GLASSY EYED AND BUSHY TAILED

Two posts in as many days?  Batten down any hatches and break out the canned goods – we are clearly approaching the End Times, here.*

Actually, not really.∞  I'm just heading to New York tomorrow to experience a bit of proper autumn (planned activities include: picking apples and cooking stews and wearing sweaters and playing in the rain and tasting wine and eating at the best ice cream place in New York [according to USA Today, at least] and generally enjoying life outside of the parched oven that is Phx), and since the internet connection there is measured in double-digit kilobits/second, I probably won't be able to post much unless I leave it running overnight.˚

So, before I go, I thought I would actually talk about something that relates to the "craft" part of this humble blog's subheading.

As long-time readers know, I'm taking a glass fusion class at the Phoenix Center for Visual Arts.  Eventually we'll be doing things like working with glass powders and metals and etching, but right now all I know how to do is (a) cut glass, and (b) grind glass.  But that's enough to make a few things, which I thought I'd share (and to serve as a useful point of comparison for what will hopefully be vast improvement).

OK, first up:  a little glass physics.  The ideal thickness for glass is two layers; if you stack more than two pieces together, it will flatten down (and out) to two layers thick.  To illustrate this, we cut 1" x 1" squares, then stacked and fired them.

1, 2, 5!  Five pieces of glass!

From left to right, we have a stack of five glass pieces, counting down to a single square on the right.  A single piece of glass is the same size as two stacked pieces (going back to the whole "glass loves two layers" thing)^, and it expands from there.

Next are two examples comparing tac fusing with full fusing.  Tac fusing heats the glass just enough for pieces to stick together; full fusing melds the pieces together.

A contented sigh, in glass form

The A is tac fused, and the H is full fused.  Tac fusing creates texture and maintains the original shape better, while full fusion is sleek and shiny.¥

Of course, I tried to make an owl.

This owl has cleavage.

This is what happens when you don't properly balance/attach the cover glass and it slides off in the kiln.  I still love him, though.  He's...special.

See, my owl is scientifically accurate.

But!  I can rebuild him!  We have the technology!¶  Next week, I'll saw off the overhanging bit at the bottom, even out the edges with the grinder, and add some glass to fix the lumpiness.  I have another owl going into the kiln tonight; hopefully this one will be a bit more owly and a bit less, um, horrifically misshapen.

And that is Glass Fusion 101.  Next week I'm going to learn how to cut curved lines, which is terribly exciting.  However, we are getting closer and closer to the time when I have to go buy my own glass, which doesn't really excite me.  Ah, the life of an artist, I suppose.

If I'm not too busy jumping into leaf piles and having bonfires, I'll try to write up some of my adventures in Actual Seasons Land and send them to The Husband to post, if only to taunt those of you reading this in the desert.  And then, when it's 60ºF and sunny in January and I'm walking back from the farmers' market with just-picked oranges, I'll taunt the rest of you.

*Make sure you pay close attention to this post, because I might cover a lot of information and I don't want any of you left behind.
∞Hopefully.  Phx is all dry washes, so I can't be certain that rivers aren't running red with blood.
˚I recently learned that my hometown is technically part of Appalachia.  Our shoddy internet access makes more sense now.
^Science!  Again!
¥Tic-tac fusion leaves behind fresh breath with only one-and-a-half calories.
¶The Six-Billion-Dollar Owl (Adjusted for Inflation)!  This Fall, on Fox!

PRACTICE SAFE EATING: ALWAYS USE A CONDIMENT.* (ALSO, FOOD PORN, BUT NOT THAT KIND OF FOOD PORN, SICKO)

Right now, I have a potato rösti in the oven, which will hopefully be a tasty brunch on a crisp disconcertingly hot autumn Sunday.

But I am not here to discuss potatoes.  I am here to talk about condiments, specifically ketchup and mustard, specifically specifically how to make them.

