Crap My Lips Will Never Touch Again

If you can imagine the horror and plight of my hatred for canned peas compounded with the sheer disgusting smell and taste of canned tuna, then welcome to the nightmare.  The bad dreams have been terrorizing me for the last 6 days.  Let me explain.

This one will begin with two of the most disgusting ingredients known to man, canned peas and canned tuna.  For my tastes this could not get any more horrifying.  See “Take Your Medicine” from November of last year.  There is just no use for canned peas.  Now if you recall back in May, my post of Odorous Pescado, my hatred of canned fish, you are going in the right direction.  I think just maybe canned tuna out ranks canned salmon.  I just thought again and it DOES out rank canned salmon for complete nastiness.  I can only recall eating canned tuna once in the very dish I am about to explain.  Once was enough!  Wait, once was too many.  Canned salmon patties were served numerous times in the Longstreth house.  But one day long ago, a fork, canned tuna and my mouth shared a very brief moment together.  That day, that moment changed my life forever.  When I smell canned tuna, I get that stomach wrenching, deep throated hurling, over activated saliva producing, eerie feeling of discomfort that comes with anguish and much fear.  Get away, my brain tells me.  But like a car wreck, I just have to get another whiff of vomit starter.  I can tell you for certain that I have no recipe for what is about to be unleashed.

The Tuna Noodle Casserole, you guessed it.  Why on earth is there any reason to create such a revolting dish?  What did I do?  Am I in trouble?  Are you serious with this?  What kind of mother comes to the table smiling carrying this?  Picture your mom as the grim reaper approaching with a casserole dish instead of the scythe, now that is a more realistic dramatization.

 As I sat down to watch fireworks on July 4^th, a lady of similar age to me was eating a bag of kettle corn.  I asked if she would like to try my bag of homemade caramel corn, she said no but her daughter agreed to try and loved it.  I explained to her daughter that if she read my blog she could get the recipe for Marie’s Caramel Corn, thank you mom for the recipe.  But as we began talking, this lady (also from the Midwest) began telling me about her bad meals.  Bam!  She said it out loud!  “Did you ever have the Tuna Casserole with the canned peas, canned tuna and smashed potato chips on top?”  WTF, I began sweating, my mouth salivating (the bad way) this conversation had taken a turn for the worst.  I listened to what she had to say but the entire time I was in fear.  Fear that somewhere around the corner that grim reaper looking mother was coming with a Pyrex baking dish full of putrid tuna and soggy peas for only me to consume.  I was near panic and tried to change the subject as to why the potato chips were used.  Neither of us could come to any logical conclusion.  My thought for the chips was to make it appealing to young children.  What kid doesn’t like chips?  And what family doesn’t have a partial bag of broken chips in the cupboard?  Logically you put them on top of something you want to hide.  Mix in a bag of noodles and it sure sounds delicious.  Whatever!  I stopped talking to the lady behind me, she’s scary, and I think she saw the fear on my face and got a kick out of frightening me.  I quickly polished off my bag of caramel corn and continued fretting about the casserole.  I wondered what the sauce was holding together this weapon of mass of destruction.  Why do I have a frozen container of this in my freezer?  I didn’t buy it, where did it come from?  Is someone trying to kill me?  I have no answers for the sauce and will never be able to tell you what makes this dish so yummy.  But I do know this. I know what makes it revolting.  If you mix canned peas and tuna together and think about bringing it to my house, think again brothers and sisters.  You, my friends, are not welcome.  Come back and try again with the following recipe.

 Caramel Corn Recipe:  16cups of popped corn (please pop your own corn, it makes the recipe), 1 stick of margarine (I used butter), 1 cup of brown sugar, ¼ cup Corn syrup, ½ teaspoon of salt and baking soda.  In a sauce pan combine margarine, sugar, corn syrup and salt, bring to a boil and continue for boiling for exactly 3 minutes.  Remove from heat and add baking soda, mix thoroughly and pour over cooked corn, mix to combine and place on sheet pans to bake for 5-10 min @ 200°.  Break up clumps and enjoy.  Caution it is hot.  I added some coarse salt to mine and wow what a difference.  Sorry Mom, I just had to change it a little.

