Crock Pot Tru-isms

There are truisms that I bump into from time to time, like, turn on a light before entering a room.

Tru-isms: Something basic we learn by experience even though others may have told us already when we weren't listening.

I am going through a phase lately, which Jane is thoroughly enjoying, the discovery of the forgiving art of the slow cooker. I know. You're thinking , " it's about time."

If you're male and reading this, you probably discovered Crock Pot Cooking years ago. "As easy as BBQ-ing," you might say.

I wish I discovered the process 31 years ago when living in my lonely city apartment while studying at McGill!

Imagine buying the cheapest cut of tough meat, tossing it into a pot with chopped onions, carrots, potato, celery, a little salt, pepper, garlic or even a dried soup mix and some water, leaving it to cook 8 hours while out and doing your thing. Simple. Now imagine returning home. It smells like mother has sneaked in to cook Sunday meal, old home comfort style.

Anyway, I'm new at this game trying out different recipes.

During my CEGEP days, I was very fortunate to have a Jewish girlfriend and discover her mother's cooking. In my family, Pot Roast was the big deal while hers was Brisket.

If you don't know what a Brisket is, it's the same cut as smoked meat. You like smoked meat? A nicely done 'Brisket' is 'to die' for. Oh gosh- I can feel my 'goi-ish' side falling and the Jew in me emerging. You didn't know that I am part Jewish did you? Surprise! It was a surprise to me too. But that's another story.

Oh yes,- the Crock Pot and 'truisms'.

I ended up marrying one of the finest Shiksas (Non Jewish Girls) I ever met. As a result, it has been some time since my last brisket meal...not including smoked meat sandwiches which don't count.

Since I now know that I am G-d's gift to the kitchen - after all, I created my very first crock pot Stew only last week, I figured I would graduate to something more adventurous.

Yesterday, recipe in hand I made my way out to the supermarket, negotiating between wheeled wire baskets, meandering men eying younger women and wives deciding upon five or ten grain breads. Yes, I strode with purpose through IGA, empowered by my new found sense of culinary prowess, bent on my quest for the perfect Brisket.

You can imagine my distress when the butcher said, "Sorry, we don't sell those cuts of meat here."

"Aha... discrimination!" I thought. But no. Only small butcher shops supply these cuts.

The gentleman with the hair-net gave me directions to where I might find such an establishment. I bet I could get a Brisket faster at the Atwater market or on 'the Main' near Moishe's at Warshaw's if still open,-but never mind, next week for that.

I made my way up the street and around the corner once again imbued with confidence, to present myself to a more powerful wizard of the macabre arts of meat cutting .

"Brisket?" he looked back at me wide eyed. Clearly I had upset some arcane protocol.

"You mean 'fresh' Brisket?" His brow furrowed.

"Yes." I said sincerely holding up my little recipe as one might hold forth a crucifix to the heathen.

"Not 'marinated' or 'smoked'?" He looked hopeful for a moment.

"Oh, uh, no. Fresh please." I crumpled my holy relic and shoved it into the depths of the of my pocket.

"If you order it I'll receive it next day."

I looked down, scratched my head in wonderment as this man waited for my answer.

I recalled this exact feeling, when attempting a move in a game of chess against one who had the good sense to know how to play in the first place.

As I searched for a handy chess board to overturn, I caught sight of a small tag. It was under the glass counter, positioned below a beautiful hunk of meat which had been all tied up so it couldn't run away.
On the tag written in some ancient perhaps Aramaic script was "POT ROAST". I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland.

Remembering having spied a Pot Roast right next to that of my Brisket in the recipe listing at home, I pointed. "Give me that!"

"Ah. The Pot Roast!" exclaimed the butcher now within his realm of cultural expertise, " The perfect meat for the slow cooker. You cannot go wrong with that." He smiled. I had clearly made his day.

A lady to my left seemed to turn away from me, her shoulders making small movements inside her fur coat as if trying desperately to squeeze in a sneeze or some other passing tremor.

