This is not a food blog; however, this is a food post

First of all: Martha Stewart was wrong. Traditionally, I roll my eyes at any commenters who have to express how disappointed they are in a recipe, because I'm mean and tend to think that all of those people are terrible cooks. But the lady who talked about how the Martha slow-cooker roast turns out dry and disappointing was dead on. I questioned the logic of a roast sitting in a Crock Pot for 10 hours, even on low, with no liquid other than a few tbs of cornstarch water, and I should have followed my instincts (the cooking ones, not the ones that Romany Malco indicates in The 40-Year-Old Virgin).

I will say this: the drizzle of Worcestershire gave it a nice crust, and my one creative addition--a buttload of Coast-to-Coast seasoning--made it flavorful. But it was indeed dry. And it was $13 of meat, so I didn't want to waste it.

So I did what my dad would do and made up a soup.

Jeff's "What the hell is quinoa" Beef and Quinoa Vegetable Soup

semi-charred remains of a beef roast
1 can of beef broth
2 cans of chicken broth
8 baby zucchinis, diced (I steamed them in the microwave at lunch so they were parcooked)
1 can of diced tomatoes, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 c Trader Joe's Soycutash (edamame, corn, and peppers)
3/4 c Trader Joe's Fancy-Schmancy Green Beans
uh, the rest of the quinoa I cooked to have with leftover roast and zucchini for dinner

It was liberating, if I'm honest with myself. I just kept chucking things in the pot in between rounds of pulling apart the roast with two forks to make string-a-lings of beef. I froze several baggies of it and poured the rest into a big container. I figure I can make it a main course or a side cuppa with my lunches.

When I told Dad that he was right and Martha was wrong, he said, "Good, then she can go back to prison."

Cooking (but not with kittens)

Sometimes I look to my dad for cooking advice. It's partially because I look to him for advice on anything that's practical and based somewhat in math, but it's partially because I enjoy the comedy routine that grows from it.

I learned to cook in my mid-20s, after I had finally, finally, finally left the nest. As with most things in my life, it started with a love affair with TV--specifically the Food Network, in this instance. This was back in the early days of 30 Minute Meals, back in the early days of Good Eats... not to get all nostalgic, but before reality TV got ahold of Food Network and engulfed it with its many wars and challenges and Guy Fieris.

The only way I can ever learn hands-on skills is to:
1) read;
2) follow directions exactly; and
3) obsess and dither over every step to the point of sucking all the joy out of it.

I've gotten better as I've grown comfortable with my skills and knowledge, but at heart, I'm still very much a rule-and-recipe follower.

Dad is not. Dad is a "hmm, what do I have in the pantry" cook, a "I'm going to dump this in there, see what happens" cook, and a "well, I had leftovers of this, so in they go" cook. He is less interested in perfection and more interested in economy and the general vicinity of edibility.

As you can imagine, this leads to some jokey jokes. Also some mock(?) frustration on my part. After all, how can a guy who is all "measure twice, cut once" also be the same guy who puts canned sliced mushrooms in everything? They don't belong in a bowl of Cheerio-s*, Dad! Eew!

But never let it be said that he has low standards:
Me: Also, I think you would like this recipe; I made it as a casserole rather than a pie, and it was very, very cheap to make.
Dad: But was it worth a shit?

From an e-mail exchange earlier today in which I bothered him with the latest thing I'm obsessed with: this one Kraft recipe for spaghetti squash "pie" (whatever, it's a hot dish).
***
My original intention for the e-mail was not to pester Dad about cooking, but to pester him with a demand that he go and support a local cat rescue/Trap Neuter Release program.

I know my family and friends sometimes/often worry about my involvement with cat rescue and volunteering. I'm not worried, if that counts for anything. I sometimes ride a bit of an emotional roller coaster, it's true, but in the end, I feel passionately about it, it makes me happy, and it makes me feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. I don't earnestly say that about too many things. I wouldn't even say that about TV (don't worry, TV...I still love you, baby). I feel that way about family and good friends. I used to feel that way about work (eesh).

Also, I know three cats is enough, and I swear that no one is going to have to unbury me from a mountain of cat dander and kittens.

Anyway, the point is, I e-mailed that to Dad with the subject line "Please go buy an and/or pie at this."

His initial response: "Oh, good grief."

Heh heh heh.