Sunday Morning Biscnuts

What the hell?  Let me inform you again that my ancestors are German/Pennsylvania Dutch.  So I can eat me some noodles, pastries, strudel, etc.  Who would believe that my palate would not recognize my family’s   homemade donuts?  Some Sunday mornings my mom would rev up the electric skillet.  What?  Didn’t every home have an electric skillet?  How did you survive?  This electrical gadget was my mom’s microwave, which hadn’t been invented yet.  She would turn that baby on to the magic number, 350°, scoop out some Crisco shortening and place into the electric cook all.  Once the shortening had melted and was brought to temperature, the fun was just about to commence.  This procedure was a family affair.  Yes I said family affair, 3 young children, scalding hot fat and a pair of tongs that didn’t close squarely, a used brown paper grocery bag and two other lunch size paper bags with sugar and powdered sugar respectively.  Let the child abuse begin.  The dough; are you prepared for this, one cylindrical tube of…biscuits!  Yes I mean the Pillsbury prepared dough miniature hockey pucks.  I remind you this was the 70’s there were no jumbo, buttermilk, only the standard small size.  I remember there being about 10 discs of dough in each package.  So this means someone in the family was getting shorted.  I was the youngest at the time so guess who?  Now the preparation:  my mother would have us take an empty, sanitarily rinsed with hot tap water, pop bottle, remember those.  My sisters and I would take turns pushing this pop bottle through the center of each disc of dough, thus creating the donut.  The best part was the treasure inside the bottle, the donut hole!  Once this production was completed each dough puck went into the hot fat, flipping half way through the cooking.  The fully golden brown donuts would then be placed on the folded, brown paper grocery bag to drain.  We would then place 2-3 hot donuts into the lunch bag of sugar, shake and eat.  The donut holes cooked very quickly and were bite size nuggets of goodness.  This was my revenge for being youngest.  I would always be the one to shake the sugar on the donut holes.  Thus being the one to dig them out of the sugar.  I would eat as many donut holes I could get away with leaving my sisters to enjoy nothing but the donuts.  I’m guessing we weren’t the only family eating these.  This suggestion of making donuts out of biscuit dough probably dates back to ancient times.  Now we cut the prep time in half by using prepared dough and the electric cook all.  I remember these Sunday mornings as being good times.  I haven’t tried to replicate this memory because of Top Pot, Krispy Crème and the likes.  They do a much better job with the donut than any biscuit dough you can find.  But feel free to treat your family to these Crisco laden, sugar covered biscnuts. 

GDIC, Say What?

As I see it in present day, I have a problem.  I love Ice Cream, I have GICED.  Never in my adult life have I ever refused a serving of ice cream.  I could be just finishing 6 or 7 tacos and still ask my daughter  ”do you want to go to Dairy Queen?”  Off we go and I polish off a medium blizzard without a problem.  I can only assume, like any adult with a problem, affliction or addiction, I can trace this back to my childhood and my parents.  Yup, I blame them.  They are responsible for my Genetic Ice Cream Eating Disorder.  I dare tell you why. 

My father, Hank also loves his ice cream.  It is now out; the Longstreth gene pool is responsible.  He would eat a bowl of ice cream on a regular basis.  I know what you are thinking, but hear me out, I wasn’t really that spoiled.  My dad would come up with some of the weirdest concoctions with ice cream that I ever saw.  Root beer floats with Pepsi.  I was 4 or 5 years old & I didn't really understand, but man were they good.  No root beer or Pepsi?  No problem, just use the Hi-C grape; there is always some of that in the fridge.  Vanilla scoops, with chocolate syrup topped with Spanish peanuts, aka The Tin Roof, a father and son personal favorite.  There is something to be said about the sweet and salty goodness with that ice cream sundae.  Although I was never allowed to stir my bowl of ice cream, somehow the very bottom of the bowl always was mixed to a smooth texture.  The local ice cream place was somewhere I dreamed about.  I fondly remember Hank introducing me to the wicked, gooey, warm goodness of hot fudge.  He introduced me to the Fudgesicle and the Drumstick.  Baskin Robbins was always a treat and I saved my fruity side of the palate for the BR Orange Sherbet in a cup.  My pet peeve; the pronunciation of the word SHER BET, for those of you who believe your ears and not your eyes there is only ONE R in the word SHER BET.  That’s enough of the English class.  My next memory was the chocolate malt.  I can drink a chocolate malt in about 45 seconds, therefore I now keep some malted milk in my pantry for the after dinner dessert malt.  My current addiction to this frozen confection has been perpetually fueled throughout my child hood.  My need for ice cream with toppings is beyond compare.  Oh, I forgot to mention we only had vanilla, thus the need for toppings or added flavors to choke it down.  Are you very confused yet?  Here’s the deal breaker.  Marie didn’t buy ice cream.  Frozen yogurt hadn’t been invented yet and we didn’t have an ice cream soft serve in the kitchen.  Nope, Marie proudly purchased ICE MILK!  That’s right, I said ICE MILK, it wasn’t even ice cream.  Now it all makes sense, the need for additional flavors and my addiction to the real thing.  I know every Cold Stone location in my area, Dairy Queens and local mom and pop frozen confections.  I love Ben and Jerry’s, Dreyers, fudgesicles, Klondike bars, drum sticks, chocolate, neopolitan, malt cups, and for my favorite combination Wendy’s fries dipped in the chocolate frosty, life could not get better than that.  I think the ice cream gene has been passed to my daughter.  She shares the same passion as I for this frozen delicacy.  There is one small difference, she knows when to stop.  Hopefully she will pass this genetic trait to her offspring.  If you happen to find ICE MILK in your local grocery, pick up a half gallon and bring it home proudly.  Don’t forget to get something to put on top because you won’t be able to eat it otherwise.

