On Wednesday, Pete and I barged into Motor Vehicle Services with stacks of documents and bad attitudes. We paid $5 each for learners permits, but Pete hadn’t cracked the motorcycle manual by then, so this morning, we got up at the crack of 7 and found ourselves standing in the MVS parking lot at 7:50 with about fifty of our closest friends who also thought the place opened at 7:30. The woman minding line 11 didn’t smile, didn’t explain much, but pointed me at station 5. Last time I took a license test we did it on paper. Now, you press a touch pad button, sometimes five or so times before it registers, and the monitor tells you whether or not you’re an idiot. The questions can actually seem blindingly stupid, like What sobers up a drunk? and for the most part the test plays it straight. I’d be hard pressed to write an answer sheet that didn’t include such options as Your teenage daughter holding a pregnancy test or Six months in county, but the test rewards you for knowing that coffee doesn’t cut through a bender. CORRECT! it says. When I got one wrong, I sensed its disappointment. I went on, but things had changed between us. We were both older and wiser. Out of 30 questions, I missed two and marched straight back to line 11, where the woman administered an eye test to me, then Pete. Finally she smiled and pointed at Pete, “You did better than he did, don’t let him fool you!” He’d already told me, so we were jake, but for the first time in an MVS branch I was laughing.

Tata: I can’t wait to be a little old lady rocking a Vespa.
Woman: A Vespa!
Tata: I really really want that!

A few hours later, I went to the massage therapist for agony and conversation about compound butter, then Pete and I walked around the farmers market, where I found a case of soft peaches parked on the side of one vendor’s table like an afterthought. It’s my goal to get something into jars every week, I saw that case of bruised peaches as a whole winter’s worth of our favorite barbecue sauce. Pete groaned as I dropped that case into our little red wagon, but we also picked up some nice raspberries and golden plums. For the next five hours, Pete and I made and jarred peach barbecue sauce and plum chutney. This could sound frivolous, but it isn’t: in December, January, February and March, the difference for us between winter misery and happiness is often opening a jar of June, July and August.

This morning’s test seems like weeks ago. My hands feel too far away to type. Pete’s speaking in tongues – either that or he wants to get up early tomorrow and make bread dough. I may sleep thought that.

I hope I sleep through that.

Our housemate is packing his dishes and making a racket. The pussycats are having a kitty kerfuffle. PBS is showing Julia Child episodes during a pledge so I’ve watched Julia pantomime making bouillabaisse and trussing a rotisserie chicken in a most provocative manner. These are famous recipes I’ve seen before. When she whacked the heads off giant fishes I made the THWOK! THWOK! sound effects because how could I not? You have to. It’s practically a rule.

Daria’s neighbor’s kid came home from school the other day, looking dejected. The kid said to his mom, “You’re gonna get a call from school.” Mom called the school, then called Daria. I heard this the next day:

Daria: The teacher was all upset. Get this: on the playground the kid called his friend crazy, like, “Hey crazy!” If my kid’s teacher called me because my kid called his friend crazy, I’d say, “What are you, crazy?” I’ve got real problems!
Tata: That’s ridiculous.
Daria: I tell my kids that when someone calls them a name and they’re not that, walk away. “Are you crazy? No? Walk away.”
Tata: Ooh, teach them the Charles DeMar method! Remember in Better Off Dead when the lunkhead calls Charles a name and for the rest of the movie Charles can only point at the lunkhead and laugh?
Daria: A permanent state of Point & Laugh. I like it!
Tata: And you only look crazy.

My niece Lois graduated from high school yesterday. Our housemate just stuck his head out in the living room. “I’ve got a marble cheese plate and knife. Wedding present. Never used. You want it?” I said, “We’ll give it to my niece and maybe she can avoid getting a practice husband.” This morning, I went to the massage therapist because intense pain teaches you patience with boredom, and while I usually laugh when things hurt, time flies when I stress test new comic material. I explained that Pete and I drive to the health food store in Princeton for really good milk, which was funny enough, but then I had to explain why.

Tata: Milk used to in highly dangerous glass bottles, like if you didn’t smash the bottle you deserved the dairy goodness.
Dude: Yeah, they used to deliver it, right?
Tata: Exactly, and this milk is organic, from grass-fed cows and this is going to sound weird but the fat floats to the top and plugs the bottle shut. This is an awesome thing.
Dude: That’s like straight from the cow!
Tata: I see you’ve gone to a county fair or two. Good for you! This stuff makes really good yogurt. I make yogurt every week, and the fat content makes it delectable.
Dude: You make yogurt? How do you do that?
Tata; It’s breathtakingly easy, and once you make your own, that crap you get in the grocery store is like 8 ounces of chemically treated bovine betrayal.
Dude: Can you email that recipe?
Tata: Sure do.

When we were commune kids, we had a book I’ve been unable to find online, possibly because the name of it escapes me. It was about being a commune kid, and it made a lot of sense to me. Everyone played a part. Everyone’s effort made life better together. The moral of the story: “Work makes the food taste good.” In 2010, this is the story of nourishing, healthy food: your own effort make it taste better.

