Popcorn and Sushi

What's on the Line?

 

As I mentioned recently, everyone in Japan hangs their washing out to dry.  As far as I can tell, anyway--I've never seen a house or apartment without some kind of apparatus (usually several) set up outside for hanging laundry.  In-ground poles are uncommon since most people don't have a yard, so most laundry-hangers are movable and made of plastic or metal.  Many of the plastic variety are small, meant for little things like socks and unmentionables, and have built-in clips.  We have a few of these (not pictured), but they're pretty much falling apart because a) they're plastic and have been out in the elements for a couple of years and b) they cost 100 yen (basically a dollar) and were likely made in China. 

Anyway, we've never sprung for a larger, mobile pole set-up that's meant to be outside (looks like a heavy-duty clothes rack--we have a smaller one indoors), which would probably live on our lower patio; instead, Husband strung a couple of ropes on the upper deck, and we've bought cute, colorful clips to keep me happy while I hang things out. 

So what's on the line today?  Two pairs of men's underwear (sorry, Husband); my two colorful, summer-weight pairs of Sweetgrass hemp pants which will direly need ironing; the inside-out jersey of the cutest baseball player I know; an apron worn not by me; a pair of Husband's jeans; and assorted items belonging to Clotheshorse First Child, who may or may not have actually worn said items before throwing them on the floor.

If you like clotheslines, be sure to visit Mrs. Washalot's treasure-trove of photos and info.  Enjoy!

Another Jeu de Paume Tome

I happened upon another gorgeous Jeu de Paume book recently. I spotted it and snapped it up immediately, dragging it off to another part of the bookstore like a feral cat crashing a picnic. It took me, oh--about twenty seconds of flipping-through to decide that "Stockholm's Apartments" was a keeper. Just as in London Kitchens, the colors are bright and the designs almost always non-minimalist. Love it, bought it, can't read it, but no matter. Who buys decorating books for the text, anyway?

Recipe Organization

I could be like my dad, who clips recipes from magazines like Southern Living, then "files" them away in drawers or between the pages of cookbooks, rarely if ever to be used or even seen again.

Perhaps he and others like him could benefit from a new way to keep track of their recipes, such as this binder set from russell+hazel. Very cool, though a significant investment at $110. I can assure you, Dad would think the price a misprint and want to call up Russell and/or Hazel to apprise them of their error. Anyway, Dad would be better off with the system I've been using: a cheap-o (100-yen, that's currently 85 cents to you and me, Russ) plastic binder with built-in clear plastic sleeves--just right for inserting all those clipped recipes, and not so precious that you feel each recipe must be heirloom-quality. Heck, you can slip in any old recipe that strikes your fancy, then when you make that recipe and you (or more likely, your kids) hate it, you can just slip it right back out and move on.

But for those recipes that have been handed down (and not hated) through generations, plus any of those clippings you actually end up loving and would like to put into permanent rotation, the russell+hazel set seems ideal. With its archival papers, wouldn't it be great for putting together a book of family recipes for your (hopefully-appreciative) kids, so as adults they won't call you up from Japan for the same Thanksgiving recipes every year? Ahem. I'd also love to see Lesley of Small Meadow Press make a vintagey-style recipe binder. In the meantime, check out her beautiful recipe cards. Then, get to cookin'!

Sad Excuse for a Southerner

I am a sad, sad excuse for a Southerner. I do not fish, nor do I waterski. I cannot tolerate cheerleading. I never cook grits. My children do not call me "Ma'am." I have not, nor will I ever, set foot inside a monster truck stadium. And now this: I cannot season a cast iron skillet. To a non-Southerner, the very idea that such a thing could prove upsetting must seem ridiculous, or perhaps "quaint." But to a born-and-bred Louisiana girl, admitting this shortcoming is tantamount to saying the "Civil War" instead of the "War Between the States."

But this is a problem, I mean it. I want to cook in cast iron because I know it's healthy, I'm cheap (I already own the pans, and they'll last forever if, uh, properly seasoned), and because it's part of my heritage. My hundred-one-year-old Alabama grandmother recently passed along a number of items from her home that she no longer needs, and what one of my cousins wanted most was her collection of cast iron cookware--all of it well-seasoned, you might imagine. Lucky.

One of this grandmother's eight children and a fabulous down-home cook, my father is a master at getting the crust of cornbread just right in one of his skillets. He and his cast iron seem to have a longtime understanding of sorts, but my cast iron skillets and I have a rocky relationship, and it's making me grumpy. I've read about various seasoning methods and have tried several with differing degrees of success over the past decade or so. A few years ago, I even (gulp) threw out a small skillet after I gloomily set it aside, only to have it rust to what I thought was dismal, beyond-repair excess. I've seen sticky, goopy residue in a skillet after a couple of Crisco-coated hours at 500 degrees, and a whole-lotta' nothin' after peanut oil at a similar temperature. I've also had a skillet that appeared, on its surface, to have the right gleam, but the next morning's scrambled eggs still stuck. It's as if the seasoning didn't really "take." It's as if these skillets do not like me at all.

In near-despair the other day after yet another failed seasoning attempt (once again heating and smelling up the whole kitchen and dining room and setting off the smoke detector), I called out to Husband, "I just don't understand this pan!" Husband, exhausted at the computer from too much online masters-level education coursework, called back, "Do not engage me in this discussion!" What was I to do? Why, read an online tutorial, of course! Coat pan with vegetable oil, put in oven, bake for 2 hours at 250. What could be easier? This, surely, will work beautifully! Wrong. My skillets still betray me, mocking my Southernness more each day. Time to get on the horn to Dad.