Odorous Pescado

 As an adult I have had the opportunity to eat some great food and now living in the Northwest the King Salmon is at the culinary apex.  This is the fish locals and visitors choose and think of when you mention Seattle.  I never had the opportunity to eat fresh fish as a child.  I did however have the opportunity to eat any fish I caught when camping with the family.  I caught mostly yellow belly cat fish and blue gill, not the most appetizing fish and never large enough to actually eat.  I’m not even sure my mom could cook fresh fish if given the opportunity. Let’s leave the cat fish fry to the Cajuns.  Although leery, on my first visit to the great Northwest I quickly jumped at the opportunity to order a fresh salmon dinner.  It took only one bite of fresh salmon to erase the bad memories of canned salmon patties served at my house for dinner.  Salmon patties made from canned salmon!  Imagine the smell!  Imagine the oily, nasty discolored meaty flesh clinging to the inside of the squatty round can, freshly opened with a can opener that has never been washed.  Now before you say, but your mom didn’t have access to fresh fish, I say you are correct.  But listen to what I’m saying, can salmon tastes nothing like fresh salmon.  Add that to the fact that Marie could mess up box macaroni and then she pulls out the salmon patties.  C’mon man!  This could have been my greatest nightmare dinner.  Miles from the front door you had an olfactory sense of the death patties that waited lingering on the dinner plate.  The odor of cooking salmon patties would overcome every distinct smell of my memory.  Worse than liver and onions any day of the week.   The putrid stench of that single patty on my plate made me sweat like Mike Tyson taking the SAT.  I could barely choke it down, second only to canned peas, and never a condiment to mask the flavor or odor.  The salmon patty has taken over my memory right now and I cannot, for the life of me, recall any side dish that may have accompanied it.  Could it be possible that there is no side dish capable of complementing the salmon patty?  If that is so, then why serve these?  Canned salmon should be served to cats with no sense of smell, that live outside in remote parts of the world, or at least another area code.  Marie’s salmon patties would quite possibly be a strong deterrent for prisoners serving short sentences.  The fear of the salmon patty meal would send shivers to any hardened criminal.  Do yourself a favor, if you choose fish for your next meal and you even think about salmon patties, think again, cat food should not be pattyized for human consumption.  You will be better served to heat up the Gorton’s Fish Sticks.

A note from the Easter dinner Sloppy Joes!  They were delicious.  I found that the soy was overpowering, cut it out or back depending on your taste.  Here’s the recipe if you wish to partake:

In a large skillet add 1TBL Olive oil, over medium high heat.  Add 1.5# of ground turkey and season with 1TBL of poultry seasoning, salt and pepper.  Cook until browned and then stir in 1 small red pepper chopped, 1 small onion chopped and 2 cloves of garlic chopped and cook until the vegetables are tender.  In a bowl, stir together 1cup tomato sauce, ¼ cup maple syrup, 3TBL soy sauce, 2TBL cider vinegar, 2TBL brown sugar and 1TBL Dijon mustard.  Pour the sauce over the meat and vegetable mixture and simmer over med-low heat to combine flavors.  Serve on a bun with shredded cheese or favorite topping.