I, new proud owner of a five pound bouncing 'Roast Beast' returned home, tucked it snugly into the refrigerator with all the other ingredients, resolved to prep later in the evening.

Jane and I proceeded out to my parent's for a birthday celebration. Later we arrived back exhausted, not in any mood to face off with an onion or meat. "I'll do the prep for the slow cooker in the morning".

The problem when learning something new, without having taken lessons or spending time doing proper research, is the process of finding out later through 'Eureka!' moments, that certain emerging patterns do make sense despite what we may think.

If you were to glance at various Crock Pot cook books, you would notice a pattern. They always say to prepare the night before and only next morning throw everything in the pot. Easy. They do not say in big bold letters why you should not do everything at once.

Morning arrived. I entered the Kitchen re-energized, the rack of dishes dry, a small amount of dirty dishes on the counter awaiting the next wash session. I pulled out the celery, carrots, onions, potatoes.

Chop chop chop. Easy.

Next, I pulled out the clunker eight pound iron frying pan, turned it on high and added the oil, to 'brown the meat'.

I located the recipe for Pot Roast and put aside the one for Brisket. Every thing was ready.

I put the Crock Pot on the counter and took the meat out of the fridge shifting it onto the sizzling pan with a spatula and fork.

"OOOPs."

Quickly opening the window, then running to open the front door, I let the smoke escape. Everything was soon under control, fork and wooden spatula in hand, having turned the heat down, the 'browning' of the pot roast on-going.

"Alright! What a pro!" I congratulated myself.

OK, next..uh - oh yeah- follow the steps in the recipe.

'..put the roast into the pot.' -check.
'..put chopped vegetables in the pot.' -che.... what the hell?
There was no room for the chopped veggies!

I grabbed the spatula and fork, stabbing the carcus, I pried it from the the pot, flinging it onto the cutting board while gaining elbow room on the counter by employing an elegant 'foot-ball straight-arm' gesture, sweeping the dirty dishes with minimal application of force to the wall .
"Jane would be getting up soon." I thought.

"Eureka!" It was one of those revelations. A five pound pot roast is just 'not' the same shape as a five pound Brisket. Therefore, as per the Brisket recipe it cannot be 'folded' into the pot let alone allow room for 3 cups of water and veggies. "

So lessons for the day, as I take refuge in my office downstairs safely behind my computer, are...

1) KISS rules to apply, (Keep It Simple Stupid!)
2) Don't mix metaphors or recipes.
3) Make sure your kitchen area is clean and ready for you. No lagging dishes!
4) Envision and think through the process a few times before doing!
5) Keep preparation 'grunt work' to the night before. This keeps the 'day after' stage, nice and easy.
6) Look at the size of the pot and compare to the size of the roast before all else.
7) Run the process by Jane first.

I suspect, I would have been much better off, if back in high-school, I had opted for Miss. Green's Home Ec. class, rather than the Agriculture class with H.Gordon Green. But in his class we heard stories of bulls testicles 'this big', being hung above the barn door and he would casually refer to dangling parts on cows while hinting at the female anatomy of our species, all without sounding salacious.

But what of the Crock-Pot and the Pot Roast?
Oh that. Well It's upstairs bubbling away.
One of the hints the cook book says- Do not to lift the lid to smell the progress.
I don't know...maybe just a little...

Dream Scape

During Cegep years 1973/74, I took a course on writing.

The teacher, David Gray, told us that it is best to write from experience.

Since our life experience was limited he said, "Keep a little notebook beside your bed. Upon awakening, quickly jot down, in point form, elements from your dreams. Later, time permitting, read the notes and most of it will come back to you. Then write about your dream. You may even find the seeds of good stories there. After all you really do experience the dream fabric."

The interesting thing about dream catching, as far as it relates to this blog, is that there are many of you who make occasional appearances in my dreams.

Richard Rankin's 'invisible elephant' notwithstanding, I think I might include a few of these in the blog. (For Richard's 'Invisible Elephant' go further back to the spring or summer in this blog.)