Now, the funny thing about this is that I've never actually liked ketchup or mustard† (or any condiment, really, save for maybe aioli, and I'm not sure that's even really a condiment in the same sense as ketchup or mustard, though it is mayonnaise, which is a condiment, which I also dislike, so I JUST DON'T KNOW).  BUT, I do like a challenge, and the concept of making ketchup and mustard seemed so quaint and useless that I obviously had to try it.

MUSTARD
I've recently come to accept mustard as an ingredient in things (what with mustard seeds/oil comprising its own food group in the Bengali food pyramid), though I'm still suspicious of mustard on sandwiches and hotdogs, but given how I don't really eat sandwiches or hotdogs, I don't worry too much about it.  We used to have tiny jars of Grey Poupon in the fridge for use as an emulsifier in salad dressings, but one day we ran out and decided, "Well, we have pounds of mustard seeds – why not just make mustard?".§

Now, if you have ever had that talk with your parents about Where Mustard Comes From, you'll know that making standard yellow mustard (akin to the kind that my parents seem to keep in the fridge for years) is very simple: take mustard powder, mix water, maybe add some vinegar if you're feeling sassy.  Voila!—Mustard.  However, I decided to make wholegrain mustard, because I am hardcore and like spending three days to make food I may never actually eat.

This is what the mustard looks like.

Yay for hoarding jars!

As for taste, I actually have no idea.  We haven't needed any since we made it (during the Time Without Mustard, we moved away from emulsifying salad dressings, and haven't yet gone back).  But it looks like mustard and smells like mustard, which means we are at least two for three here.  (Still, I'm a little scared of it.  I've taken a sniff, and it sort of burns my nose; I'm a tiny bit concerned about what it will do to my esophagus.)

KETCHUP
Though I had my ketchup consumption limited when I was young, my mother did not do the same with my younger brother, who took to ketchup with a will that I have not seen equaled.  He put it on everything; he probably would have put in on salad, had we ever eaten any, or pancakes, if that wasn't disgusting even for him.  I'm sure that part of my aversion to ketchup stems from his overenthusiasm.  I have terrifying memories of washing off plates simply covered in ketchup, like some horrible crime scene where the french fries or mac and cheese suffered a gruesome fate at the hands of a deranged psychopath.

So you can see why I was so excited to make some.

I've occasionally tried ketchup since then, often by accident and usually when I'm sharing a plate of fries and my half gets infiltrated by the Red Menace.  I still can't see the appeal of ketchup – it's overly sweet and, for something made of so many tomatoes (and classified as a vegetable for the purposes of school lunch pyramids), it tastes nothing like tomatoes.   And I like tomatoes.

While back in New York this summer, I started watching re-runs of Jamie at Home, a cooking show about the exploits of Jamie Oliver and a loveable hobo^ as they garden their way into good food.  (Or something.)  It is probably the food-porniest food porn I've ever seen, all about soft-focus shots of Jamie cooking at his wood-fired grill, or close-ups of fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden, or (clearly re-dubbed) sounds of food sizzling in hot oil, or slowly-panning money shots of glorious-looking food on adorable rustic plates.  None of the food is too fancy; the focus is more on using great ingredients simply so that the natural flavors shine through.  Turns out that Joliver (as we call him) had a ketchup recipe, one with lots of tomatoes and not much sugar and some interesting ingredients.  I used the recipe from the cookbook companion to the show, and while the tomatoes were simmering, The Husband and I sat down to watch the episode in question ("Pickles and Preserves").

Of course, the recipe in the book is not the same as the one on TV.  Well, the ingredients are the same, but the methods differ; the recipe I give below is a combination of the two, using what I think makes most sense.  Either way, the ketchup was a success; we made some grilled potato chips for our first tasting, and I really enjoyed how the tomato taste shone through, and was complimented by the acidity and sweetness of the vinegar and sugar.

Strange-looking honey.