Put on Your Easter Sunday Best

Happy Easter everyone, or is it Merry Easter or hurray for Jesus has risen?  Whatever the case may be, let’s really look at the reasons we celebrate Easter.  First of all, we as parents get to hide shit around our houses and laugh at our children as they try to find the hidden treasures.  Wait, I think we hid something behind the lamp, or is it behind the book?  I hope they find it because I can’t remember where we put those damn eggs!  Speaking of eggs, coloring them is a priceless, messy and time consuming event that always produced eggs that were at best dual colored.  Nothing in our house ever, ever looked like the beautiful eggs on the box of the PAAS coloring kit.  I don’t know about you, but that little wax pencil never did the detail work like suggested.  Our family would boil one dozen eggs and proceed to color them and hopefully find all 12 when morning came.  The joy of peeling a colored egg and eating this for breakfast may have been one of life’s little moments.  Like you were getting to do something that the rest of the world looked at as taboo.  Wash down the egg with a little chocolate, now you’re in business.  Deviled eggs for Easter brunch, yup, every recipe included mayo and mustard, variations beyond that were never realized in our house.  Maybe some salt and pepper.  I love them but, in hind sight (or should I say “hind smell”) they do not love me.  Enjoy your eggs everyone!

The chocolate:  I was one of those kids who would wish for nothing other than a solid milk chocolate Easter Bunny.  What happiness it would bring if only the bunny was solid.  Each year I would be greatly disappointed.  The hollow bunny would rest in my basket amongst the little chocolate footballs, a few Peeps and usually something marshmallow.  Before I could read, deciding if my bunny was hollow or not was by weight.  I would carefully grasp and curl the bunny, was it heavy?  Maybe, curl again, maybe not.  I can’t tell.  At this age I couldn’t differentiate between what should be heavy and what heavy actually was, all I wanted to know is was this bunny solid or not.  If not, disappointment soon would follow and if it was, joy and celebration would ring out through the house.  One good bite off the ear and son of a bitch, disappointment always found my house and Easter basket.  My friends got solid bunnies, why couldn’t I?  I didn’t have a clue about finances or budgets or what a solid bunny may even cost, but I didn’t care about any of that crap, I wanted a giant solid Easter Bunny in my basket!

I’ve eaten one hardboiled egg, slightly tainted with color, one bite of hollow bunny, a couple of little tinfoil wrapped footballs, I ‘m dejected, disappointed, sleepy and now the bad news.  Okay family let’s get ready for church, Sunday Easter Service.  These long and painful celebrations of Christ rising from the dead, yeah, yeah let’s get it over with already.  Now don’t get me wrong I am not the anti-Christ, but I’m a kid and I have more chocolate to eat and Grandma can still come through with the solid bunny.  Our family went to church every Sunday, but on Easter Sunday it was different.  It was longer, there were more people, you know the ones, and they only show up twice a year, Easter and Christmas.  I could handle twice a year, you bet, but no we were there every Sunday, very painful for a kid like me.  Our pastor knew the Easter service was long and painful because during the sermon, every year, he would belt out JESUS HAS RISEN, or PRAISE THE LORD, people from every pew would snap from sleep mode and re-focus on him.  I think the only ones paying attention were the kids because we would be the ones giggling at the sleepers who were awakened.  I couldn’t wait to get out of church, get that Easter suit off and get to some more chocolate and Grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house would be filled with aromas: ham, potatoes boiling, and grandpa’s cigarettes and chocolate… now where is my basket?  Would Grammy come through with the solid bunny?  My mom’s entire family would be there, everyone would bring something, including deviled eggs, my aunt’s chicken noodles and then the feasting would commence.  First let’s get to the searching, let me get to it, I know there is something hidden in this house for me and I need it now.  Disappointment soon would follow the searching, hollow bunnies for all.  I know what you are thinking, I have no appreciation for the hollow bunny, you are right.  Hollow bunnies are worthless and nasty.  Any young male between the age of birth and death will never appreciate the need to manufacture a hollow milk chocolate bunny.  The solid bunny rules and always will.  End of story.  So all of you chocolatiers out there stop making the hollow crap, give us the goods, solid, yummy bunnies.

Now for our Easter meal today; ironically Sue found a recipe for Ground Turkey Sloppy Joe’s and we are trying them out for dinner tonight.  I will update on the success or lack thereof next week.  So enjoy your LONG ASS SUNDAY SERVICE, your brunch with deviled eggs tainted with egg dye and chocolate, solid or hollow I guess it is still chocolate.  Oh yes, make sure if you have kids and you’ve colored eggs, they find all of them.  One more thing, I don’t want to hear about all of you who want to brag about your solid bunny.  You make me angry:)

Deception Sandwich

I was reading an email response to last week’s blog when a suggestion given rang close to my home and past.  A friend of mine was reminding me about the meals of his past, which have been very similar to experiences in the Longstreth house.  Even though his memories come thousands of miles from small town Ohio the similarities are creepy.  His past reminded me of a couple of things of my past.  One I will share with you today and the other I will work on because once I get onto that subject it may take a while.  Thank you Kevin for the memories, may your palate overcome the damage of your past.