But we got to do something he likes--namely, talk about the geography of Western Wisconsin, to which I seem to remain largely ignorant (I guess this isn't so much "in New Richmond" as it is perilously close to Minnesota, which means it is distasteful to Dad's idea of travel), even though I grew up in the area; and make jokey jokes:
Dad: I thought the pies would be made from kitties.
Me: No, kittens don't make good pie filling. They're made of rainbows and whiskers, and if you put them in an oven, you get gored by a unicorn.

*Slight...ever-so slight exaggeration (I almost wrote "hyperbole," but then Dad would e-mail me to say "What the hell is 'hyperbole?'"

I hope it says Snicjers in his meticulous address book

Dad: Send me your new address.
Me: [Blah blah blah street address+ZIP]
Dad: Chicago?
Me: Yep.
Dad: America?
Me: I knew you would ask that.
Dad: Planet Earth?
Me: No, Ork.
Dad: Milkyway [sic] or Three Musketeers?
Me: Snicjers [sic]
Dad: Got it.

I was trying to be funny and write Snickers, but my phone has been all wonked up since I spilled water on it--I was moving, okay, and the water bottle I selected to keep me from heat stroke is missing its top, and I'm a dumbo--and so I have to hold it a certain way to see the screen and...this is all a very roundabout way of saying I mistyped "Snickers."

Then today, I received a package addressed to my old address. Inside was an envelope addressed to my new address. Inside that envelope was an envelope addressed thusly:

He sent me a suncatcher that belonged to my mom. I'm pretty sure it was a gift to her from someone--Aunt Shirley? Beth? Shannypoo?

I have great big south-facing windows in my living room and dining room. I'll have to find somewhere nice to hang it. My urn is already at the apartment, along with a few photos I unearthed: one of the two of us hugging at the airport after I returned from my semester abroad; one of her facing the ocean on a trip to Mexico with Dad.

Moving reminds me of her. It was a hard business when she drove Plum and I down to Chicago. A policeman yelled at her in front of Wrigley, and she snapped, "Do you really want to live in this place?" She hated the apartment Kate and I took over from friends. It was too dirty for her liking, and it had bars on the windows facing the fire escape. And she told me she cried all the way from the Addison Red Line stop to Midway Airport.

Sometimes I think of our mother-daughter relationship as one of leaving and returning: I often waited up at night for her to come back from her 3-11 shifts or from her leaving the house in a fit of pique to see Grandma Winnie; she waited for me to come back from England, only to take me to Chicago four years later. Maybe that's why the sensation of missing her hasn't hit me; maybe I'm still waiting.

She always told me that the first thing you should do in a new place after you've moved is make the bed. Since this move has been gradual, I have done many things before even bringing the bed over to the apartment. I'm torn between petulance and obedience: part of me wants to continue putting books on my bookshelves in an open act of defiance to her rule; part of me wants to make the bed as soon as the movers drop it off, if only to see if she gives some sign of approval.

Never Challenge the Master

My dad routinely gives me a hard time--no, wait, let me finish, ha ha I know--both in writing and in verbal conversations if I use vague pronouns. He's no dummy, and I know damn well he could extrapolate from the implied direct or indirect subjects in the sentence, so it's just one of a half dozen things he does to frustrate-annoy me into a laugh.

Also, if he could figure out how to comment on this booger, he would say, "What the hell does 'extrapolate' mean?"

Today, I texted him to get an update on Chen Lee, his weirdo senior Siamese cat who injured himself trying to jump up on the kitchen table this past weekend.

Me: Chen Lee Report?
Dad: Still at work.

HA HA! Finally! My opportunity to zing Father for the very thing he so often razzes me!

Me: Chen Lee got a job? Good for him!

I ran my laundry down and cleaned the litter boxes, relishing the idea that I would stump him. Perhaps he would not have any response at all! Clearly, I am the champion of the one-liners in the family.

Finally, I looked at my phone...

Dad: Yes he sits on the street corner taking humans from his pockets and throws them at passers by [sic] while skreeching - MEOW!

Obviously, a reference to this Dad classic, and one of the many Simpsons references we enjoy running into the ground.

Game, set, match. I don't know why I bother trying.

And Dad, that bracketed sic means that it's actually "passersby." It's a compound word. Yes, I know: what's a compound word. I hope you once again appreciate what all your money paid for when I attended the venerated learning institute UWEC.

