Best Food You've Never Tried: Elephant Foot

"Elephant Foot"

I am here to announce that there is nothing I have tasted that is quite as delicious as a steaming plate of elephant foot in black bean sauce. A generous plateful of it, in boneless slices with deep brown savory gravy, and you'll swear you'll never go back to chicken again.

It's delicate and tender. The grain of the foot carries the sauce well and absorbs flavor. There's not a tough bit or piece of gristle or nastly cartilage to be found in well prepared elephant's foot. And when you're finished, you feel really comfortably satisfied, not just because you ate well, but because not a single elephant fell for your meal. And that's good karma.

Elephant's foot is a plant that tickles my soul. I've had it in some Chinese food, in Maryland, but have not been able to find it since moving south, which is is a double bummer since it's yumbalina AND it is supahhh fun to say "I just had some elephant foot in black bean sauce" and stump those who don't know about it.

That said, we have a pretty diverse natural food store in our area.  I go in there and I meander down aisle by aisle for HOURS. While I can't get elephant's foot, there's a myriad of options for organic and veg and even humane certified meats.
Supplements and infusions aplenty. Those exotic juices and obscene looking vegetables might not be doing a blessed thing for you healthwise, but they're sure fun to try.

Who knew you could buy little balls of tea that, as you pour the steaming water over, they actually BLOOM into a beautiful flower right in your cup?!
The deli is always full of beautiful and exotic veg and non veg selections. The bulk foods are lovely and well stocked.
My only complaint is that consumption of healthy, sustainable foods should not have to make to refinance your house. I could practically buy a 20 crops of elephant's foot in Nigeria for what it costs to find a pound of it here.

And so - It's back to Walmart for me. Processed crap. Even the vegetarian food is pressed and battered to the point I cannot imagine it ever once belonged to the plant family.

 Prepare for political statement: Junk crap food is so readily available and cheap here in the US that *nowhere else in the world* will you find destitute, poor people who are clinically obsese. The truly poor of other nations are ravaged, and skinny.
I wonder if you offered a hungry person from a second or third world nation some yoghurt, how many would shy away, because they have a 'lactose thing'...
or a 'gluten thing'...
or a peanut allergy?

For we who eat so much meat, it would be a lovely experiment to try new foods such as the elephant's foot.

And who says you can't have a little fun freaking people out at first?

See why it's called Elephant's Foot?

   



This is Elephant's Foot. YUM!!



Golden Lettuce, Who Knew?

So I went to Bagels del Sol because I had a coupon, and thank goodness I did, because if I had spent $17.68 for what we ate, I would have expected them to point and laugh as we walked out the door.
"Hot Ham and Cheese Sandwich" ? for $6.99, Little Daughter received exactly: 1 hard bagel
1 slice o' cheese
1 slice o' ham
and bagel chips. I'll get to them in a minute. Seriously, this place was ridiculously stingy. What are we, in some eastern bloc country in 1981? And after waiting nearly 15 minutes for her sandwich, you'd think at read more » least the cheese would be hot and melty, right?
Ha, ha! Did I say it was $6.99 and under the "specialty" section? That's not pesos, that's American dollars.
I ordered the ...oh heck I don't know what's called, but it's got turkey (Ha ha!) lettuce, and cucumbers and cream cheese in a wrap.
They just didn't tell us it was a scavenger hunt for the meat. Because really? It was a freaking lettuce and cucumber wrap. Also for $6.99. OK, so it was the super crispy lettuce, I think they call it "Iceberg." What's that go for these days, anyhow? Cause I have to admit, there was, like, a *wedge* of Iceberg lettuce in my wrap. Complete mouthfuls of Iceberg. So I really shouldn't complain because I haven't checked the markets and for all I know, that Iceberg Lettuce could be like those gourmet truffle mushrooms from France. In that sense, $6.99 for a wedge of lettuce wrap is most likely a steal.
I probably shouldn't even be reviewing that because the secret will be out and people will line up around the corner for Wrap a la Iceberg.