HA!  Take that, Heinz.  Ketchup does not need high fructose corn syrup, thankyouverymuch.  It also doesn't need to be a non-Newtonian fluid.¥

RECIPES

MUSTARD (from here, which you should totally buy because it is awesome and will teach you how to forage for limpets)

Ok, to make wholegrain mustard, take 6 T. brown mustard seeds, mix in 2/3 c. white wine vinegar, and let it sit out for 3 or 4 days (the longer it sits, the hotter it gets).  After it's done soaking, use a mortar and pestle to coarsely grind the mustard seeds and vinegar (just enough to crack the seeds – you aren't making a paste).  Grind 1/4 c. yellow mustard seeds in a spice grinder (or use mustard powder if you're lazy, not that I'd judge you or anything...) and mix this into the mustard/vinegar blend, adding another 1/4 c. white wine vinegar, 2 T. honey, and 2 tsp. salt.  Pour into a small jar, and store in a cool, dry place.

KETCHUP (adapted from here, to compensate for Jamie Oliver's inability to remember his own recipe)

1 large red onion, chopped (everything can be roughly chopped, since it'll all go into a food processor later)
1/2 fennel bulb, chopped
1 stick celery, trimmed and chopped
thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and chopped
1/2 red chile, de-seeded and chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
bunch basil, chopped
1 T. coriander seeds
2 cloves
1 tsp. black pepper
2 lbs. roma tomatoes, chopped
3/4 c. + 2 T. red wine vinegar
1/3 c. brown sugar

In mortar and pestle, grind up the coriander, cloves, and black pepper.  Add this, along with all the onion, fennel, celery, ginger, chile, and garlic, to a large saucepan and saute 10-15 minutes, until soft.  Add the tomatoes and 1 1/2 c. water; bring to a boil, then simmer until tomatoes break down and the liquid has been reduced by half.  Add basil leaves, mix, then remove from heat, pour into food processor/blender, and whiz until well-blended and pureed.  Put the sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean saucepan, then add the sugar and vinegar (NOTE: I didn't think this was enough vinegar, so I added some cider vinegar as well, to taste), bring back to boil, and simmer until it reaches the consistency of ketchup.  Add salt and pepper to taste, then spoon into sterilized jars.  Close tightly and keep in a cool, dark place – it should keep for up to six months.


*Bet you never heard THAT witticism, or any variation of same, before.
†This is a lie.  I used to eat ketchup constantly when I was a wee little one.  But one day, my great-aunt told my mother that, if I was allowed to wantonly eat ketchup on everything, I wouldn't eat food that didn't have ketchup in it.  So I was cut off from ketchup, and by the time I was allowed to eat it again, I wanted no part of it.  This general sass continues to this day.
§Because this is how normal people think.  Right?  Please say yes.
^This is another lie.  He's not really a hobo.  I think.
¥Science!

THE STONE OF SCONE OF DESTINY (MOUSE EDITION).

So, as promised: scones.*

Scones are dead simple and tasty quick breads that, like most things I love, come from Scotland (see also: Robert Burns, bagpipes, Loch Ness monsters, men in kilts, scotch, etc.). Scones are also a key component of cream (or Devonshire) teas, where they are served with jam or clotted cream and oh my goodness PEOPLE IT’S REALLY TASTY.

They are such a quick bread, in fact, that an old Scottish saying suggests you can start a batch when you see unexpected guests at your gate and they will be done by the time said guests make it to your door. I will be honest: I’ve never produced scones that quickly (unless we’re talking about a very long sidewalk or very arthritic guests), but you can certainly get one of the simpler recipes from start to mouth in about 20 minutes. This is especially nice when it’s 10:30pm and you really want a cookie, but you aren’t patient enough to wait for your Husband to go make you some, so you just whip up a bannock of scones and all is right with the world.

All right, so this is a scone (a figgy chocolate balsamic scone, to be precise).

yummers. (photo courtesy of The Husband)

And this is the Stone of Scone.

yummers?