A Mother's Day Eve Post About My Father

I headed up to Madison yesterday to meet up with Dad. He was there for work, attending a UW engineering class, then off to DeForest for a United Church of Christ presentation for his deaconing (? - I think? I get muddy on details that go beyond Dad's stories of food distribution Saturdays and helping his elderly neighbors into their new homes by moving them or building ramps).

We had breakfast at a place my former college roommate/current friend Mary introduced me to, Daisy Cafe, right up my alley with its cute presentation of granola ideals (Dad was skeptical, but declared the chili-espresso steak hash--and let's not get into the pre-ordering-of-an-item-with-espresso we had--"pretty good; the steak was a good cut and quality of steak," which is a ringing endorsement on the grading scale). Then we went rambling around the area for the day.

When I was younger, it was always a treat to go with Dad in his green Ford F-150--the vehicle I would later use to learn the art of driving myself. He knew all the different rambling county-road ways to get from point A to point B in River Falls and chose them based on his whim. I liked his various routines--pretending that he controlled the intermittent windshield wiper setting by pointing his finger at the windshield; saying "Here we go 'round the coh-nohr!"; and singing "Yankee Doodle Dandy," punctuating downbeats by tromping on the brakes (yeah, I know, safety and whatnot, but I was wearing a seatbelt, which is more than I can say for the games Andy and Tony and I elected to create where we jumped and slid from heights and shot each other with BB guns).

But somewhere along the way, I suppose when I became a teenager, it was less of a treat and more of a chore. Why couldn't we go the fastest way home? Where were we going? Jokes became corny. Learning to drive that obstinate old pickup, not to mention parallel park it, took a lot of joy out of spending time in the car with my Dad altogether.

But the passage of time changes a lot. The loss of one parent, suddenly and shockingly, definitely changes a lot. I suppose Dylan Thomas was onto something in that poem "Fern Hill," that I read in a summer literature class at UWEC--you know, that time would take me up to the swallow-thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, et cetera. But loss and the knowledge of mortality doesn't change everything: I still like to know where I'm going most of the time, and if I don't, I walk forward with purpose, much to the detriment of friends who actually know where we're supposed to be heading. But sticking stubbornly to some personal quirks doesn't mean I haven't rediscovered my love of corny jokes or of spending time wandering the cow paths if the man driving the vehicle imitates the birdsong and the noise of passing vehicles.

I suppose my teenage petulance instilled in my dad a nervousness that I need constantly be entertained. He apologizes anxiously, at least once, any time I come back to Wisconsin or we spend a random one-off day together. He is sorry, he'll say, that we didn't do much. I have tried repeatedly to explain that any time with him is entertaining (particularly if he's arguing with his GPS, Mrs. Garmin, all day). But it wasn't until yesterday that I realized why the countryside rambling in a pickup touched my heart, made me more grateful than ever for the time I spent with my dad and will hopefully spend with him in the future. I guess we can't go back in time, but we can sometimes experience something similar to a memory from youth and realize what a treasure each moment with family is, how much those times build you into who you are (someone who also argues with a GPS and imitates the sounds of passing cars and motorcycles, by the way).

Though if he ever makes me parallel park a manual transmission pickup again, he's in big trouble.

Sometimes I want to ask my father...

..."Why is everything a bit with you? Some kind of comedy routine?" And then I look at the myriad conversations my friends are forced to have with me where I'm all "Wokka wokka wokka!" and I hold my tongue. Sorta.

Via Textual Interface on Smart Phones

Me: Would you like a barely used coffeemaker?

Dad: Why? What's wrong with it?

Me: Jill was giving it away because her parents bought her a French press. It has a paperless filter.

Dad: Which has a paperless filter? Why would you want to press a Frenchman?

Me: DO YOU WANT A NEW COFFEEMAKER OR NOT, MULE?

Dad: Yes, if I'm touched I'm touched*. Crabby :p [Ed. note: WHO TAUGHT HIM TO MAKE THAT EMOTICON?! ANDREW?!]

*One of a dozen quotes by Muley, the Joads' neighbor who wanders around like "an ol' graveyard ghost" after all his neighbors have lost their farms to the bank. The Grapes of Wrath. Reading: It's FUNdamental!

Why I Never Should Have Told Dad About My Volunteer Work With Cats

EDITORIAL CORRECTION

My dad pointed out to me that female geese are hens; male geese are ganders.

