A few days ago my wife and I lay our pet rats Squeaky and Flo to rest. After some weeks of suffering with a massive tumor and dementia, respectively, we had them euthanized at a local veterinarian hospital. My wife prepared their coffin with treats for the afterlife, coins for the boatman, their favorite blanket, some newspaper, and read aloud a eulogy at their tiny gravesite (a flowerbed next to our front door). We lit a candle and sprinkled some food over their grave for the birds and their outdoor cousins to come and enjoy. The candle burnt for two and a half days before finally guttering and melting into the soil.
Yesterday I was shooting the bull with some guys at work (I got a job at the shipyard a few months back) and I happened to mention our recent loss. I guess I should have known what kind of response I’d get. They laughed and joked and imagined inventive ways of dispatching pet rodents. Someone suggested that instead of taking them to the animal hospital we should have taken them to the Lychee Restaurant, a local Chinese Buffet. He argued that instead of paying a vet fifty bucks to euthanize the rats I might have actually made money on the deal. To be completely honest I wasn’t terribly offended by the off-handed way they treated the death of our rats. I realize that if I’d have been reporting the loss of a dog to these same men I would have probably received solemn condolences instead of wisecracks, and maybe that’s unfair. I guess there’s a certain hierarchy in the value we ascribe to certain animals’ lives. As rats, Squeaky and Flo were in the lower end of that hierarchy, but as members of our family their value was placed very high. (Just as an example of how disparate our views are on this matter, a fishing buddy of mine, a Mexican guy we called Cholo, always dreamed aloud of one day leaving the industry to open up an exotic meat store in Sea-Tac. Noting the large population of Asians and Hispanics in the area he thought it would be a great idea to open a butcher shop specializing in dog, cat and horsemeat. I tried explaining to him that first of all, there were laws against selling any of those animals as food, and that second, his store would probably be burnt down inside of a week, but he just didn’t get it. Cholo was convinced by his experiences in Mexico and the testimony of some of his Asian friends at the cannery that his store would be a booming success. As far as I know there is still no dog, cat and horsemeat emporium in Sea-Tac or Tuckwilla.)
I remember resisting the rats inclusion in our household. When Cat first brought them home, unannounced, I wasn’t very happy about it. All I could think of was how they were going to stink up the house and how we would get in trouble with our landlord who had a strict no pet policy. My wife is the kind of gal that would rather beg forgiveness than ask permission, so after hearing her sob story about how Squeaky and Flo were to be euthanized so that their original owners could move abroad I finally gave in and tried to enjoy the critters for what they were, food begging machines. Flo was the most shameless and aggressive offender. She would sit on the gate of her cage leaning out over the edge as far as she could, her front foot pawing at the air, trying to stir up some aroma from the dining room table. Neither of them were very tough critics of my cooking but after a while I began to suspect that they had a greater appreciation for it than my wife did. I never once saw them pick a mushroom or olive or any other ingredient out of something I fed them. They savored everything and ate whatever I put in front of them. And unlike my wife they never balked and complained about any of my dinner proposals. They never said, “Sundried tomatoes are gross,” or “I don’t eat pork,” or “I hate artichoke hearts.” They were excited about everything that crossed the threshold of their cage, so eager to try my new concoctions in fact that they literally snatched them from my fingers, sometimes even trying to sample the fingers themselves. Now that’s a compliment. A little bit scary and cannibalistic, but I can’t think of higher praise for a chef’s abilities than wanting to trace the flavor of the food all the way back to the fingers that created it.
It was around the time when Squeaky’s tumor made it difficult for her to reach her food dish and Flo’s brain trauma (she suffered a fall in December) left her unbalanced and unable to climb the gate or grasp and hold things like she used to that I noticed their appreciation for food deteriorating to a purely instinctual level. They’d always had a sort of competition going to see who could get the fattest but now it seemed as their friendly wager had devolved into something more like a death match. Flo just didn’t know what was going on anymore. She would sit at the seed dish brushing through it with her paw but unable to pick up any of it. Squeaky would drag around her tumor like a sidecar with a square tire in an effort to collect whatever hit the floor of the cage, unable to climb to the second level herself. With her added girth and Flo’s inability to comprehend her surroundings Squeaky began to bully food away from her. Suddenly it was like we were feeding two castaways on a life raft. One was delirious from sunstroke, the other determined to survive no matter what the cost, even if it meant eating her lifelong companion.
It was then we decided to put an end to their lives. Once they’d lost the ability to enjoy food, to sleep peacefully, or play in the wheel we figured that it was probably inhumane of us to wait around until, either one of them croaked, or the stronger of the two did something unforgivable.
