Food Love Friday: Korean Ox Tail Soup

I know that, for most people in the country, September is still summer. Not so in Alaska. Gardens and flowers are in their last days. Gloves are necessary for the morning trek to the bus stop. And we'll have snow before the end of the month.

Which means it's a perfect time to shove the summer recipes into mothballed crates under the bed and pull out the winter comfort foods. I've been considering stews lately, like spending whole afternoons staring out the window thinking about which stock to use - the rosemary and red wine, the onion base, or the tomato? My seven year old went in another direction. He wanted beef, specifically beef tails (ox tails, per the olde school labeling at the butcher), specifically Korean Ox Tail Soup.

It's called Kkori Gomtang and it's perfect for cold days. It does take a couple of days to make, unless you wake up reaaaaally early in the morning and don't eat dinner until midnight.

The ingredient list is crazy simple:
ox tails
water
daikon radish
green onion
salt and pepper

(I added that picture so you could see how simple the prep is, and also to show off my favorite knife. Love ya, little Katana)

I may have accidentally dropped some garlic into the stock pot toward the end, because I seem to always be doing that. I used THIS recipe for the soup and THIS recipe for accompaniment kimchi (which we may have accidentally dropped into our soup bowls because we seem to always be doing that as well). That's a quick kimchi recipe, so there's a little less tang to it if you eat it fresh. The tang comes from the fermentation process, as do the naturally occurring probiotics, so you might want to go for a more mature kimchi, but plan ahead for that. Oh, or buy it from the store.

The cooking process is simple. The results are rich and satisfying. If you're worried about whether your family's western palate might have trouble with this, consider the simplicity of the ingredients and maybe tone down the amount of chili you add to the kimchee. Or eat it when it's fresher. The soup itself should appeal to anyone who enjoys fall-off-the-bone beef or wild game.

GENUS: Elves SPECIES: Not Santa's

Backstory:

1) My kid is obsessed with Youtube. He thinks it contains all earthly knowledge. It’s like the apple given to Eve, but with a kick-ass soundtrack.

2) My husband is currently reading The Hobbit to my son.

Story:

Over the weekend, I get out of the shower to find my kind on my laptop. He gives me a guilty side-eye and sinks in his chair. I check it out and find that he’s muted and paused what appears to be a “behind the scenes” clip from Lord of the Rings.

Me: You know you aren’t supposed to be on my computer, and you’re never supposed to use Youtube without permission.

Him: I know. *squirms* But, Mom…what is this?

Me: You know The Hobbit?

Him: Yes.

Me: This is Rivendell. Where the elves lives.

Him: We haven’t gotten to that part yet. *leans in closer, examining the details of the architecture, then glances up* The elves that help Santa?

Me: No. Bigger elves. They’re bigger than hobbits, as tall as or taller than humans. More swords, fewer toy workshops. Now, off my computer.

Him: Okay. *runs off*

I checked his search history. He’d searched for “The hobbit” four times – misspelled each time – then  “Mario and Luigi” – spelled correctly – then “Luigi wins”, then "Mario gets mad", then “funny cat videos, no swords”.

ALIENS AMONG US

On Friday we decided to run away down to Seward, AK. It's the end of the season. Boats have sailed south and been pulled out of the water. Restaurants and other businesses are closed until spring. We were going to hike to the glacier but it was about 37 degrees, with the additional unpleasantness of drizzle and a breeze (also the name of my '70s Sonny & Cher tribute band: Drizzle and Breeze).

So we went to the Sea Life Center. In addition to having wonderful sea lions and seal exhibits, tons of educational material, the Sea Life Center has an amazing rehabilitation program.

The highlights for us today were the octopus, who was crazy active, and the moon jellies. The latter mostly because the harbor had been full of jellyfish, and while my son found those "icky" and "looking like floating brains", the moon jellies are tidy, elegant little creatures. Their dark enclosure makes it look like they're circulating in space. All very cool.

THE STORY OF JOFF WASHINGTON AND THE CHERRY TREE

At dinner the other night, the four year-old asked his father to tell the story of George Washington and the cherry tree, then reciprocated with gruesome alternate history. Here is their story:

Kid: Dad, tell me the story of George Washington and the cherry tree.

DH: One year, for his birthday, George Washington received an axe. And he loved the axe so much that he started chopping down trees. Chop, chop, chop. All over his father's farm. Chop chop chop. Until he chopped down his father's favorite cherry tree.

His father saw that his tree had been chopped down and said, "Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum, who chopped down my cherry tree."

Kid: That doesn't rhyme.

DH: My story. "Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum, who chopped down my cherry tree." And George Washington thought about lying, but instead he stepped forth and said "Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was me." And the moral of the story is...

Kid: To never chop down the favorite cherry tree if your father is a giant.

DH: Close enough.

Kid: Let me tell you a story now. It's the story of...of...Joff Washington. One year, for his birthday, Joff Washington got an axe for his birthday. A big axe. A REALLY big axe. His father told him not to use it because it was too big and he couldn't use it until he was older.