To make yogurt, you will need:

Ingredients

Cow or Goat Milk. A half-gallon per week per 2 people.

Light Cream or Half & Half. 1 pint per half gallon of milk.

Dry Milk Solids. Half a large envelope per half gallon of milk.

Plain Yogurt with live and active cultures. The grocery store serving cup should say that or you should not bother eating it. Don’t make me mock you!

Gear

One bigass soup pot

One kitchen thermometer

One wooden spoon

One plastic whisk

One kitchen towel

One ladle

One spoon

Containers

Whaddya wanna eat out of? I like squat 8 oz. Ball Jars. For a half gallon of milk, you will need about 12 8-oz. serving containers and one approximate pint container for the yogurt you need for dollops here and there, and to start your next batch in a week. Thing is: you may already have containers with tight-fitting lids from Chinese takeout or you may want one big container. Do what you like or I’ll have to mock you.

Warming

Don’t panic! You do not need a yogurt maker or a crazy expensive gadget. You’re going to need to keep your developing yogurt – which, like a debutante, is deeply insecure only when someone’s watching – warm for 10 hours. After 10 hours, nothing terrible will happen if you’re busy or forgetful, but the yogurt will taste a little more sour with additional warming time. Anyhoo, if your kitchen is warm, you’re fine; if you have an oven with a pilot light, heat it to 100 degrees, turn it off and shut the door. If you have a warm spot near the TV, you’re golden. A heating pad on the lowest setting will be awesome. You get the picture: consistent warm temp for 10 hours. People have been making yogurt on purpose and by accident for thousands of years. You can freaking do it.

Process

Combine milk and light cream/half & half in large pot, stirring occasionally. If your thermometer can be placed in the pot, do so. When the milk is warm, add the milk solids, which should dissolve easily. Stir constantly as milk exceeds 150 degrees.

When the milk reaches 180 degrees, remove from heat. I like to transfer it to a large plastic bowl so the temperature drops quickly but you don’t have to do that. Stir constantly until the temperature drops to between 115-118 degrees. Add contents of your yogurt cup. Whisk until smooth.

Ladle milk/yogurt mixture into your containers. Keep warm and leave undisturbed for 10 hours, then refrigerate.

Save 8 oz. of yogurt to make your next batch.

I think Lois will be pleased with the three-section grill pan, but not especially surprised.

Tonight, Pete taught my niece Lois to make pasta from scratch, which they documented in pictures for Lois’s senior project. The pasta, prepared two different ways, was really delicious. A thinner dough went through the hand-cranked pasta machine and became spaghetti, which Pete simmered gently in a simple marinara made with fire-roasted tomatoes; a thicker dough was rolled out by hand with a wooden rolling pin into papardelle, which Pete tossed with leftover chicken, broccoli and a garlic-infused olive oil. Lois will do well with her presentation. Pete spent hours with her. We all talked about everything, and Pete is Our Hero. Hooray! Siobhan and I talked today:

Tata: My mother appeared at the kitchen door last night as we were making tortillas. She took home the plants I was plant-sitting and gave us an eggplant and a zucchini. While we were out there, I re-mounded the potatoes and eventually Mom left. Steve said, “I should go in. I’ve had a cast iron pan on the whole time.” I COULD HAVE KILLED HIM.

Siobhan: Wow. At least it wasn’t just the gas that he’d left on? Or, um…Teflon that was releasing toxins in to the air?

Tata: Anyway, later I called the renter’s insurance people and asked to double my policy, which surprisingly will only cost $4 more for the year.

When Martin Yan famously declares that if he can cook you can, too, he is adorably full of shit. Now, when I tell you something is so easy you can do it, you should laugh, “Oh look, doofus has spoken.”

Okay okay okay the bag of masa for tamales says MASA PARA TAMALES on it, and you should buy and use that one only. It has directions on the side, which is good even for people like me who can’t follow recipes to save their lives. The directions call for lard. I infused olive oil with annatto seeds. The directions call for salt as the only seasoning. I added ground cumin, fennel seed, chili powder. The directions call for water or stock. I used fancypants organic chicken broth. I had that. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It tastes good.

Once you mix up the masa, you have to let it sit for a few minutes. You will be tempted to skip this step because HEY! DELICIOUS TAMALES! but don’t. File your nails. Call Dial-A-Horoscope. Lament not going to the prom. Or you could take out your frozen banana leaves and cut approximately 8″ x 8″ square pieces and an equal number of thin strips. Plop about 1/3-1/2 cup of masa on the top sheet. Pretty, eh? Already, you feel like aces.

Tamales are super great for using up small amounts of leftovers. I diced two chicken thighs, added a bit of leftover gravy and tossed in some chili powder, herbs and pepper. In the back of the fridge, I found two pepper hulls left in an aging jar and because I put vegetables in everything, I sliced ’em up all cute. The colors are really something, aren’t they?

