy and like the cause of a future 1^st world country pandemic. A disease only known to the affluent western country. Like wastefulness. Is that a disease? I think it might be.

When I returned home, mama murph was doing what mama murph does. Cleaning out another cabinet. Why? Because she is mama murph.

She found a booklet entitled Corning’s Microwave Browners. 

MICROWAVE BROWNING

                With CORNING WARE® microwave browners you don’t have to sacrifice the goodness of foods grilled to a golden brown anymore. In just minutes you can prepare an entirely new line of meals in your microwave oven-browned just the way you like them.

                MICROMATE® browners function much like conventional skillets or grills. With them, microwave cooking is capable of browning, grilling, or searing small food items such as hamburgers or chops due to a special coating on the outside bottom of the browners.

Other Cabinet Treasures!

I’d like to slip in that I just started season one of the TV series Mad Men-reading this, makes me feel like a 1960s house wife. 

I wish I looked like one too. 

The style is killer.

It’s so Western. We create a fake oven for convenience and then we create a fake browning technique to make it look like it’s from an oven. In a way, those three sentences summed up the first 5 episodes of Mad Men. Trying to cover it all up on the surface.

I’m not saying I don’t use microwaves. Because I do. But as my mom said “It’s funny you find them bizarre since you grew up knowing and using them. There was  a real scare when they first became commercially popular. I never used them to heat a baby bottle. It was very much frowned upon.”

I’m guessing the chain-smoking Mad Men did all they could to banish the fear and propaganda in their push for CORNING WARE ®

If Mad Men had to sell my Man Made, non-microwaved New Orleans meal, they wouldn’t bother advertising more than that weathered, pink painted wooden building and that small hand painted sign. They wouldn’t need to. 

Mama Murph. 

With Cabinet. 

Take notice: The Mad Men calendar hanging

beside the microwave oven.

 Found in the community cookbook.

Fine Print: Meg Murphy, Age 4

Maybe not a 1960 but definitely a former favorite

...and Meg Murphy, Age 25, a favorite of formers.

Eras.

Ruff Responsibilities

I have a dog again. I guess I kind of always did but we haven’t lived together since he was about a half year old. He’s probably around 8 years old now.

My roommates (parents) went out of town this weekend. I moved back last weekend. They already needed a weekend away from me. And while they were gone, I was very aware that I had a dog again. 

These things take responsibility. They wake you up. They need to be fed. They need to be let out. They need to be walked. It’s a whole new routine that my life hasn’t had. 

My dog was uncomfortable about my parents being out of town.

So he didn’t sleep.

So I didn’t sleep.

Ozzie was cuter when he was my parent’s dog. Back when he was 0.5 years old. And I wasn’t responsible for his well being and doggie paranoia about my parents’ absence.

So I played mom. I took Ozzie on a walk. 

Is it really Oswald? 

I think he’s named after Ozzie Guillen. 

Or maybe Ozzie Osborn? After all, he was the prince of darkness last night.

Sometimes he’s just Oz.
Or “the Oz-man.” Which makes no sense really. If he was Oz-man he wouldn’t need a mom.

Shouldn’t “mothers” know their own dog’s names?

So I played mom. We walked. I thought I’d get more exercise out of it. Let’s be honest. Stopping at every tree is not exercise. Let alone curb, park bench, fire hydrant.

And while “playing” mama murph I did a very mama murph thing. I picked up that McDonalds bag that landed on someone’s parkway after a Friday night. 

So here I am walking in exercise gear, not getting exercise, carrying a McDonalds bag rattling with an empty apple pie box inside. 

And as much as I’m joking about this, it felt good to play “mom.” You know, cleaning up the world, fertilizing the grass, moving. 

After all, I have friends that call me Murph-dog. Or is it Murph-dawg? Which makes no sense really. Except in college-the morning after a “McDonalds” night when I felt gross, like I needed to get it out of me, and my best friend would say “uh oh. Murph needs to be walked.”

Who knows, right before the McDonalds runs back in the college days, I may have even fertilized the lawn. At a house party. Probably acting like I was 0.5 years old. And needing a mom.

…Or a dog-to keep me from staying out too late. To make me responsible. 

Decanting Communties

I didn’t know Plainfield Illinois had it in them. I didn’t know I had it in me. 

I haven’t seen my dear friend Maggie in awhile. We met in St. Louis Missouri. She moved to Oswego Illinois. We haven’t lived in the same community for the last 2 years but as a fellow dietitian we have an understanding.

She made some awesome food, I brought a bottle of cab and some music and we got to talking. 

We retreated to her basement bar to eat. It was colder down there and closer to the built in wine cellar. I popped Regina Spektor’s live album into her computer, she decanted my dry red, and we all took a breath. Including the wine. 

Now that I’m in the north, we can spend time catching up. The wine drinking went on as long as our catch up. And we certainly had a lot to catch up on. 2.5 bottles worth. Ouch.  

We chatted about a lot. About faith. And organized religion. And the comfort in a community with similar beliefs.

Beliefs in dietetics? Beliefs in Roman Catholicism? Beliefs in northern Illinois nature?

Then the wine caught up. And it was best I spend the night. 

2am guest bedroom. 6:15am wake up call. 7am Bikram yoga in Plainfield Illinois. 

After registering as a first time Bikram Yogi, I breathlessly cantered over to my rented white, towel mat in the hot studio.

I always imagined these studios to look like saunas inside. Flames around the studios’ perimeter. The devil ordering uniformed body holds. You know.

Kind of different than imagined. But maybe not by far.

The studio was carpeted. Lights were bright. The yoga instructor announced me as Bikram newbie.  

It was my solo journey into a community of similar belief. I like the yoga community but each studio has a particular vibe. That truly accepting yoga vibe or that “I can so hold warrior 2 better. Oh! I can’t believe you stumbled out of tree pose. I’m going to keep looking ahead at the mirror like I’m an accepting yogi but inside I’m celebrating this victory!” vibe.

The instructor shared a story of the studio’s creation.

She got a UTI during the first week it opened. (I’m certain worsened by dampness and dehydration).

She did not seek medical help. (standard yogi).

She did seek over the counter UTI medicine that turns your urine neon orange. (azo). 

We put faith into practices regardless of evidence but this incident led to the instructor’s proof in Bikram’s ability to detoxify the body. She stated that Bikram alleviates the kidneys-the decanting system of our blood-by purging toxins directly through our skin. And when neon orange azo bled through her pores onto her white towel yoga mat, it solidified her belief!

As if the Cabernet hadn’t dried me up enough-26 poses later I drenched my clothes with what was left. And I was waiting to see the red wine sediment "pore-d" out on that white towel mat.

Proof that I had survived. Or was reborn. Sober.

Not sure about where I stand. Any day.

Not sure how well my body was standing. Today.

Not sure my body's ability to hold tree pose. Today or tomorrow.

But sure that my body did trigger the feeling of thirst-a signal to rescue my kidneys. 

I climbed back into my Honda. Popped Regina Spektor into my car’s disk deck. She sang to my soul. She poured her heart out. And she told me: “I’ve got a perfect body, but sometimes I forget. I’ve got a perfect body, ‘cause my eyelashes catch my sweat. Yes they do. They do.”

A Little Regina Religion