I don’t know exactly what life lesson to take from this experience. I guess if I learned anything from Squeaky and Flo it was that you’ve got to enjoy life while you have the faculties to do so. To settle for bland food, to take no pleasure in sleep, or play, or any other carnal pursuit seems to suggest you deserve your lower rung in the hierarchy. Squeaky and Flo were not very sophisticated animals, they often sat in their own poop, and drug food through where they defecated, but compared to some people I know they certainly had broader palates and a much more vibrant appreciation for the things in life that sadly a lot of us take for granted or neglect entirely.
As a small tribute to beggars and vermin everywhere, to people and animals who still know how to enjoy life and to make do with what they have I’ve put together two recipes that I think represent and celebrate their tastes and spirit.
Yesterday I was shooting the bull with some guys at work (I got a job at the shipyard a few months back) and I happened to mention our recent loss. I guess I should have known what kind of response I’d get. They laughed and joked and imagined inventive ways of dispatching pet rodents. Someone suggested that instead of taking them to the animal hospital we should have taken them to the Lychee Restaurant, a local Chinese Buffet. He argued that instead of paying a vet fifty bucks to euthanize the rats I might have actually made money on the deal. To be completely honest I wasn’t terribly offended by the off-handed way they treated the death of our rats. I realize that if I’d have been reporting the loss of a dog to these same men I would have probably received solemn condolences instead of wisecracks, and maybe that’s unfair. I guess there’s a certain hierarchy in the value we ascribe to certain animals’ lives. As rats, Squeaky and Flo were in the lower end of that hierarchy, but as members of our family their value was placed very high. (Just as an example of how disparate our views are on this matter, a fishing buddy of mine, a Mexican guy we called Cholo, always dreamed aloud of one day leaving the industry to open up an exotic meat store in Sea-Tac. Noting the large population of Asians and Hispanics in the area he thought it would be a great idea to open a butcher shop specializing in dog, cat and horsemeat. I tried explaining to him that first of all, there were laws against selling any of those animals as food, and that second, his store would probably be burnt down inside of a week, but he just didn’t get it. Cholo was convinced by his experiences in Mexico and the testimony of some of his Asian friends at the cannery that his store would be a booming success. As far as I know there is still no dog, cat and horsemeat emporium in Sea-Tac or Tuckwilla.)
I remember resisting the rats inclusion in our household. When Cat first brought them home, unannounced, I wasn’t very happy about it. All I could think of was how they were going to stink up the house and how we would get in trouble with our landlord who had a strict no pet policy. My wife is the kind of gal that would rather beg forgiveness than ask permission, so after hearing her sob story about how Squeaky and Flo were to be euthanized so that their original owners could move abroad I finally gave in and tried to enjoy the critters for what they were, food begging machines. Flo was the most shameless and aggressive offender. She would sit on the gate of her cage leaning out over the edge as far as she could, her front foot pawing at the air, trying to stir up some aroma from the dining room table. Neither of them were very tough critics of my cooking but after a while I began to suspect that they had a greater appreciation for it than my wife did. I never once saw them pick a mushroom or olive or any other ingredient out of something I fed them. They savored everything and ate whatever I put in front of them. And unlike my wife they never balked and complained about any of my dinner proposals. They never said, “Sundried tomatoes are gross,” or “I don’t eat pork,” or “I hate artichoke hearts.” They were excited about everything that crossed the threshold of their cage, so eager to try my new concoctions in fact that they literally snatched them from my fingers, sometimes even trying to sample the fingers themselves. Now that’s a compliment. A little bit scary and cannibalistic, but I can’t think of higher praise for a chef’s abilities than wanting to trace the flavor of the food all the way back to the fingers that created it.It was around the time when Squeaky’s tumor made it difficult for her to reach her food dish and Flo’s brain trauma (she suffered a fall in December) left her unbalanced and unable to climb the gate or grasp and hold things like she used to that I noticed their appreciation for food deteriorating to a purely instinctual level. They’d always had a sort of competition going to see who could get the fattest but now it seemed as their friendly wager had devolved into something more like a death match. Flo just didn’t know what was going on anymore. She would sit at the seed dish brushing through it with her paw but unable to pick up any of it. Squeaky would drag around her tumor like a sidecar with a square tire in an effort to collect whatever hit the floor of the cage, unable to climb to the second level herself. With her added girth and Flo’s inability to comprehend her surroundings Squeaky began to bully food away from her. Suddenly it was like we were feeding two castaways on a life raft. One was delirious from sunstroke, the other determined to survive no matter what the cost, even if it meant eating her lifelong companion.