But Joff tried and tried, and finally lifted it. And then he dropped it on his foot. And cut it off.  And there was blood everywhere. Because you shouldn't play with big axes. The End.

Indeed.

FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART

On the drive home from preschool tonight...

Child: Do you want something that I made extra special just for you?

Me: Sure.

Child: Here. *pretends to hand me something* It's a waffle.

Me: *pretends it's the most delicious waffle ever* Thank you! How did you cook this?

Child: I made it in my body.

Me: O.O ... You cooked it over your warm heart?

Child: Yes. That's how I cook food. Mostly soup, sometimes waffles. *pause* But it doesn't taste like blood.

Me: Good to know

WHEN, IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS, YOUR CHILD FORSAKES YOU FOR AN ALTERNATE HISTORY OF HIS OWN CREATION

Setting: At the grocery store, with the four year old in the cart (also one of the more bizarre answers you can get at the game of Clue).

Kid: I'm a new boy.

Me: Do you want olives, new boy?

Kid: Yes.

Me: So what makes you new?

Kid: I've never been to Earth before. This is my first time.

Me: Do you want regular Goldfish or parmesan Goldfish, tiny Oshkosh-clad extraterrestrial?

Kid: Regular. I'm from Saturn. I'm here for work. I'm going home in three days.

Me: What's your home like?

Kid: It's painted green, and there are no baby things in my room, and my parents are like you. They have the same hair as you.

Me: How do you get back and forth?

Kid: I fly through space. In a giant bar of soap.

Me: 'Cause it's biodegradable?

Kid: Yes. Can I get a new one here?

Me: A new soap rocket? Maybe in sporting goods.

Kid: I like it here. I like meeting people. And eating olives. But I can't wait to go back to my home country.

Me: Planet. Saturn's a planet.

Then we go to check out, where a woman who had been trailing us down the aisle congratulated him - a foreigner - on having such a good English accent. She was, unfortunately, serious.

JUST ANOTHER ROCKIN' SATURDAY NIGHT

Scene: Me, sitting on the couch with the three year old, watching The Princess Bride.

Cary Elwes (on screen): Whatever happens to us, I want him to live a long life alone with his cowardice.

Kid (turns to me): Ask me if I'm going to do that.

Me: I'm not going to ask you if you're going to live a long life alone with your cowardice.

Kid: Ha! I wouldn't anyway because I'm Brave.

Me: Okay.

Kid (fishes in pocket): Also, I have this! (pulls out a new, unwrapped bar of Lever 2000 soap, jumps off couch and runs through house) Super bar of soap! Super bar of soap!

I used to go out drinking. It wasn't half as crazy as this parenting thing.

THIS EASTER EGG WILL SELF-DESTRUCT

My son is three going on four. He loves pirates and applies pirate logic and pirate language to the non-pirate aspects of his life. I mentioned to him that we would have an Easter egg hunt on Easter. "An Easter egg treasure hunt," he asked, eyes lighting up, "with a treasure map and gold doubloons (which he pronounces "goldenblues") and everything?"

I blinked. "Yes, just like that."

On Easter morning, while he was at church with my parents, the Easter bunny stopped by and dropped off the following note:



Hey Kid,


I need your help. While I was dyeing eggs, a wicked snow bird - allied with the snow spiders - stole the candy eggs! The snow bird has filled her nests with eggs. Those she couldn't fit, she gave to the snow spiders to hide in their webs - along with some gold doubloons.


Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to recover the eggs. If you are caught by the snow bird or the snow spiders, I will disavow all knowledge of this operation. 


Good luck, son.


Yours Truly,


The E. Bunny


P.S. There's a map.

There was a treasure map, carefully marked with X's. He chose to accept.

Snow birds nest in the sides of snow banks.

And in vast, glacier-like expanses of snow.

Gold doubloons. Snow spiders can weave webs for days. They won't stop a dedicated treasure hunter.

And the wickedest, wiliest snow bird is no match for this kid.

Hope you had a great Easter...with far less snow than we had.

A DAY IN THE LIFE - EVENING EDITION

5:10 p.m. - Leave Work.

5:20 p.m. - Pick up child from day care.

5:35 p.m.  - Get home, divest child of snowgear, admire his artwork, wash his hands. Feed cats. Fill humidifier.

5:45 p.m. - Make dinner. It's late in the week, so it's cobbled-together leftovers.

5:55 p.m. - Child comes into kitchen and drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on top of your foot, proclaims that he is Wall-e. Grind teeth until pain passes.

6:00 p.m. - Set table and call child to dinner. Child consumes entire glass of milk and proclaims himself full.

6:01 p.m. - Child grips stomach and complains he's dying. Send child into bathroom.

6:02 p.m. - Eat in peace and quiet.

6:07 p.m. - Because you have learned to eat like a starved honey badger in the few minutes you can scrounge up between obligations, dinner is consumed and dishes are already done.

6:08 p.m. - Settle onto couch with book.

