LEFTOVERS

Yesterday's blog asked the question "Why do I cook?"  Today I remember why.  Leftovers: Leftovers to eat, and leftovers to use for new meals. 

Just a few days ago, I cooked a turkey and all the trimmings, and I find myself with some leftover turkey that no one seems to be able to consume.  I also have a pre-made pie crust in the freezer, along with half a package of frozen veggies.

Time to make a turkey pot pie.

This doesn't take very long since I don't bother with a recipe.  I throw the turkey and veggies together, add leftover gravy, and season the daylights out of the whole concoction.  I spoon the whole mess into the pie crust, and -- voila -- dinner!

And more leftovers. 

My freezer is filling up slowly but surely with all these meals I cook, even though I'm not very adept at this whole cooking thing, and even though I am surrounded by restaurants that cook a lot better than I ever will.  But, in full disclosure and contrary to yesterday's blog topic, I do cook on occasion, I just prefer when someone else does.

WHY COOK? IDK

I don't know why I even bother cooking anymore.  I live within walking distance of many fine and reasonably priced restaurants and within driving distance of dozens more. 

The deli down the road makes excellent honey BBQ chicken calzone and outstanding steak tip salads.  I can get Mexican, Chinese, Mediterranean, fancy pizza, char-broiled burgers, Indian, and Italian practically out my front door.  The pizza place across the street makes consistently solid pizzas, packed-full subs, and has fabulous dinner plates, all at reasonable prices.

Tonight I am exhausted from breakneck speed at work today (and quite a bit of fighting with technology).  I come home, take a shower, throw in a full load of laundry, and start attacking some phone calls I've needed to make.  A certain magazine to remain unnamed (but sounds a lot like Sports Illustrated) has bogusly charged my credit card for $55, and I have been fighting with them for a couple of weeks.  This afternoon I call India (or Pakistan or wherever it is) and argue with yet another employee mysteriously also named Jim.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I'm done threatening "Jim" and assuring SI that my bank intends to investigate their bogus practices ("We don't verify the name or the three-digit code or the expiration date ...")  Um... dude?  That's FRAUD.  Finally, my bank confirms that the refund has gone through. 

Wonderful.  Now, time to deal with the Department of Education's loan division.

Before I realize the time, dinner should really be on the table.  I haven't even given it a thought.  Luckily, my son has also had a long few days, and we decide it's a steak tips kind of night.  We both decide to order the steak tip dinner (complete with a side salad), but, at the last minute, I change my mind and go for the baked haddock dinner.

Seriously.  The dinners are amazing, and I spend less than I would have to buy a couple of pieces of semi-fresh haddock myself, then I would need to prep it, cook it, get the smell out of the house.  The baked haddock is to die for, cooked to perfection and seasoned to an unfathomably tasty level.  Same with the steak -- the meal is less than a package of steak tips at the store, and it's cooked flawlessly.

I know that I'm spoiled.  Dinner is never further than the end of my almost strangely short road.  Most people don't even know it's a road at all.  Most people think it's part of the nearby church's parking lot, especially since there are only a handful of houses, and we're all living on the same one side of the street.  For $10 or less a day, I can eat like the spoiled brat I am.  For $20 or less a day, I can eat like freaking royalty.

I'm free, free at last from the oven and its post-Thanksgiving treachery.  No turkey leftovers tonight -- we've moved on to surf and turf.  No dishes to wash, either -- it's all eat-and-recycle. 

Best of all, though: I don't have to cook.  Believe me, if you've ever tasted my cooking, this is truly a win-win situation.

THE PARADE I DIDN'T GO TO

After getting stuck in the traffic of another town's Santa Parade yesterday, I totally forget to walk up the street to attend my own town's festivities.  Yup, I miss my own Santa Parade.

I have good excuses.

First of all, I wrap everything I bought yesterday and get it all sorted into piles: to-be-mailed pile, to-be-delivered pile, to-go-under-the-tree pile, to-go-in-the-stockings pile, and the infamous not-quite-sure-why-I-bought-this pile.

Second, I am busy with school work that I put off all weekend.  My entire folder of "important things to get done by Monday morning" sits there until I feel like looking at it today.  Ooops, have to type up some worksheets.  Ooops, have to type up a quiz.  Ooops, left the heavy-duty correcting on my desk - too bad, so sad.

Third, I'm still wearing last night's pajamas and have very little intention of changing until the sun sets and I shower and get into fresh pajamas for tonight.  I put on deodorant this morning, but I don't put on a bra.  I'm home alone, bra-less, in crumpled flannels and a t-shirt.  Say what you will, but we women understand that this is the desired Sunday uniform, and today I am The Sunday Pajama Master.