It was then we decided to put an end to their lives. Once they’d lost the ability to enjoy food, to sleep peacefully, or play in the wheel we figured that it was probably inhumane of us to wait around until, either one of them croaked, or the stronger of the two did something unforgivable.
I don’t know exactly what life lesson to take from this experience. I guess if I learned anything from Squeaky and Flo it was that you’ve got to enjoy life while you have the faculties to do so. To settle for bland food, to take no pleasure in sleep, or play, or any other carnal pursuit seems to suggest you deserve your lower rung in the hierarchy. Squeaky and Flo were not very sophisticated animals, they often sat in their own poop, and drug food through where they defecated, but compared to some people I know they certainly had broader palates and a much more vibrant appreciation for the things in life that sadly a lot of us take for granted or neglect entirely.As a small tribute to beggars and vermin everywhere, to people and animals who still know how to enjoy life and to make do with what they have I’ve put together two recipes that I think represent and celebrate their tastes and spirit.
Stone Soup
This has a special place in my heart and culinary history. When I was about six years old I heard of stone soup and was intrigued by the idea. I don’t think I’d heard the folk tale or was read the children’s book (there’s one from 1947 by Marcia Brown, one written by Ann McGovern in 1968 and a much more recent one penned in 2003 and set in China) but essentially the story goes as follows, a stranger or a group of beggars or a soldier returning from the front after WWI passes through a starving town. The townspeople tell them to move on because there is no food but they decide to stay and rest. They take from their wagon a large iron pot and a magic stone (or an ordinary stone, or in some stories a piece of wood, a button, a nail, or an axe) and they announce to everyone that they’re going to make a batch of stone soup (or wood soup, or button soup, etc.). Everyone in the town is pretty hungry so their interest is naturally aroused. They come to see how this stone soup is prepared. The stranger fills his pot with water, builds a fire under it and then ceremoniously puts in his special stone. He sits watching the soup for some time licking his lips in anticipation. Then after a while he says to himself, loud enough for those gathered round to hear, that stone soup is great, but that once he’d had stone soup with cabbage that was fit for a king. Soon enough a villager appears with a small cabbage that he’d been saving in secret for himself. The stranger puts it in the soup and waits. Later he makes another soliloquy about how such and such a stone soup was fantastic but one he’d tried with potatoes was out of this world. On and on he extolls, one variation of stone soup after another, until finally there are carrots, onions, celery, meat and all kinds of herbs and spices complimenting his creation. All he’d started with was a pot and a stone and some water. He’d contributed nothing substantial to the soup but an idea, a kind of promise of a more delicious meal than what each individual could have prepared for themselves. He’d inspired people to pool their resources and in the end was able to “trick” them into feeding him.
I think as a kid what appealed to me most about stone soup wasn’t it’s lesson about community (or trickery) but that it seemed like you could put just about anything in stone soup without it becoming something else. As long as you started with water and a stone you had free range to do whatever you liked. At the time I made my first and only batch of stone soup I’d never cooked anything without my mother’s assistance, and without the aid of a recipe. In fact I think the only thing I’d ever attempted was the fried egg in the street and regular old bisquick pancakes. Stone soup was my first culinary adventure.
I had no idea what I was doing but just the idea of there being a stone in the soup pot made the whole experience sort of magical. I felt like I couldn’t fail, that whatever crap I decided to throw into my soup it would be delicious just on account of the big ass rock I’d started out with. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. But to a kid, a boy six years old, a pot of soup with a stone sitting at the bottom of it is about the coolest thing in the world. It didn’t matter how bad it ended up tasting (and believe me it was pretty horrible) the fact that I’d made the soup with a rock in the bottom of the pot made it some sort of culinary masterpiece. Or at the very least weird enough to be something to brag about. That stone soup was my soup. I invented it. All by myself. I didn’t get to touch the knobs on the stove but everything else I’d done one my own, without supervision.
Obviously I don’t remember what all I put in my stone soup but I can at least leave you with a basic recipe to follow. I figure as adults maybe some of the magic will be gone but maybe not the community part of it. Get together with friends. Have each person bring an ingredient. Mix and match. Break bread. Eat soup. Watch out for the rock in the bottom of the pot though. No amount of cooking is going to make that thing tender.
Stone Soup Recipe
One large stone (about the size of your fist, washed of all dirt and boiled)
1 ½ - 2 gallons water
Salt and pepper to taste
Additional ingredients (optional)
In a large pot combine water, salt and pepper, and stone and bring to a boil. Add desired additional ingredients and simmer for an hour and a half. Serve hot with crackers or fresh bread.