The Stone of Scone, also known as the Stone of Destiny, is a slab of red sandstone upon which the ancient kings of Scotland were crowned. Or at least they were until 1296, when Edward I (henceforth known as Edward the pommy bastard) invaded Scotland, took the Scone…err, Stone, and scarpered back to England where he immediately had the Stone installed as the seat in a fancy new coronation chair just so he could wave his arse (a bit more literally) in the general direction of the Scottish people. Since then, all English (and, after the Act of Union in 1707, all British) monarchs have been enthroned on the Stone. As part of a goodwill gesture, Elizabeth II had the Stone returned to Scotland in 1996; it now resides in Edinburgh Castle, though it must be returned to London for all future coronations.

Now, you may be wondering just what was the point of this little history lesson? Well, the Stone of Scone and proper scones are similar in some respects (in that they both come from Scotland and have been co-opted by the English and have the word “scone” in there somewhere), and I wanted to prevent any confusion right from the start. Besides, if you ever try to crown a monarch on a regular scone, you’ll just end up with a case of the royal crumb bum, and no one wants that (also, trying to eat the Stone of Scone will probably result in broken teeth and/or a night in a Scottish gaol).

All right, but what do mice have to do with scones?

OK, have you ever read any of the Redwall series, by Brian Jacques? If you haven’t, you should. Wait – actually, you should first pretend to be 11-year-old me (or, let’s be honest, 27-year-old me) and THEN read them, because I make no pretensions about any of these books qualifying as great literature, but they are well-written and a rollicking good time and there is NOTHING wrong with a grown woman strolling into the children’s section of the library and borrowing five or six of the books (so don’t judge me).

If I were to take off my Lackadaisical Blog hat and put on my Serious Literature hat, I could argue that these books offer a fascinating insight into a world of moral absolutes and rigid social structure, which can also be read as a trenchant commentary on the traditional British class system, but really: they’re books about mice that fight against rats. After the first few, the plot ceases to be exciting (SPOILER ALERT: good always wins), but the plots aren’t the point – it’s the way the stories are told that makes these books. Jacques is a master craftsman when it comes to building up a setting and characters, and even if it’s the same story over and over, it never ceases to be fun.

Of course, anyone who’s read the books knows that the feasts are legendary. Pages will be dedicated to describing all the varieties of food (who knew that woodland creatures were such good cooks?), and that is where I first discovered the mysterious wonder called scones. I actually purchased The Redwall Cookbook (STOP JUDGING ME) solely for the scone recipe, but was pleasantly surprised by the other recipes as well, for things like trifles and crisps and fools and tea breads and cakes and puddings and cobblers and shortbread and assortlekajoeia;fjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj…

Sorry. I drooled into my keyboard a bit there.

Anyway, just read the books because they are awesome. And if you happen to be nibbling on a fresh-baked scone and drinking some hot tea while you’re reading – well, I can think of few better ways of spending your time.

RECIPES
I have two recipes I tend to use: one for sweet cream scones (to be eaten plain), and the Redwall recipe, which is best with some jam or cream. The cream scone recipe can be found here; I usually mix it up by adding chocolate chips, any number of dried fruits, lemon zest, etc. The Redwall version is as follows:

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
heaped 1/4 tsps. of ground cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg
1/2 tsp. salt
2 tbsp. unsalted butter, chilled and cubed
2 tbsp. sugar
2/3 c. milk

Basically, you follow the same procedure as the cream scones (mixing dry ingredients, rubbing in butter, etc.), only preheat the oven to 450ºF and bake until brown (12-14 minutes).†

*To sound like a true Scot, this should be pronounced “skons.”
†You can also make scones on a griddle, called a “girdle” in Scots. It’s really quite appropriate: given how much butter/cream/DELICIOUS FAT is in scones, you’ll need a girdle after a while.

THE OL' PESTO CHANGE-O.

