It Runs in the Family

My pets have also adopted this anti-appliance technopha throughout the years. The family basset hound, Agatha (who amazingly lived a long life), had a grudge against the microwave and all kitchen appliances. You knew when Mom was cooking from anywhere in the neighborhood: Woof, woof... arrrooof!
My first cat, Calypso, had quite an affinity for cords and wires. Every lamp in my first apartment had been spliced and re-spliced many times over. But, when she taught the roommate's cat her tricks, Crazy the cat electrocuted herself at my first computer. Thankfully, it was not a fatal incident. But, it was enough to earn her her name.
Even before that, my two rather un-gifted pet rats Rosencrantz and Guildenstern escaped only to meet unfortunate fates. Oh, it’s too heinous to continue….

Today, Emma, my old mutt, has a hatred for all noisemaking appliances. (She did try to warn me about that hand mixer). Her arch enemy, as with many dogs, is the vacuum cleaner. Unlike other dogs she also attacks brooms, mops, and all things that slide along the floor. (We think this has something to do with the territorial terrier trials alongside the fact that she rides pretty low to the ground). Any floor cleaning implement in my home carries heavy battle scars.

But, the vacuum cleaner is her nemesis. When we first moved to the Midwest, she stayed with my family while I looked for an apartment. One afternoon, my mother took a break from vacuuming to make lunch – and left the vacuum out on the second floor landing. When my mother returned to the vacuum, she found teeth marks in the metal canister and only the remnants of the shredded hoses. Emma had caught her enemy at sleep and mauled it. (She is consequently not allowed back in my parents' home). When I first moved into this apartment, the closet door in which I keep the vacuum did not lock. Before I was able to convince the landlord this was necessary to fix (another blog entry there), she figured out how to enter the vacuum cleaner's lair and extract the enemy for a full attack. I came home from my first day at Washburn to find that the 20-lb terrier had managed to drag the entire vacuum cleaner out into the middle of the living room and down the hallway towards the bedroom – where she shredded each hose, attachment and seal.

Nowadays, she is a stealth bomber and expert assassin. If I do not get someone to walk her while I vacuum, no amount of one-legged vacuuming (one leg extended towards dog at all times, usually punctuated by a flapping arm) can keep her at bay. She can dive bomb that sucker and yank a seal out before I can blink. She flies (not an easy feat for such a stout beast) from around chairs and tables and seemingly bounces off the cleaner – with pieces clenched in her jaw. Crafty mutt…

So, today when I came home, I was disheartened to find the pantry door ajar (this is where I keep not only food items, but the brooms, mop, and other cleaning apparati). Fearfully, I walked forward. Spunky McMop (an aluminum handled mop gifted to me by my ex who so named the mop in hopes of thwarting attacks) had joined the ranks of the wounded. Pieces of Spunky's replaceable mop head were strewn from one end of the apartment to the other. But, Spunky had stood his ground. His green metal body and "important parts" were all in tact (albeit a few teeth grooves). Go, Spunky! Finally, something that can withstand Emma.

Domestic Diva, I never was

Raised under a rock

The Web can be a wonderful resource. But, it is not the all-knowing Great Wizard of Oz for your kitchen. One also needs common sense.

I dreamt up a masterpiece while grocery shopping today. I have never before had a thing for caramel. But, as I passed multiple sale displays for candy bars, I kept imagining a triple-layered-gooey-fudge cake oozing with hot caramel and toped with cherries. The only problem with this fantasy was that I didn’t have a clue where to begin to look for caramel. What exactly is caramel?

I needed help. So, I called a friend from the center of the beer aisle only to get mired in a shouting match about how to pronounce caramel. (I say care-a-mel, he says car-mal). Still lost, I journeyed home to ask the Great Wizard. According to Wikipedia, caramel can be made by slowly melting sugar in a pan at low heat. This will cause the sugar’s molecular structure to break down -- leaving you with a thick and sweet golden molasses.

Let me assure you that the caramel you and I are thinking of (yummy, gooey, melty-cake-layer-of-golden-goo caramel) cannot be made by simply leaving sugar in a saucepan for hours. But, you can transform a brand new saucepan into a big brown brick in this manner.

Did you know that you can buy caramel in a can? Nothing from my Google searches told me this. But, while airing out my apartment after Caramel Trial #1; several neighbors, four friends, and one sardonic mother did. So, with far more important projects to attend to, I headed back to the grocery store.

There it sat in the baking aisle at eye level: a can of caramel. I picked up the can and slowly turned it around. “Ingredients: butter, milk, glycerin…” Oh, this is not going in my vegan kitchen, I thought. These were followed by the names of chemicals that I would not put in my oven to clean it. This can made me more fearful of toxic exposure than an archaeology dig in southern New Jersey.

On Vegweb, I found suggestions to bake a dizzying array of ingredients (not available in my supermarket) in a pie pan for hours. One reader commented: This is quite possibly the biggest unsuccess I have EVER had .... what I had was a pasty substance that tasted something like slightly sweet, soy-ey cornmeal. I decided this entry would not suit my needs.

I kept searching for “vegan caramel.” But, every recipe I found included a lot of rum. Since I could not recall ever seeing Bacardi in the list of ingredients in a Twix bar, I headed back to Wikipedia: The word caramel also describes a soft, chewy, caramel-flavored candy made by boiling milk, sugar, butter, oil, syrup, vanilla essence, water, and glucose gum together.

I decided to move on to my own experiment: Caramel Trial #2. I grabbed my sole remaining saucepan and marched into my kitchenette with a crazed look that sent the dog scurrying. I melted some non-dairy margarine with unbleached sugar. It began to bubble. I added soymilk and vanilla extract. After it cooled… I had caramel. Amazingly simple. Chad, add me to your list of those who should be removed from the earth.

Now, I just need to go appliance shopping for a new mixer.

An all-American Fourth of July morning

I don’t get pies. I never understood the concept of drowning scrumptious fresh fruit in sugar and then pouring the resulting diabetic goo into a tasteless crumbling crust. I have no affinity for pie. My American-as-apple-pie, military-matron mother frequently threatens to disown me as a traitor to our nation. So, in some HGTV-inspired, do-it-yourself mindset of “more is better,” I decided I would attempt my own Fourth of July pre-cookout foray into culinary alchemy with a menu that would make Richard Simmons fall to his knees. Unfortunately, the fireworks would come early this year.

I began with a tight schedule of shifts in which to juggle pie making, cake baking and bread baking in my apartment kitchenette. Everything proceeded with military-like precision. I felt the cadence. I was beginning to experience the pie. But, somewhere between a rather uncomplicated rum cake warm-up and the second pie crust of the morning, the mixer (bought on a late night run to Wal-Mart) went on strike. I shook it. I hit it. I called it a name and then apologized. I unplugged it and re-plugged it in different outlets around the apartment. I even talked dirty to it (this seems to work well with my computer). The coffeemaker came on at one point, but the mixer was not responding. Finally, the mixer buzzed softly to life. But, it refused to twirl. I gave it a patriotic pep talk worthy of Bill Clinton. Perhaps in some commentary on my pie making skills, it then began to shoot flames. I dropped the flaming hand mixer in the dog’s water bowl. A lone firework arced up the refrigerator door. I remembered to yank the cord from the wall. It sizzled into silence. My dog and I watched the display from the hallway.

Building still standing, fire alarm unplugged, eyebrows in tact, and dog out from underfoot, I continued by hand. I turned on NPR for a little soothing Fourth of July commentary and set about rolling each pie crust out with lengthy disdain for all those still snuggled in their beds awaiting the evening's festivities. This never happens with cupcakes. I think I'm done with pies.