To be truthful, which I am from time to time, I totally forget about the parade.  My plan for today was to walk along crowded Main Street during the parade and shop in the stores I missed yesterday.  I figured I might watch a float or two go by for old times' sake and remember when the float I helped build (and rode on in the freezing cold until my hands iced into the twelve-foot chicken-wire Frosty we prevented from flying off the trailer in the wind) won first prize. 

It's a good day, even though I miss the parade.  My to-do list for the weekend is more than checked off.  I still have some holiday decorating to do, but so very much has gotten done that I'm almost looking forward to Monday work so I can sit down and regroup for a few minutes.

Of course, there is that giant pile of correcting still waiting for me.  If only I'd thought to bring it home and shred it all to toss as confetti at the parade -- you know, the parade I didn't go to.  There's always next year.

SMALL BUSINESS STUPOR AND WINE (OR NOT)

I don't have a new recommendation for Wine of the Week nor Sip of the Week. I do have one that I may have made before, but I can't seem to get myself to any tastings with the Thanksgiving disruption.

Well, that's not entirely true.

Saturday is Small Business Saturday, the day when we consumers are urged to patronize and support small business owners and their struggles.  This sounds great in theory, so I head to one of my favorite small shop spots -- Newburyport, Massachusetts.

Newburyport is loaded with small, eclectic shops, and it's fun to peruse through them.  I have a particular mission in mind, so I make a bee-line for that one particular shop.  It is both better and worse than I expect.  The owners are pleasant and accommodating, and the selection is better than I anticipated.  However, the shop is NOT offering ANY special sales for Small Business Saturday.

This trend of "no extra discount" pretty much sums up my Newburyport experience.  Only one shop is offering extra sales on their stock.  Naturally, I spend money there.  I spend money at several places and try to reason with myself for the ultimate stupidity of these small business owners: This sales holiday is for their benefit, not mine; Offer some goddamned discounts.  Even a simple 10% off total purchases, as cheap as that is, would've been a kind gesture.

This pattern repeats itself back in my own town.  The only place offering discounts is the chain toy store.  Really?  Truly?  Are you people even serious right now?

Here's my decision on Small Business Saturday -- BITE ME.

Do I get some shopping done?  Sure.  Do I spend money I didn't need to spend?  Sure.  Do I find what I expected to find?  Not really.  Do I feel like the small businesses actually appreciated my money?  Nope.  Not even slightly.

Here's where the wine comes in, though.  I am on my way home from Newburyport when I attempt to get to the wine shop for the Saturday tasting.  Waze keeps insisting that there is a huge traffic jam ahead of me, which I cannot fathom since I'm on the backroads.  Suddenly I see ahead of me three police cars and a firetruck.  I see that the road is now closed.  Thinking there must've been an accident, I stay in traffic and inch closer.

I.  Am.  So.  Stupid.

There's no accident.  It's the town's Santa Parade.

I cannot get over to the wine shop for the tasting.  I could go later, and I have gone late in the past, arriving just in the knick of time.  However, I have a long list of important things to get done today that includes bringing food to my daughter who accidentally knocked her fridge open and lost all of the food when running off to work after being called in early this morning. I can't really say, "Hey, I'd love to rescue you, but I have to go sip wine first..."

If after reading all of this you still need a wine recommendation, I highly recommend the Sterling Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley, California.  Even though the wine didn't quite make it into the 90-points bracket, it is very close to that score across the board.  Sterling cab sauv is a drinkable red that doesn't overpower the palate, and it goes well with turkey, possibly because its smooth taste compliments such foods as cranberry sauce and squash.  Coming in somewhere around $20 a bottle, This is a great go-to wine when being invited somewhere and you need to bring a gift or help supply the home bar.

The string that ties this all together is the wine shop.  They truly are a small business with on-site owners, and they offer discounts to their customers every day.  Do I want to support them on this special sales day holiday?  Of course I do, but Santa won't let me get there when I need to get there.  So I'll patronize them whenever else I can because, well ... because I can.

As for those other businesses, I understand that you're trying to make a buck or two off people on Small Business Saturday, but THIS is why you need a special day to encourage people to come in.  Don't be so damn cheap about being too damn expensive, especially when you know a little bit of coinage in my pocket will encourage me to spend even more at your register.

Lesson learned.