IMAGE: Honestly? I googled "lettuce filled wrap" and this was the closest pic I could find to what I had. Why? Because nobody outside of Bagels del Sol makes such a mockery of their customers.

OK...
The chips.
People? I'm all about recycling. Use what you can. So it doesn't bother me at all that Lettuce del Sol slices their (day old?) bagels to make chips from them. But they can't just toss whatever they have into a bag of cajun spices willy-nilly and call it "good."
What I mean is - leftover cinnamon raisin bagels? They do not get the garlic/salt/papper treatment and slapped in the basket with a lettuce wrap. Cinnamon and garlic is bad, bad juju.

In fact, how about you keep the hot pepper spices for people who like hot pepper spices, instead of the *plate of a first grader*?? That's pretty much a NO BRAINER that a six year old won't want hot, firey garlicky, cinnamon chips with her one slice o' ham sandwich.

Now, I'm not saying that proper handwashing techniques weren't followed here.
But I AM saying that previously, we ate the same things we've been eating at our house with no issues. But when we came back from Bagels del Sol, within about two hours, some wicked stomach cramps set in.
Montezuma's revenge of the Lettuce Cups.
And then once it was out of out systems, we were fine. So, yeah, I guess I'm pointing a finger.
Or ten.

One Warning.

It only took one warning.
But what would have happened next, if the warning went unheeded?
If anyone knows, in fact, the true protocol, please let me know. What would the Old Guard have done?
Thanks.

Bieber Baby Bulletin

I don’t usually follow much pop star news (ok, I do, but just in the doctor’s waiting room) but the Bieber baby thing has an interesting twist.

The baby’s mother (for the love of Pete – when will the trashy term “baby mama” go away?) presents her case with the risk of charges for statutory rape of Bieber because he was under age when they supposedly had sex. (ARGHHH. The visual! Make it stop!)

  If he was a victim per the law, why would he have to pay child support?

  Is that like sentencing someone to house arrest for assault and making the victim pay the rent?

What do you think?

Happy Sandwich Day!

What's your favorite sammy?

This, by the way, is said to be the World's Most Expensive Sandwich.
$197.00
Ka-CHING!

I like the Monte Cristo.  And vegetarian sandwiches.

Tell me about yours!

Happy Day of the Dead!

If You're Reading This, Dump Him, Wanda.

With everyone having 764 “friends” online, will the word “friend” take on a new meaning in the dictionary? I mean, they’re not all really your friends, right? Or am I the only person with a couple hundred friends, none of whom I would recognize on the street?

We’re dependent on our electronics. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, never use drugs and have a bottle of Lortab somewhere that I never finished from surgery three years ago. (No, you may not buy it. I don’t even know where it is.) There are two things that I send me Jonesing: 1] chocolate (not Hershey’s, I don’t cut my chocolate with cheap ingredients like “vanillin” for Pete’s sake) and 2) the w-w-w-web. I must check it. I don’t care if I never see another phone or television. Everything I need is Netified.

In fact, I hate phones.

There was a time when I could leave the house and be cheerily separated from my phone. Now it’s tethered to me like a dog tag. If my child’s school calls and I’m not at the end of the line, ready to pick her up for some unforeseen mishap, I can practically hear the tsk-tsk and see CPS on speed dial.

So I don’t want to hear other people’s convos in public. There’s always one person who still has Headphone Syndrome, that is, when he has an audio device squished to his ear, he talks/sings obnoxiously loud.

Case in point, the Casanova in the coffeehouse yesterday.

I went to do some writing. Instead I was treated to half the convo of a seduction/baptism/trial. It sounds good…but wasn’t satisfying. A 5.79 combo meal where you get the apple dippers instead of fries.

“Oh, honey! I’m on my way out, I just calling to see what you doin’ now.”

*

“Yes…HMM MMM! OH If you and mine’s love gets together, nothing gonna stop us, BAM! Like a train! You see.”