On top of your colorful concoction, plop another bit of masa. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Now, imagine the banana leaf is aluminum foil with a spine along one edge. You’re going to fold the banana leaf the same way you would any food pouch-thingy. Take the spine in one hand, match it with the opposite edge and fold down to the surface of the masa. Then take the loose, rolled ends and fold them under.

You can either place the package into a steamer as-is or tie the whole thing securely with a thin strip of banana leaf. I’ve made them with and without the ties and it’s fine either way. These little bundles smell good and feel heavy in the hand. In the proportions I make them one, maybe two, will be sufficient for dinner. Knowing that, when you see eight or nine in a steamer basket, you feel good.

Steam for an hour. Yes, an hour. Argue with your mother. Wash your car. Call your insurance company about that last bill. Or you can set the table, make a salad, clean up your kitchen and make it all look easy. After an hour, put the tamales on a plate and serve them. Because we are brave and love delicious everything, you can serve it with plain yogurt or salsa or hoisin sauce or sliced mangoes or guacamole or crumbled queso fresco or cole slaw or ANYTHING YOU LOVE. I regret all the years I didn’t know I could make tamales for myself. You must try it. The hardest part was finding the right masa mix, but after I found it, the rest was easy and really inexpensive. If I can do it, you can, too!

A bazillion years ago in blog years, our delightful friend Georg convinced me to make my own ricotta and on this very blog, I documented my cheesy experiments. I didn’t really think it would work because Georg can do anything and I can’t add and subtract, but I followed her instructions and – BLAMMO! cheese! I did have to think about the cost effectiveness of the process, though: one gallon of milk produces 4 cups of cheese, and milk, while wholesome, is fucking expensive.

Then again, sometimes you’re minding your own business in the health food store, find quart bottles of goat milk and you think, By gum, I could eat a good pizza. Sometimes a small amount of cheese goes a long way, and standing there in the health food store, I decided I wanted to help it.

Georg’s recipe must have been in the comments that disappeared ages ago because I couldn’t find it. I resorted to searching for recipes on one of Dad’s favorite websites and found one that was both enthusiastic and fully crazy. I thought, Yeah, bring it. First, I did not have a gallon of goat milk, so that meant I was going to do some math. This is not promising.

The recipe called for 1/3 cup + 1 teaspoon of white vinegar. I could divide the teaspoon by four with the help of my handy measuring spoons, but I couldn’t remember how many tablespoons went into 1/3 cup, which someone made me memorize in eighth grade. So I got out those measuring spoons, measured how many tablespoons of liquid filled my 1/3 measuring cup and did what I was bound to do from the beginning: I guessed. I heated the goat milk, poured in the vinegar, sprinkled in a tiny amount of salt and let that bitch sit for two hours while I did several things that are none of your beeswax. After two meow-meow hours, I spooned and then poured curds into wet coffee filters sitting in a strainer and let that bitch sit for another two hours before I squeezed out any remaining clear liquid and put the curds to bed in the fridge for the night. The one thing that must be said about this process is that, other than the math for me, this could not be easier for you to do.

The yield is about one earthy, grassy cup. Pete and I tasted tiny bits of it and were surprised by the subtlety and complexity of flavor. This is not a lot of food unless you’re putting it on a pizza for two middle-aged people to eat after their second jobs, where a cup of goat milk ricotta is just right with one thinly sliced turkey meatball, spinach, a tiny bit of fresh marinara and a few shrimp on a thin, admittedly store-bought crust. Not to be frou-frou about this, but precise: fresh ricotta is easy to make, offers the assurance that little if any unwanted chemical crap is in your food, and tastes like real food.

I feel a batch of ravioli coming on…

Saturday morning, I reached into the dryer and broke a thumbnail below the nail line, which while short of being tragic was long on opportunities to see stars. One good whack and I had my own personal Fourth of July. Peeling off nail polish caused me to sing soprano for the first time in two decades. Washing the dishes stung like a very stingy thing, and this went on until – cross your fingers – this morning, when I shut my thumb into a desk drawer and went all blinky for a different reason. Yes, it’s the little things that make life worth living.

My mind has been elsewhere lately. It’s plain to me that the health insurance debacle will stretch on and on, wounding the vulnerable among us. Our situation will not improve; we will simply change the subject and insist we did, too. Those who should have raised their voices loudest were bought off and kept quiet. If Alan Grayson’s simple, sensible proposal passes, I will eat my houndstooth fedora. Today, I sent back another donation request from the Democratic Party with another blistering You’ve got a lot of nerve asking for money message no one will receive. I need to change the subject, too, or Poor Impulse Control is going to become a smoking hole in the ground on the internets. Or a knitting blog, bless my heart! This weekend, we’re going to set up our seeds, clean up the garden beds and give the composter a once-over. It’s head out of the muck and hands into the dirt for me.

And gloves. And BandAids.