GETTING THE TRASH OUT

I am ashamed to admit that the cellar I recently finished cleaning out (not yet cleaning UP, but the junk is cleaned OUT) is a project that started months ago.  Last fall after removing air conditioners from windows, I piled them outside instead of in the basement.  Last Fall.  As in 2015.

I am careful with the patio, though.  I place heavy plastic under everything so nothing leaves rust stains on the concrete, and I keep the pile covered with plastic (and weighted down with bricks) through the winter.  To this pile of three air conditioners, I also add two dehumidifiers, three old computer monitors, and a busted electric fireplace. 

All the while, plastic comes in handy, and the monitors even have trash bags on them, just in case.  I'm not sure from what I protect these items.  After all, it's JUNK.

Finally, I finish the hauling out, and finally I have an entire day off, so I decide to find out where to haul the crap I've piled outside (lest my landlord start charging me a daily ugly property fee, if there even is such a thing).  I look up the recommended removal places on the town's recycling flyer only to discover that not one of the places listed even serves our community.

What.  The.  Hell.

I do have two options.  I can haul the stuff (one at a time, week by week) to a friend's house in a nearby town and pay $25 for each item removed.  Or, I can haul the stuff to the local scrap metal dealers.  The problem with these options is that I am also having some back trouble and can barely rake leaves out of the way for anyone to lift the trashed appliances let alone try to lift them myself. 

I search the Internet for junk dealers near me, find one with good reviews, and call them.  I figure maybe they might be able to come by next week sometime.  Instead, I talk to an amiable gent who informs me that the junk men will be at my house within the hour.  Actually, his time frame gives me about forty minutes.

Hmmmm.  I suppose I should change out of my flannel pajama pants, then.

The junk men call before they arrive, and they wave to me as they drive up to the house.  By now, I am outside madly (and sorely) trying to move the wet leaves out of the way.  They quickly give me an estimate that is $100 cheaper than I am expecting and $75 cheaper than me hauling the stuff away myself.

SOLD.  Take it.  I'll even give them cash.

The basement may not be finished yet, but at least the year-long saga of staring at the old air conditioners, monitors, and dehumidifiers is over.  Luckily, since I waited so long, I get to add in that electric fireplace that bit the dust two weeks ago.  Life is good, and my patio is clean again. 

Thank you, All Day Junk Removal out of Lawrence, MA.  You saved my sanity, my back, my wallet, and the eventual wrath of my landlord. 

APPLE PILFERING FOR THANKSGIVING PIE

Thanksgiving means homemade apple pie, and homemade apple pie means Granny Smith apples.

I hate shopping, which means that I am going into the worst possible season for a person like me.  To do my Thanksgiving grocery shopping, I decide that the large chain market is the best option.  I must hit the store exactly at the right time, and, when I do arrive, there's a huge line of cars trying to get out of the lot, but there are plenty of empty spaces near the store. 

When I go inside, the place is no more crowded than any other weekday afternoon.  I can tell, though, that this shopping trip is different -- The shelves are being stocked beyond capacity and I can move around a little bit without limb loss.

The last item on my list is simple: Granny Smith apples for the pie. To my surprise and horror, there are NO loose Granny Smith apples in this giant grocery store.

The store does, however, have pre-bagged fruit: 3 red Delicious apples, 3 oranges, and 3 Granny Smith apples in each packaged bag.  The packages are $6.49 each.  I need at least two bags' worth, maybe three bags' worth, but I am not paying that kind of money just to get Granny Smith apples.  Besides, I hate the taste of red Delicious apples.

So, I break open the bags. Okay, I pre-warn the produce clerk that I'm going to do this, but still. 

In the end, I bag myself six small Granny Smith apples.  I really need seven large Granny Smith apples, but the store doesn't have them, and I really should break open a third bag and grab three more apples, but I cannot bring myself to do this.  Two busted produce bags seems like enough.  (I throw in two Braeburns, just in case.)

I probably could stop at another grocery store, one of the smaller ones closer to my house, but somehow this thought doesn't occur to me while I'm in the big store doing all of the Thanksgiving shopping.   I am so tired from work and so stressed from getting everything organized that I have tunnel vision.  I need the Granny Smith apples, I need them now, and I don't particularly care how I get them.

My pie is perfect.  Flat, yes, but perfect otherwise.  Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is perfect and not at all flat, which makes my whole apple-pilfering an absolutely worthwhile adventure.

THANKSGIVING DITTY

Making sure the house is clean,
Cooking like a flour storm.
Oh, please let no dust be seen!
Oven makes the house feel warm;
Finally the turkey's done.
On the phone to all who're living,
Eating, talking, having fun --
That's the way we do Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!