Pesto and I have a long and semi-complicated relationship.  I first attempted to make pesto during my senior year of college.  I had given up meat for Lent (a harbinger of things to come?) and a friend and I decided to have a meatless dinner.  I offered to make pesto, and, long story short, it turns out that fresh basil and dried basil aren't the same thing and you can't just straight substitute one for the other in a pesto recipe.  I can't remember what happened to dinner that night; I think my lovely friend gamely tried to eat some, whereas I took one bite, almost threw up, and maybe ordered pizza.

Fast forward some odd number of years, after I had moved to DC and inherited the food processor that my mother took when she left her job (or got as a wedding present – the story varies).  Enough time had passed since the dreaded Pesto Tragedy of 2004 that I felt confident in giving it another go.  Long story short (too late), fresh basil is tasty and my love affair with pesto was born.

Even though my love for pesto has waned a bit over the years, we are still on good terms.  In fact, there is almost always pesto in the freezer, as it is my and The Husband's* go-to dinner option when we are feeling lazy and uninspired and can't be arsed to cook but still want to act like grownups and have something more than cereal for dinner.  However, we sometimes resort to pesto pasta more often that we'd maybe like to admit, which leads to feelings of resentment, which leads to me feeling pretty apathetic towards making pesto, AGAIN, even though I bought the basil and we clearly won't use it in anything else.

That's the problem with pesto and I; pesto often becomes an afterthought.  It's what I make when I have leftover basil (and there is ALWAYS leftover basil).  I never seem to make it because I want to; I make it because basil starts to go bad the second you get it home and I'm tired of wasting food, so I begrudgingly whip some up and then throw it in the freezer and forget about it.

However, tonight I actually wanted to make pesto, if only to replace the unpleasantness that was the lemon basil pesto from a month or two ago (lemon basil has its place, but it's not in pesto).  One of the stalls at the farmers' market yesterday had basil and arugula; it was bag-your-own, so if you could cram it into a bag, it was yours for $3.  After much furtive glancing around the market to ensure that no one was watching as I stuffed already overflowing bags with more and more leaves, I sauntered off with a tidy sum of greens and a hankerin' for some pesto.

I ended up with two types: your standard basil and pine nut (extra garlic, natch) and an experimental version of arugula pesto, this time using toasted pepitas, a bit of spinach (to cut the spiciness of the arugula) and basil oil.  I had some of the arugula pesto on whole wheat fettuccine (with chopped tomatoes and Parmesan) for dinner, and I was terribly pleased with myself.  The rest has been dolloped out into an ice cube tray and popped into the freezer; once it hardens, the individual cubes of pesto are transferred to freezer bags, and voila!  We have single-serving portions for the future.  MAGIC.

(I had taken some photos of the pesto to illustrate the fascinating color differential between the basil and arugula versions, but the basil pesto looked thoroughly unappetizing; I tried to adjust the color, but fixing the basil meant that the arugula looked radioactive.  So, instead, I offer you this photo of our cat, Pannekuchen.  He is lounging on our copy of "How to Cook Everything Vegetarian," so this photo is relevant to my post and I'm only partially cheating.)

Let's be honest: he is a cat, and this is the internet.  This will always be relevant.

Next up, a long and rambling story about mouse books and the resulting obsession with scones.

*In Wyomingese: The Husband and I's.

WHEREIN I CHEEZ MY DAIRY (ALSO, SHARDS OF GLASS)

You know how, when you're doing research, you're supposed to use primary sources more than secondary sources, because that way you get to formulate your own conclusions and sound brilliant instead of citing lots of footnotes and having your thesis advisor repeatedly ask you why you're not doing close readings of the poems?*

Well, lately I've been enchanted with the idea of doing the same thing with my food and trying to make various simple things from scratch.  This is mostly for the sheer novelty of it all, but I've also been on this self-sufficient/survivalist bent where I'm trying to prepare myself for the downfall of civilization and build up a skill set so I can barter my way into one of the better post-apocalyptic societies.  Of course, there are flaws in this plan, since I can't keep cows in downtown PHX and there's a world of difference between a butter churn and a Kitchenaid mixer; as such, my plans rely heavily on (A) my local dairy also surviving the apocalypse and (B) there being a reliable source of electricity in our dystopian futureworld.