*

“I want to treat you like the queen you is, an if I can’t do that, I got no business with you, you know what I mean, baby? But you see, you see. That’s why I tell you to trust me.”

*

“No, Wanda’s boyfriend did her WRONG, and I was there as a friend. You got to help your friends out, I would do the same for you, Baby.”

*

“But you ARE my baby, Baby.”

At this point he pulled out a Bible and flipped through it.

“Listen! Listen, listen. I got to read you the Bible, and, where…No, LISTEN! The Bible SAYS you gots to love your neighbor! I find it. Yes, now – here it is. (Quotes whatever passage). You see? The Lord grants…No, yes, no, I don’t know where she be. I’m coming to you. Open the Old Testament!”

*

“No, you don’t need to be talking like that. She your SISTER.”

*

Yes, that’s what I said, Baby, oooooh-weeeeeee! We got together for a reason, and the Lord knows it. Now the future is a mystery, but you can’t let your sisters ruin it for you.”

This went on for a solid forty five minutes.

No writing was done.

If I must listen to half of a cell phone convo, I don’t want to hear about garden variety Jerry Springer material. If you’re going to be broadcasting your business, please make it about leading the Sierra Leone rebels through underground tunnels while hyenas sniffed your trail as you hustled the 829 carat diamond. THAT is worth listening to.

Over 18! Halloweenies!

So I present to you the question of what, really, makes an adult?  The magic number is supposed to be 18. But I’m seeing things that make me wonder if we need a Maturity Card like the old AMEX commercials. That is, Don’t Leave Home Without It.

Grow Up, he says!

 I submit Exhibit A, Competitive Trick-or-Treating:

OK, not quite trick or treating. We had a Halloween Egg Haunt tonight whereby a big soccer field is fettered with orange and black plastic eggs filled with candy. The instructions were: “Parents, stay along the fence line and let the children run on the field at the end of the countdown.”

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

3…2…1…

Good Parents (A-hem. That would be me.) stayed on the fence line.

Bad Parents rushed the field like it was a championship game. At first they were moderately aggressive in coaching their children:

 “COME ON, Bradley, there’s one RIGHT in front of you, son! How could you not see that one before the little Lady Gaga got it?”

Then the Bad Parents started to take matters into their own hands. They stood in front of eggs so other little kids couldn’t see them before their kid did. They started to corral the eggs oh-so-not-discretely around their feet, much like the Emperor Penguin balances eggs on his feet until they hatch:

IMAGE: He's supposed to be hiding that egg under there.

Then it was no-holds-barred for the Bad Parents. They outright DIVED for eggs, wiping out little princesses and vampires.

“Bradley, I got four eggs for you! Come here, quick!” pretend-whispered Bad Dad.

 And that’s when the Good Parents had enough of this and went to settle up. 

But it was a really curious thing; Brad’s Bad Dad was dressed like a freaky werewolf from hell, and Good Dad was kind of straight from work. Frankly, it didn’t look like an even match. In fact it seemed like all the Bad Parents were witches, monsters, zombies, or vampires and the ones on the fence line were in suits and ties. Typecasting? Life imitating art? Oh, why don't I have a camera at these moments?

So before we knew it, the officials were clearing the field, and some children had managed to get two eggs in their bag before Bad Dads stepped on their fingers. The offspring of the bully parents had like forty-three eggs each. Which I guess is okay, because inside was crap candy like Atomic Fireballs and Sweet Tarts, which nobody likes anyhow. (P.S. Sign of the times! Where’s the chocolate, people? I bird dog my child to bring me back CHOCOLATE, not stinking Atomic Fireballs! Am I right? Can I get a Wha-Wha?)

Do not send my child back with these in her Halloween bag, please.

I spent good money on a Disney princess costume and expect a little appreciation in the form of chocolate.

 Immature? No! Just because I plunder the treat bag in the privacy of my own home does not make me immature. Does it?