Kleftiko (robber’s lamb)
This is a fantastic dish that both my wife and I really loved. I found it in a Mediterranean Cookbook my Mom gave me for Christmas. I have a lot of cookbooks that seldom get used so I was glad to finally make something from one that really spoke to me. Kleftiko literally translates from the Greek to mean “stolen meat”. The nickname robber’s lamb apparently is derived from a time when sheep rustler’s were a problem in the region. Kleftiko is an enclosed dish, kind of like a pie, but with a shell that holds in all the steam and juices. Traditionally it was cooked in an underground oven, somewhat like the Kalua pig, presumably so that the smoke from the smoldering coals wouldn’t give away the position of the bandits. We cooked ours in a conventional oven. However you decide to prepare this dish I just want to warn you now, this is not going to be any thirty minute show stopper. You’re going to have to work to make this baby, and you’re going to have to put in the time to make it right.
Kleftiko Recipe
4 to 6 lamb leg steaks about 1/2 inch thick (enough to cover the bottom of a 10 inch pie dish, or a ceramic casserole dish)
Juice of one lemon
2-3 tbsp. fresh mint (chopped)
1 tbsp. dried oregano (rubbed gently between fingers or roughed in a mortor)
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. black pepper
3 tbsp. Olive Oil
1 large yellow onion (sliced thin)
1 large red onion (sliced thin)
½ cup dry white wine
4 bay leaves
Single 10-inch pie crust
½ cup shortening
1 ⅓ cups all purpose flour
Pinch of salt
3 – 4 tbsp. cold water
1. Combine the lemon juice, mint, oregano, salt, pepper and 1 tbsp. olive oil in a shallow pan. Place lamb steaks in pan and coat both sides. Marinate for several hours, 4 to 6, turning the meat a couple of times.
2. Combine the ingredients for the pie crust and form into a ball. Reserve for later in the fridge.
3. After sufficient time pull meat from marinade and reserve. Preheat the oven to 325° F. Then heat 2 tbsp. oil at medium high heat in a large frying pan. Brown the lamb on both sides, turning once.
4. Remove lamb from pan and place in a single layer at the bottom of pie plate or ceramic dish. Arrange onions and bay leaves over the top of the meat.
5. While pan is still hot pour in the wine and scrape up the crust sticking to the bottom of the pan. Add marinade and cook about 1 to 2 minutes. Pour over lamb and onions.
6. Wet the rim of the pie pan. Roll out dough and cover the pie pan tightly covering any cracks or holes with excess dough.
7. Cook for 2 ½ hours.
This has a special place in my heart and culinary history. When I was about six years old I heard of stone soup and was intrigued by the idea. I don’t think I’d heard the folk tale or was read the children’s book (there’s one from 1947 by Marcia Brown, one written by Ann McGovern in 1968 and a much more recent one penned in 2003 and set in China) but essentially the story goes as follows, a stranger or a group of beggars or a soldier returning from the front after WWI passes through a starving town. The townspeople tell them to move on because there is no food but they decide to stay and rest. They take from their wagon a large iron pot and a magic stone (or an ordinary stone, or in some stories a piece of wood, a button, a nail, or an axe) and they announce to everyone that they’re going to make a batch of stone soup (or wood soup, or button soup, etc.). Everyone in the town is pretty hungry so their interest is naturally aroused. They come to see how this stone soup is prepared. The stranger fills his pot with water, builds a fire under it and then ceremoniously puts in his special stone. He sits watching the soup for some time licking his lips in anticipation. Then after a while he says to himself, loud enough for those gathered round to hear, that stone soup is great, but that once he’d had stone soup with cabbage that was fit for a king. Soon enough a villager appears with a small cabbage that he’d been saving in secret for himself. The stranger puts it in the soup and waits. Later he makes another soliloquy about how such and such a stone soup was fantastic but one he’d tried with potatoes was out of this world. On and on he extolls, one variation of stone soup after another, until finally there are carrots, onions, celery, meat and all kinds of herbs and spices complimenting his creation. All he’d started with was a pot and a stone and some water. He’d contributed nothing substantial to the soup but an idea, a kind of promise of a more delicious meal than what each individual could have prepared for themselves. He’d inspired people to pool their resources and in the end was able to “trick” them into feeding him.