London Kitchens

The other day, while nosing through the delightful selection in my favorite nearby (Japanese) book and magazine shop, I stumbled upon this book.  It was nestled appropriately in the craft/decorating/homemaking/lifestyle aisle that I haunt greedily whenever I have the chance. 

I suppose I should mention that I don't read Japanese, and I don't know of a single other American around here who frequents Japanese bookstores.  I'm a bit of a loner in this regard, and I often wonder whether Japanese people in these stores ever ponder whether or not the red-haired gaijin woman hanging out for an hour in the decorating mags can actually read them. Alas, you won't hear me saying "I only buy it for the articles," because when I buy Japanese magazines/books (sometimes it's hard to distinguish between these descriptors), I definitely am buying them only for the pictures!

But back to my latest purchase. I often envy and appreciate a certain kind of European style, and especially this style as seen through the eye of the Japanese book and magazine publisher.  Japanese people seem to love a quirky, vintage, handmade Europeanness--basically "zakka" style-- which is exactly what I prefer. This book showcasing cool kitchens in London is perfect. It's not a book full of spare, sleek, carefully-edited, built-in kitchens that could be in a Home Depot showroom (the kind of kitchen that's unfortunately on display all too often in American decorating mags). These kitchens are alive with color, useful utensils, cute-modern items, vintage displays, and loads of style. I love them all. Jeu de Paume publishes plenty of other lovely decorating books, too--I flipped through some in Tokyo a couple of years ago, but as I recall, Husband was lurking in the area to make sure I didn't blow the day's food budget on more "unnecessary" (ha!) magazines and books that I can't read.  Oh, but I do love them so!

How to Avoid Cleaning Your Oven

Goodness knows I've found many things to do in the past to avoid having to clean my filthy oven, a chore I despise--fun things, like trimming my toenails, emptying the trash, and straightening the cluttered dining table for the fifteenth time in one day. Husband will ask if something in the kitchen is burning, to which I will reply, "It's fine, it's just something burning off the bottom of the oven!" My thinking is that whatever has fallen to the bottom of the oven will, eventually, be cooked--incinerated--to the point where it eventually becomes nothing. It never quite works this way. Instead, I'm left with a layer of blackened bits that I practically have to maneuver around with a paddle in order to allow for something new in the oven--something I want to cook and eat. I'm sure you must be thinking, a) doesn't she have a self-cleaning oven?, b) hasn't she ever heard of spray-on oven cleaner?, or c) can't she just shut up about it and set to work with a little elbow grease? No, yes, and yes. I don't have a self-cleaning oven, and anyway that process is somewhat toxic. Ditto using the spray-on stuff. And the whole point is that I'm trying to get around the elbow-grease option.

However, I have lately found The Answer to the oven-cleaning problem: drag out not cleaning it for so long that finally something goes wrong with it and you have to get a new one! See, a repair guy came out two weeks ago for some other purpose--I don't know, I can't be bothered to remember what it was, as jetlag was an issue that day--and he messed with the gas connection in the kitchen. After that, the stovetop was fine, but the oven stubbornly refused to function at all (maybe it went on strike due to bad working conditions). Husband made one phone call, and presto--a new oven appeared, and all at government expense! We're drunk with the power. Husband had somewhat-jokingly informed our housing liaison that we Americans need our ovens. We're all baking maniacs, you know--constantly whipping up pies, cakes, muffins, lasagna, roasted potatoes, homemade pizza--mmmmm, thinking about all that baked goodness is almost enough to get me in the kitchen right now! But back to the broken oven.

A new one didn't exactly materialize immediately. Last week, an oven exactly like the old one made an appearance, then almost concurrently, the repairmen from the gas company made their appearance to get it installed properly. Incidentally, one nice thing about Japanese repairmen is that they're not going to bother you--no potential assaults or thefts to worry about, just maybe a form for you to sign, or an inane question when they first arrive, like "Where kitchen?" (I call it a castle, but our house ain't that big). Three men (or two--I'm not sure where the other one went) worked in my kitchen for over two hours, and I grew crankier the longer they stayed. They were supposed to be done in one hour, but there they were, still--standing, quite literally, between me and my afternoon cuppa tea or coffee. Chocolate, too. Leave, already, I thought--but make sure that gas connection's all set before you go!

Of course I just smiled and made unnecessary mini-bows whenever I peeked in to observe their progress. It turns out there wasn't much progress. Despite a couple of hours' work and doubtless a great deal of earnest effort, there was a problem. I learned this when one of the repairmen, after hanging around my kitchen for those two-plus hours, handed me his cell phone. Our base liaison was on the line to let me know that oops, this new oven would not do, wouldn't do at all--and we'd be getting another new one tomorrow. I wouldn't even be given the chance to muck this one up and not clean it! Well, so the new non-working oven sat unused, until the other new one came, and the repairmen showed up, same time next day, and stayed, again, for about two hours. The difference was that this time, the (American brand, Japanese size) oven came with some little adapter things, which apparently allowed the gas guys to hook it up according to code--which seemingly also involved installing a new gas connection. Whatever--I'm just glad to have a working oven. So far I haven't cooked much in it, but I've spilled mozzarella cheese, fifty-cents-a-bag french fries, and some reheated pan-fried pork. Know how college students work on a "base tan" before a week of fun in the sun over Spring Break? No fun in the sun here, but I'm working on a base coat of my own.