Martial Smarts

(For sake of familiarity, I'll refer to Korean martial arts terminology here. What? You don't know Korean?! OK - fumble along and I'll graciously provide explanation, just as a patient Master would do).
I always, always wanted to have a go at Martial Arts. I liked the clean white uniforms (doboks), the crazy HI-YA! shouting (kihaps), and the discipline that I sorely lacked (uuummm, present tense applies). For years I allowed my mind to tip toe around the thought of entering a studio (dojang) to inquire, but I was convinced that they would go all Cobra-Kai on me, like the bad dojang from the first Karate Kid, and I'd be standing there, doing the Crane with a jacked up leg dangling, thinking, "what the hell am I doing facing off with the Cobra-Kai guy? I'm 35 and have a three year old watching from the bleachers, not Ralph Macchio with his Sensei stoically channelling his ch'i power!"
Alas, I Entered the Dojang.
Since then, I've been pinned, joint-locked, thrown, flipped, tapped, kicked, punched, had pressure point squeezed, seen stars, bled, healed, and bled again. It's no easy task to start martial arts when you are well into adulthood and are under following delusions:
~people jump long distances in slow motion
~the only non Asian white person really good at MA is Chuck Norris, and soon after you will need to buy a Total Gym (WHICH I DID)
~every Asian person secretly knows MA, even the little old bendy ones with canes
~Grand Masters can kill you with a simple touch to your pinky.
The truth, as usual is more difficult to sort out. Of course, no one jumps in slow motion, but MA, is neither limited by race or age (case in point: me). And it might be a sort of cool urban legend that Asian people have some inherent martial arts gene, but that's kind of like saying that all French food is superb, and if you've ever had Ris de Cervelles au Beurre Noir (scrambled brains in brown butter), you know what I mean. It's just a stereotype.
Some martial artists are bickering endlessly about whose art is the "best", although I suspect that this is the younger crowd; the experienced practitioners tend to shy away from trivial arguments and focus on amerliorating themselves and their art. Me? I just like to be practice, as they say in Judo, "the gentle art of throwing". Shoulder throws, hip throws - just sail me through the air, preferably letting me gracefully land on a mat, sans injury.
I don't pretend to be an expert at subduing the opponent, but I had already done alot of stuff that, in my mind, qualified me at least halfway to black belt. These include:
~random falling, tripping, jumping, bumping, and toe-stubbing
~deflecting the octopus arms of over-eager dates
~scaling fences (of angry dogs)
~practicing various impossible yoga poses (Scorpion, anyone?)
~living on a diet of a bowl of rice a day for four months for that ascetic spitituality thing
~giving birth without drugs (or even without another person in the same room- (hello? definite black belt material) ~I owned ~I owned a sword - OK, a scimitar from my belly dancing days - (close enough)!
So, I forged ahead to the male dominated world of throw-downs. But like anything else, there are people in it who drool at the prospect of selling a student a coloured belt every few months. Note, I said selling not teaching. And it snowballs until the art is lost in commercialism and dragon symbols that would make even Bruce Lee turn in his grave.
(Not that purists and excellent instructors don't exist! In my humble experience, a great instructor makes the dojang environment welcoming, not intimidating. He or she is not punative, but encouraging, and is committed to success for students of many different abilities. He or she is also humourous and humble, recognizing insight and opportunities to learn from the newest white belt)!
Back to me, of course. I still seek the great SaBomNim who will guide my jump roundhouse kicks into sonic booms and my inner Asian spirit to enlightenment. Until then, I practice my breakfalls and ambushing snap kicks with aplomb, and try not to scream when I step on a squeaky cat toy in the middle of the night - which seems not to alarm my Ninja Within, but my tiny Grasshoppah...
PHOTO: I know - the form needs work. I still look pretty badass.

School Nurse Curse

So you think a school nurse just kisses boo-boos. Clamps the hearing test machine on the kids' heads once a year and presses the beep button. Maybe takes a temperature now and then. Essentially a “cush” job, right?