But I digress.

So far, my excursions into the wonderful world of dairy-making include butter (pour cream into mixer, turn on, forget about until it starts sloshing) and ice cream (pour batter into mixer attachment, turn on, forget about until it starts clicking).  Both have been successful, but since our dairy CSA gives us copious amounts of butter and ice cream every week, I needed a new challenge.

Enter creme fraiche.

For the uninitiated, creme fraiche is a lot like sour cream, only a bit thicker and with a more restrained tang.  It can be used just like sour cream, and is also found in pasta sauces and in some baked goods.  More importantly, it is right expensive, so it's not something I can just toss into my basket while I'm roaming around the local Fresh and Easy trying to figure out what the cut-off number is between "acceptable" and "besotted lush" in regards to buying cheap wine.

ANYWAYS, I picked up a pint of cream and a pint of buttermilk and decided to try to make some magic.  Essentially, all creme fraiche is is cream plus buttermilk, left to sit at room temperature until the bacteria get feisty and it thickens up.  I am normally of the opinion that dairy left out over night = horrible stomach ache, but I had eaten some sourdough starter (not recommended) and didn't die, so I figured I'd give it a shot.  I mixed one cup cream with half a tablespoon of buttermilk, gave it a stir, and set it on the counter.  In theory, I would wake up to creme fraiche, which would then lead to figgy chocolate scones, which would lead to joy.

In actuality, I woke up to cream that had resisted all efforts to change, save for the addition of a slightly sour smell.  "Perhaps it hasn't sat long enough," I thought.  "Maybe it wasn't warm enough to kickstart the bacteria."  (This is FALSE, given how it is summer in the desert and it is never not warm enough for anything, except maybe for nuclear fusion.)  So I left it out all day.

When night fell, I gave the bowl a stir, and I discovered that while a thick skin had formed on the top, the rest was still just plain cream that smelled a little funny.  I had cheezed the creme fraiche.

this lolcat will never stop being funny

So, there were no scones in guhlersville, for mighty Heather had struck out; or, more accurately, she hadn't paid close enough attention to the recipe to realize she needed cultured buttermilk, not just the leftovers from making butter.  Fortunately, I also have recipes for scones made with cream and buttermilk, of which we are in great supply.  Tomorrow I will drown my sorrows for my lost creme fraiche in sweet sconey goodness, and will start on plans to make cheese (which I will hopefully not cheez).

ALSO!  I started my glass fusion class tonight.  Here is what I have learned so far:

1.  Glasswork is an expensive hobby.
2.  Over the next 10 weeks, I will cut myself.  Probably frequently.
3.  Apart from me, no one under the age of 50 takes art classes.
4.  The softening point for glass is 1100º F.

Next week we will actually start playing with glass, so I'll let you know how that goes (assuming I don't slice off a finger/limb in the process).


*FYI, the appropriate response is "Because I don't actually like poetry, and I especially don't like overanalyzing word choice in poetry, and besides Robert Burns is pretty straightforward about how much he loves the ladies and Scotland and more ladies and the simplicity of farm life and OH DID I MENTION THE LADIES and the point of my thesis is to examine the various ways his entire body of work can and has been co-opted, so if I were to focus on every line of every poem, I would never graduate."

THE PROBLEM WITH BLOGGING: I SOMETIMES FORGET TO BLOG (PLUS A RATHER LONG STORY IN WHICH I ANTHROPOMORPHIZE CORN)

Here's the interesting thing about blogging: you need to remember to actually write things, otherwise you're less a blogger and more a lazy person who happens to have a blog.  And laziness will not net me a book deal, nor will it bring me fame and wealth and UNSPEAKABLE POWER.  So, I need to get kraken.  I mean, cracking.

cracker?