If you have some of your own you would like to tell me about, please feel free. I will not write about them in the blog unless you give me permission to do so.

Remember the song "Good Night Irene" (...I'll see you in my dreams...) or even Roy Orbisson's, Dream (In dream I walk with you, In dream I talk with you.)

I wonder if our dream life becomes a more significant part of our existence as we age, or as we lose our family, or why some people show up in my dreams and not others.

While Freud's theories on dream tend to be discounted, Carl Jung's theory, says that all facets of a dream are aspects of the dreamer. Yet the lingering questions might be- why a specific place or person? Ah! Now that would be telling.
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Welcome to my world.
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So, in last night's dreamscape ...

I am on St.Francis Street cradling a baby in my arms as I walk towards the highway -St. Jean Babtiste. The baby must be a newborn infant as it is very light to hold and is completely covered in a blanket. It does not cry or make any movement.

Seigniory Park Country Club is on my left.

I enter the front parking lot. People are streaming out from the gate.

Walking towards me, is a 17 year old Linda Baron.

The realization that this is a dream, emerges, since I knew Linda at an even older age when we were in Cegep. But then, perhaps she has a daughter? I then remember that Seigniory Park has been plowed under for many years, so this cannot be taking place in the conscious world.

I continue to walk inward against the flow of exiting people .

Linda walks right up to me. "Linda, - wow! How are you?"
"I'm sorry" she says, "That is not my name."

She begins to change.

"Oh, sorry." I walk on.

Passing by on my right and further over in the crowd, I see Hubert Jenosh.
I have not seen him since grade 8 or 9.

There are too many people between us for me to try to go over and I don't want to accidently crunch the baby in my arms by negotiating my way through the crowd. He does not see me.

I continue on.
End.
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Perhaps next time I'll tell the one about what I found in the massive crater on Craik Street over near where the Colonia Pool used to be.
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By the way all - Happy New Year.

The Long Road to Nowhere


(... a time of Maple School and Chateauguay High)


Mr.Peterson pushed the bar down with a slam opening the door.

"Come on boys, get moving."

Warm air was sucked out of Maple School by the deep February freeze.

We scrambled across the no-mans-land separating Maple from Chateauguay High, our blue shorts, t-shirts, pungent traces of locker room sweat and unwashed socks in our wake, the compact ice crust beneath our sneakers squeaking.

With pained expression, Mr.Plewinski held the door open across the yard.
"Hey you! Skinny! Get you-self moving!"
Roddy's glasses fogged up upon entry.

The fragrance of floor wax and detergent welcomed our stomping feet as we passed the T.D. class on the right. Tradition was upheld as our gaggle of thirteen year-olds booed and screeched up the unlit winding staircase to emerge within the "Old Gym".

Steve motioned to Bobby. Bobby knelt behind Barry. Just one nudge was all it took. Barry flew eyes wide in disbelief following the trajectory of his feet above his head, crashing onto the floor-mat losing his breath with a jolt. Pandemonium and guffaws rose to the heavens.

The gym teachers tried to locate the cause of the outbreak. Barry rose, wondering if he could take him but saw that Steve would be most willing to accept the challenge right there and then.

The shrill tones of the 'ref' whistle cut through.

"Get your feet on the black line." barked Plewinski. "Hey skinny! Get down and give me ten!"

"But sir! It wasn't me." protested Roddy.

The diversion worked. We all watched Roddy try to perform his task.

"...Two.....Three..." he grunted pushing his frame off the floor.

"Start again! I did not see your number one push-up!" sneered Plewinski.

Roddy's face turned crimson, humiliation getting the better of him more than exertion.
He was everybody's 'good guy', but even Roddy had his limits.

"O.K. - O.K., that's enough," Shouted Mr. Peterson, "get off the floor Mr.McManus and get back to the black line. Today we're playing dodge ball. Start with twenty laps around the gym. Alright - go!"

"Fuckin bastard!" Roddy's whisper was just loud enough.

Plewinski, grinning, walked towards the showers.

We ran, on our long road to nowhere.

One day, surely, we would get out.