I want you all to know that in the past, I have told friends that the gravity box being stored in Dad's pole shed by a neighboring farmer was for making ice cream. So just be aware I'm never a reliable source for non-TV, non-bookish related information.

Things My Mother Heard (for Andy, who never gets tired of this)

Also, to be fair to Dad: cell phones and parents and I often make a hilarious misheard combo.

Six or seven years ago, when I was still working up in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, I had a 3/4-mile walk through a corporate park from my bus stop. In order to make the corporate park more scenic, a number of manmade ponds were added. In order to make the ponds hugely unappealing and less scenic, a bunch of fatass Canadian geese took up residence there year-round, making sections of sidewalk a veritable minefield (of poop, that is, not mines).

It was particularly tough in the spring, because birds, like any barely evolutionized lizard, are spastically protective of their nests. So not only did you have to hopscotch around poop, you had to be wary of the hissing, sometimes charging mama ganders (who were, and always will be, jerks, motherhood aside).

One morning, I was talking to my mom via cell phone on the way past one such pond. A mama gander hissed at me, even though, as I recall, I was not making eye contact or figuring out how to eat the delicious, delicious eggs in her stupid nest, and I said, mid-conversation, "Oh, shut up."

Mom: Who are you talking to?
Me: Oh, a goose hissed at me.
Mom: ...where was he sitting?
Me: By the pond.
Mom: Was anybody watching him?
Me: ...wait, what?
Mom: Didn't you say a goof hissed at you?
Me: (after 30+ seconds of solid laughter) No, no, no, a goose.

After Mom finished laughing, we had a discussion of what exactly constituted a goof and why he would be hissing at 8:00 in the morning.

E-mail exchanges: where hearing is less an issue (but everything is still confusing)

I sent Dad a link to the first post with the subject line "Here you go, Hadji."

His reply:
I hope you are having fun - making fun of me to the whole planet

I love you : )

Dad is mistaken that I am making fun of him. I'm pretty sure he knows that he brings some of this on himself with his smart-alecky interpretations of what I am saying. I think trying to be funny about it, on both sides, is because both of us can get frustrated at times--he wants to hear me; I have mushmouth (apparently, though...you know, I was in forensics in high school, and I feel like I speak pretty clearly. Maybe a little fast sometimes. But my volume now ranges from pretty normal to loud, thanks in large part to the many, many loud and/or hard-of-hearing people I spend my time with; let me make this clear: I am not a loud person by nature, nor am I Naughty By Nature).

Which is my way of saying: oh, you'll know when I'm making fun of you to the whole planet...

My reply:
Look, if you are not going to start writing "Get Over Here Where The Work Is," [Ed. note: Dad's long-threatened memoir about his farm childhood] someone in this family has to record our history.

Also: yes, I am having a lot of fun making fun of you to the whole planet.

I love you too.

That's when things began to devolve...

His reply:
So, you won't share a post with me - Hmp!

Just for that you can't use my posts either - wood or metal!

Me (after holding back and not replying "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?"):
What do you mean I won't share the post? I just sent you the link!

Him:
I tried to look at the rest of your blob but it said you had not shared your posts with me so you can't look at my fences either : P

First of all: "blob" is new. Usually his preferred terminology for a blog is "booger."

Second: it will never not be startling and odd when my dad uses that emoticon. Who taught him that?

I sent my brothers an e-mail ("Would one of you two ding-dongs please see what Dad is talking about next time he visits?"), to which neither had a reply--their excuse will be that they are wrangling their eleven children or working or, in Andy's case, watching "Man on a Buffalo" for the 30th time--and then replied:
I didn't think I had any privacy bells or whistles on my booger. I'll check. It's just the first post, so there wasn't anything beyond your Hadji fillets.

Dad:
If you have a blob of boogers you need more than a post to keep them in

And that's where I officially gave up, because I may be making fun of him, but he's (probably) always going to be the one to get off the last, best line.

Tuesdays with Jeffrey (My Father Who Is Half-Intentionally Deaf)

(discussing dinner)

Me: I'm making cod fillets.

Dad: Hodge fillets?

Me: What? What would hodge fillets even be? Or mean?

Dad: Say it again.

Me: Cod fillets.

Dad: Hadji? The character on Jonny Quest?

Me: (having lost all composure and am in the middle of cackling laughter) What?!

Dad: Yeah, he was the Indian character on Jonny Quest. He wore a turban.

Me: Well, I am certainly not eating fillets made out of a Jonny Quest character.