All right, so I don't have any recipes per se, because I am not-so-good with remembering those sorts of details when I'm in the midst of cooking.   I also don't have any photos, because (a) I am too impatient to dig out my camera and waste precious moments between the food being ready and the food being in my stomach, and (b) my camera (or our lighting) gives everything a yellowish tint, and I don't want you thinking that all of our food is afflicted with jaundice.  (Given these qualifications, I am clearly well on my way to food blogging success.)

BUT, I do have a story.  A story of meat, and corn, and one woman's attempt to learn from the mistakes of others and make a damn fine meal for herself.

The Husband had decided to skitter off and feign interest in professional sports, so I was left to my own devices for dinner.  Since I would be dining alone (so, so alone), it seemed like as good a time as any to tackle the pork ribs that had been sitting in the freezer.  (NOTE: Yes, I am usually a vegetarian.  It was one of the three or four times a year when my bloodlust rises up and can only be satiated by hunks of sweet, tender flesh.  Stop judging me.)  I had also just received a shipment of mole powder, so the choice was obvious: braised pork mole.  In addition to the spices and chiles, I decided to add some Roman beans (because we have too many beans - seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS) and – this is where it gets interesting – some posole.

My friend Soups has written about her adventures with posole, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.  I bought pre-treated corn (it said CORN FOR POSOLE right on the bag), I soaked it overnight, and I planned on an extended cooking time.  After making up a sauce with garlic, onions, roasted chiles, Mano y Metate's Pipian Rojo mole powder, tomatoes, tomatillos, and vegetable broth, I quickly seared the ribs, threw everything (pre-soaked beans and posole included) into a pot, and boshed it into the oven at 300 degrees.  After four hours, I removed the pork to a cutting board to cool, then moved the entire operation to the stove, where it simmered for an hour.  I de-boned and cut the pork (more like pulled apart the pork, since it was so tender and fall-off-the-bone and buttery and it all sort of made me question this whole vegetarian thing).  I popped the pork chunks back into the mix, salted and peppered, and let the whole shebang cook for another hour.

Now, at this point, it was 7pm.   I was starving.  I took a taste.

The pork was still fantastic.
The beans retained a bit of their meaty texture, but still melted in your mouth.
The mole sauce had just the right amount of bite and sweetness, with some smokiness from the roasted chiles.
The posole...?

The posole was crunchy.

SIX HOURS.  That's how long it had been cooking.  Six hours of roasting and simmering and filling the apartment with delicious aromas, and still the posole taunted me.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have left the posole to simmer all night if I had to, all the while muttering dire threats and suggesting that, if the food didn't cooperate, I could not be held responsible for what might happen.  But I had bar trivia obligations in two hours, still hadn't showered, and needed to eat something, as English pubs are not known for their vegetarian-friendly fare. 

So, I gave in.  I ate the crunchy posole.

Overall, it wasn't terrible.  Apart from the chewy bits, the whole thing was quite tasty; I originally ate it over rice, but it was even better the next day with a hunk of crusty sourdough bread.

The score so far: posole 1, Heather 0.  But I still have a lot of posole left, as well as three other mole powders and a hill of beans.  And a pressure cooker. 

There will come a time when our paths will cross, posole, and I assure you: I do not intend on being defeated again.

DEAR GOD, I'VE DONE IT.

After much hemming and hawing and sitting on this URL for months, I've finally decided to start typing things here.  I have grand designs that this little blaggity blog will become a repository of great things, mostly of the "incredibly witty observation" or "trenchant insight" variety; however, I am also easily distracted by shiny objects (seriously, I'm like a magpie here...ooh, magpies have pretty iridescent feathers...wait, what?), so we shall see how long this little social experiment lasts.  Hopefully this will be a place where I'll talk about tasty foods, thrilling crafts, things I find interesting, and other navel-gazing observations from the scorching desert.

If nothing else, I'll try to at least post photos of our adorable cat - lord knows the interwebs are lacking in cute cat pictures.