I think as a kid what appealed to me most about stone soup wasn’t it’s lesson about community (or trickery) but that it seemed like you could put just about anything in stone soup without it becoming something else. As long as you started with water and a stone you had free range to do whatever you liked. At the time I made my first and only batch of stone soup I’d never cooked anything without my mother’s assistance, and without the aid of a recipe. In fact I think the only thing I’d ever attempted was the fried egg in the street and regular old bisquick pancakes. Stone soup was my first culinary adventure.
I had no idea what I was doing but just the idea of there being a stone in the soup pot made the whole experience sort of magical. I felt like I couldn’t fail, that whatever crap I decided to throw into my soup it would be delicious just on account of the big ass rock I’d started out with. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. But to a kid, a boy six years old, a pot of soup with a stone sitting at the bottom of it is about the coolest thing in the world. It didn’t matter how bad it ended up tasting (and believe me it was pretty horrible) the fact that I’d made the soup with a rock in the bottom of the pot made it some sort of culinary masterpiece. Or at the very least weird enough to be something to brag about. That stone soup was my soup. I invented it. All by myself. I didn’t get to touch the knobs on the stove but everything else I’d done one my own, without supervision.
Obviously I don’t remember what all I put in my stone soup but I can at least leave you with a basic recipe to follow. I figure as adults maybe some of the magic will be gone but maybe not the community part of it. Get together with friends. Have each person bring an ingredient. Mix and match. Break bread. Eat soup. Watch out for the rock in the bottom of the pot though. No amount of cooking is going to make that thing tender.
Stone Soup Recipe
One large stone (about the size of your fist, washed of all dirt and boiled)
1 ½ - 2 gallons water
Salt and pepper to taste
Additional ingredients (optional)
In a large pot combine water, salt and pepper, and stone and bring to a boil. Add desired additional ingredients and simmer for an hour and a half. Serve hot with crackers or fresh bread.
Kleftiko (robber’s lamb)
This is a fantastic dish that both my wife and I really loved. I found it in a Mediterranean Cookbook my Mom gave me for Christmas. I have a lot of cookbooks that seldom get used so I was glad to finally make something from one that really spoke to me. Kleftiko literally translates from the Greek to mean “stolen meat”. The nickname robber’s lamb apparently is derived from a time when sheep rustler’s were a problem in the region. Kleftiko is an enclosed dish, kind of like a pie, but with a shell that holds in all the steam and juices. Traditionally it was cooked in an underground oven, somewhat like the Kalua pig, presumably so that the smoke from the smoldering coals wouldn’t give away the position of the bandits. We cooked ours in a conventional oven. However you decide to prepare this dish I just want to warn you now, this is not going to be any thirty minute show stopper. You’re going to have to work to make this baby, and you’re going to have to put in the time to make it right.
Kleftiko Recipe
4 to 6 lamb leg steaks about 1/2 inch thick (enough to cover the bottom of a 10 inch pie dish, or a ceramic casserole dish)Juice of one lemon
2-3 tbsp. fresh mint (chopped)
1 tbsp. dried oregano (rubbed gently between fingers or roughed in a mortor)
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. black pepper
3 tbsp. Olive Oil
1 large yellow onion (sliced thin)
1 large red onion (sliced thin)
½ cup dry white wine
4 bay leaves
Single 10-inch pie crust
½ cup shortening
1 ⅓ cups all purpose flour
Pinch of salt
3 – 4 tbsp. cold water
1. Combine the lemon juice, mint, oregano, salt, pepper and 1 tbsp. olive oil in a shallow pan. Place lamb steaks in pan and coat both sides. Marinate for several hours, 4 to 6, turning the meat a couple of times.
2. Combine the ingredients for the pie crust and form into a ball. Reserve for later in the fridge.
3. After sufficient time pull meat from marinade and reserve. Preheat the oven to 325° F. Then heat 2 tbsp. oil at medium high heat in a large frying pan. Brown the lamb on both sides, turning once.
4. Remove lamb from pan and place in a single layer at the bottom of pie plate or ceramic dish. Arrange onions and bay leaves over the top of the meat.
5. While pan is still hot pour in the wine and scrape up the crust sticking to the bottom of the pan. Add marinade and cook about 1 to 2 minutes. Pour over lamb and onions.
6. Wet the rim of the pie pan. Roll out dough and cover the pie pan tightly covering any cracks or holes with excess dough.
7. Cook for 2 ½ hours.
Serve with boiled potatoes and roasted or sauted vegetables.
Rest in peace Squeaky and Flo. We enjoyed feeding you our scraps.
1 comment:
That was great. Love the pic of the girls in the wheel & the stone soup bit... good childhood memories for me, too. - K
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