Indulge me. Let me tell you a few stories as a school nurse and why I will never, ever do it again.

Get your hot water going, because you’re going to want to take a bath when we’re done.

 Let’s start with little “Jessica” age 5.

I was assigned an elementary school in a decent neighborhood and was in the clinic when a teacher brought Jessica inside.  She was crying, hard, the kind of crying where they have the long strings of snot and get choked up. 

“She ran into a post!” cried the teacher, and indeed an enormous egg shaped alien was sprouting from her forehead.

I brought little Jessica to the cot, and called for some ice. After checking her pupils and neurological checks, it was time to call the parents.

Contact number one disconnected.

Contact number two disconnected.

Emergency contact three didn’t speak English.

I spoke enough of her language to let her know we needed the parents to come for Jessica, and then returned to the girl. She was still so hysterical that she couldn’t hold the ice to her head.

I sat with her doing all the nursey things, holding the ice to her head, reassuring her with, “You’re ok,” and “Your parents are coming, don’t worry.”

I tipped my head to her head, cradling her and saying little things to make her laugh, and get her mind off her headache.  We stayed this way a good hour, rocking and so forth. I was wondering where the parents were and I sat back from Jessica to tell her that I was going to call again.  My hair band had come undone, and I swept my long hair out of my eyes, leaned back and….

My

heart

stopped.

Nope, nothing there.

Hundreds. There were hundreds. Her head was so infested with lice I almost thought they had to be some other bug. I never knew they could get that big. Sorta like goldfish? I guess if you just keep feeding them they grow as big as they want?

 Really? Who thought this was an appropiate game?

In the nurses’ station we always had a super fine-tooth comb and magnifying glass to look for cooties. You could take a fly swatter to these things.  And here I was, all along, head-to-head comforting little Jess for her freaking bump.

 Well, inside I was screaming. I very nearly shoved her off my lap and onto the carpet in panic. But I contained myself and gently slip her off while I mouthed the words “LICE, YOU CHECK!” to a health tech in the office.

Okay, story break for a minute.  

This health tech was a child of the 70’s and her mother had a thing for Sonny and Cher. To that end her mother wanted to name her “Chastity,” after You Know Who.  Except for some reason her mother missed a “T” and ended up naming her “Chasity.” To avoid the constant explanations of why her name is Chasity, she goes by “Chas.”

IMAGE: NOT this one.

Now let’s put it all together.

She thought that when I silently mouthed the words “LICE, YOU CHECK!” that I was saying, “LIKE YOU, CHAS!” and she looked at me like I had just spit in her cornflakes.

 So I got up, and right then the Daddy came in, carrying a little baby. All crawling with bugs.

 As for me, I went immediately to CVS and bought bug shampoo. I stripped outside my door because I didn’t want to bring in ANYTHING I was wearing at the school. It didn’t matter to me who saw.

I never saw any cooties, but I didn’t care. The instructions said leave it on for 10 minutes, I left it on for 30.  There was a hotline so I called it.

“Do you think any got on me?” I asked.

The man answered, “Well, head to head transmission *is* the most common way to get them.

“But I didn’t SEE any. Could I still have gotten them?” I asked.

“It’s possible. You’ll know in 10 days when eggs hatch!” he said, sort of excited, like they were his babies.

“What?! I don’t want eggs! I don’t want to wait 10 days! I need answers!”

I was starting to feel like Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men when he says to Col. Jessup “I want the truth!”

And Col. Jessup says, “You can’t handle the truth!”

(about cooties in your hair)

 Plus the pesticide fumes were hurting my eyes. I was talking to him with the stuff in my hair.

So we hung up and I started combing through, or rather combing out my hair. As it fell in clumps on the floor.

Never caught any bugs, thank goodness.  But wait til I tell you about being a nurse at the beach. Remember the old saying about how urine helps jellyfish stings? Well…