This one I tried to replicate years ago, but without much success.  I could never get the right texture or flavors to come through.  I recall eating this on many occasions.  I loved this on soft bread.  We purchased this product from the deli at the local IGA Grocery store, or in the day the Pangles Master Market.  Recalling from memory of smells and creamy smooth texture took me back to days less troublesome.  How this is made, I would wonder.  I couldn’t find it at any deli in Seattle. I would get looks of disgust and nausea after asking if they carried such a product.  Am I some kind of alien?  Is there a ban on this product?  Maybe it can’t me made west of the Mississippi.  Could it be possible that the recipe was lost and could never be replicated?  I need to get my hands on some of this.  I know, I’ll show’em I’ll just make my own!  To the grocery I go!  I have made a list of ingredients: mayonnaise, ham, relish, onion, cheese.  That should do it.  This must be the ingredients for my memory of Ham Salad Spread.  Remember this concoction?  Well I tried to make this from scratch without any direction or recipe, just memory.  I was so close too.  But it was just not right, something was missing or something was not supposed to be there.  Some of you probably already know the ingredient which was misidentified.  I did not.  I was stumped.  But as usual I proceeded to eat my mistake, about 1# worth of mistake.  But I made it through.  I was still bound and determined to make this and satisfy my craving.  This time I was making a phone call.  But who do I call some local grocery deli in Ohio?  Nope, I call Marie, my mom.  “Hey mom, I have a question, I’ve been trying to make ham salad spread, and I’ve tried everything.  Here is the list of ingredients I’ve used without much success, what am I doing wrong?”  All I hear on the other end of the phone is laughing.  Now I’m wondering what the hell is going on, am I an idiot or what?  This reaction, by a mother who has over the years probably contaminated my digestive system hundreds of times, is borderline insulting.  Upon regaining her composure she informs me through additional chuckles that I was so wrong with one ingredient that it is beyond her that I would miss this small detail of HAM salad spread.  “What is it I asked?”  “Oh, Robbie,” she snickered “ham salad is made with bologna.”  “Son of a bitch,” I say “then why do they call it ham salad?”  Boy do I feel stupid, I wonder what tuna salad is made with?  After thanking my mom and feeling very depressed I made a trip to my local grocer and purchased some bologna, returned home and made some of the best HAM salad spread ever.  I’m positive there are many recipes for sandwich spreads available to the public, but be leery, do not try and replicate without first doing some research on the ingredients.  It may save you some embarrassment and 1# of nasty spread to consume.

A Mysterious Meaty Memory

I would be inclined to think that we 40 something year olds rarely serve our children meals of our past.  There are certainly dishes we surmise as staples; burgers, meatloaf, spaghetti, etc.  Think back to your childhood and try to recall that one dish you consumed at least once a month.  Without even a consideration of how it became such an iconic staple of our generation, Americans have been eating them since WWII.  This iconic staple would meet specifications for dinner, lunch and budget.  For me it is clear what this entrée was.  This mixture was as traditional as pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dessert.  Within my little community there were as many recipes as families, and it was served in every school as a nutritional entree.  Every household recipe had its own unique zest and texture.  The meal, which I am speaking, also led to a major food company to invent a canned product which made it even more economical.  Since its debut in 1969, it revolutionized the preparation and consistency and has been available in grocery stores to this day.  I can honestly say that I haven’t eaten one of these since probably 1985.  This kid friendly staple is known worldwide as, none other than the Sloppy Joe.  Who was Joe?  Why was he considered Sloppy?  The history is unclear as where and who is responsible for its creation, but mothers across the country made this sandwich their own.  My mom was no exception.  Her recipe consisted of tomato paste, ketchup, chopped onion, salt, pepper and of course 1lb. of ground beef.  Thank goodness for Hunt’s creation, Manwich Sloppy Joe Sauce.  This finally gave our family flavors outside everyday recognition.  We knew what we liked and Manwich was superior to Marie’s formula.  Just thinking and writing about this sandwich makes my mouth water.  I can recall the taste in my mouth, the aroma, the bun, and even the texture of the paper plate from which we consumed these handmade delicacies.  I say we bring this back!  Right now, one or four of these sound really, really good.  Maybe tonight I will make them for my family.  Maybe I will go out and get that can of Manwich, brown up some ground turkey, spoon up some sandwiches, sit back, and recall my past.  Savoring every delicious mouthful of seasoned, tomato-y goodness, I will reminisce of good times and family events.  What a vehicle for a drive down memory lane!  A simple bun filled with simple goodness and served proudly on a paper plate.   How could life get easier than that?