The magical fruit

Listening to financial guru and radio personality Dave Ramsey, one hears the same phrase over and over: “Rice and  beans, beans and rice.” His point: You don’t have to starve to save money. People have survived and thrived for thousands of years on beans and rice.Eat cheaply, and save.

For some of us, it’s an easy thing to say, but near impossible to do. Impossible, anyway, for this white girl with charred thumbs who went years scalding everything I touched. I grew up with my lily white English/Irish mom, who, as I recall, practically NEVER cooked dried beans for the family. She’s a whiz at rice, though– and learned to stove top cook it  in no time to appease my Basque, rice-loving father. (She also learned to make kidneys for the man and that right there is the very definition of LOVE.)

The first and only pot I ever melted– literally MELTED– was the Revereware pot in my 3 piece cooking set in college. In an attempt to make rice. Lily white rice, just like my lily white mom used to make. (SIDE NOTE: I still have those other two pieces of that cooking set.)

The next several times I tried to make rice, it was perfect… if you didn’t get down to the dark brown crunchy part stuck to the bottom.

And so I invested $19.95 on a rice steamer and haven’t looked back since. Perfect rice, every time.

But beans? *sigh*

I cannot tell you the number of rocklike, near-impenetrable  bean stews I’ve cooked (and cooked and cooked) for my unappreciative and  unforgiving  family. (Seriously, who here amongst us hasn’t broken a tooth? Get over it.)  I’d tried the quick-soak method; the slow-cook-for-two-days method; and eventually reverted to the sodium-filled, canned  method.

I’m not a slouch in the kitchen. I now have vibrant thumbs when it comes to cooking. I’ve learned to bake bread and cakes from scratch.  I’ve learned to make curries and stews and how to pickle vegetables. I have enough confidence in the kitchen to tackle just about any type of cooking, but I couldn’t– for the life of me or that of my children’s dental health– make a pot of beans from dried.

I couldn’t, that is, until I asked my friend Yvonne.

Yvonne grew up in a big Mexican family, and makes beans in her sleep.  Literally. She told me the not-so-secret secret to successful beanery, and I have been making every kind of crazy bean you can imagine ever since.

And I will share the not-so-secret secret with you. Because I’m nice like that.

You ready?

Wash them. Cover them with water. Soak them overnight (while you sleep).

That’s pretty much it. In the morning, put them in the crock pot and slow cook them with some chopped onion, maybe some bacon or a ham hock while you’re at work. By the time you get home, drain off some liquid, throw in some other delicious stuff, and voila! You’ve got beans.

And now you, too, can feed your family dinner for about $1.

Happy eating!

Cheese balls

Cheese balls. You’d think they were an easygoing sort of food.  They seem like the kind of snack you’d enjoy with friends over beer and fun stories on a pleasant Friday night. And that is in no way shameful.

What have I become, then, that I am holed up in my office, huddled under my desk devouring them by the fistful? Why do I hide the stained bottle of antibacterial gel I use to scrub the orange dye from my fingers? Curse you, cheese balls! You are evil and dragging me to ruin.

Bingo wings.

Granny flaps.

Wobblies.

Call the fatty deposits on the back of my arms what you will, just know they --along with my addiction to your fake cheddary deliciousness-- are destroying any sense of self I have left.

I used to be a fit person; I used to be the kind of disgusting woman who towed my 5-year-old to school in a bike trailer then went on to ride  said bike the remaining 7 miles to work. I used to make that round trip a few times a week, for the "fun" of it.

I used to participate in triathlons and 10K runs and even a 10-miler or half-marathon or two.

I used to… until they came along. Oh, you know what I’m talking about, cheese balls! Don’t sit there all casually neon, pretending to be sociable in your massive plastic-tub container. Just because there are a lot of you doesn’t make you the great deal the sign promised you to be.  A slim $4.99 per vat was a huge price to pay for my soul. And I’ll tell you something else:  Contrary to your vibrant exterior, you are NOT a happy food, cheese balls.

In fact, based on your contents? I question whether you actually ARE a food. Cornmeal; several different kinds of oils and including the partially hydrogenated soybean variety; all this before I even get to the maltodextrin.

Wait, what’s maltodextrin again?

My gawd, does it even matter? What have I done to myself that I think of you, cheese balls, I think of you day and night, longingly and occasionally, when looking at the flappies under my arms, disparagingly?  I think of you as you sit in your bucket under my desk, glowing and neglected, your fake cheddary goodness calling me like a some whorish temptress.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

…or how to keep you AND how to get rid of the bingo wings.