6:18 p.m. - Spring from couch when you realize the house has been silent for 17 minutes. Open bathroom door to find child standing in front of the closed toilet, completed naked.

You: Are you done?
Child: Yes.
You: What's going on in the toilet?
Child: Nothing!

6:19 p.m. - Open toilet lid. Find 1/2 a roll of Charmin settled uneasily on top of...something wretched.  Explain to child why we use less toilet paper. Child, upon hearing the word "clog" for the first time, runs from the bathroom.

6:20 p.m. - Begin the painstaking process of progressively flushing small amounts of the toilet's contents, using the toilet brush as a dam.

6:21 p.m. - TP disintegrates; dam fails. Overcome by drama, cat pukes in hallway outside bathroom.

6:23 p.m. - Power-walk past child, who is naked, clutching his clothes to his chest, and on the brink of tears. Explain it's time for Plan B. Tears.

6:23:30 p.m. - Retrieve toilet plunger from other bathroom, begin Plan B. Outside the door, cat #2 steps in cat #1's puke, gets mad, commences to beat cat #1. Separate cats with foot.

6:25 p.m. - Plan B complete. Clean bathroom. Dress child. Wipe tears. Clean up puke.

6:30 p.m. - Decide to refill soap dispenser. Child drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on your foot. Soap everywhere.

Child: Wall-eeeee.

THINGS

*looks around. smiles*

I see we all survived 2011. Nice. Very nice. Please give yourselves a round of applause. It was a wild one.

2012, for me, starts with:

• a tbr pile as tall as my house
• two scheduled trips, courtesy of a lot of ambition on cybermonday
• a planned trip to the RWA National meeting in Anaheim (give me a shout if you think you'll be there)
• a novella release on the 16th (!)
• a happy, healthy, frighteningly intelligent toddler
• and a car that needs an oil change (it's not all good)

What have you got going for you this week, month, year?

THIS IS HALLOWEEN

My son (three) advised that, for Halloween, he wanted to be the Dread Pirate Roberts, from The Princess Bride. Actually, what he said was that he wanted to be "the hero" from "The Bride Princess". He said I should be a pirate too, to which I replied, "as you wish".

And then I discovered that there are no pirate costumes available in the greater Anchorage area for undersized three year-olds, and no pirate costumes at all for adult women that aren't implicitly slutty. Still we made do.

Behold, the (tiny) Dread Pirate Roberts and his loyal ally, Inigo Montoya:

 First we re-enact Inigo and Westley's first meeting and acrobatic fight.

Then we become friends.

Then we pose like pirate homeys.

The End

BUT WHY?

Following is my three year-old son's story of his life:

First I was a baby in momma's tummy.

Then I was a little boy.

Now I am a big boy.

Then I'll be a grown up...

...and then I'll be a duck!

I don't think that way. Most people, even the most creative people I know, don't think that way. We have certain constants, such as: human children don't grow up to be ducks.

But what if they did?

I will admit to coming to him when I've written myself into a corner, explaining the story so far - with no simplification - and then asking his opinion on where it should go. Sometimes he just asks questions about a few things that stuck in his mind. Other times he'll continue telling the story, usually with an expanded cast, and swords. And ducks. Sometimes he'll do that thing that all parents know and dread.

Tabitha rode her motorcycle to the end of the road, looking for Hester. She wasn't there so Tabitha burned the shack to the ground. 

Why?

Because she was so angry at her sister, and her sister loved that house and had put years into rebuilding and filling it with things she loved.

Why?

Because when they were growing up, they were moved from one distant relative's house to another, living jointly out of a suitcase full of clothes they were quickly outgrowing. So she wanted to have a place full of her things, and walls that were always the same.

Why?

Well, their mother passed away when they were born and their father was sent off-planet, after which the force fields locked so that spacecraft couldn't come back.

Why?

Well, it was actually a conspiracy. A heroic general and the most powerful politicians in a party went off-planet to great fanfare to christen a new colony. They were supposed to be gone a month. But while they were gone, two ambitious businessmen and a young chemist who desperately wanted to prove himself, arranged for a coup following the release of a chemical that would obscure the sky.

Why?

You see where this can go? How broad or how deep you'll be forced to drill down if you just keep asking why? How you will start thinking about aspects of your characters or plot that you never would have explored on your own? I just hope I remember these lessons when I achieve duckhood.

DO KINDLES DREAM OF PRINTING PRESSES?

My kindle has a kind of decorative screensaver, where the faux ink pulls together and forms itself a soft picture, usually of an author. (This isn't specific to mine, I'm sure.) Sometimes the pictures are of other things. Like the typeset of a printing press. At least, that's what I think it was, and that's what I told my three year old son it was when he asked.

I said: the person puts the letters and numbers in this box, and then the person puts ink on it, and then the person presses it against a piece of paper. And then the person repeats that, until we have a book.

And that's when my son fell in love with the printing press. Kids these days, what with their whiz-bang gadgets and their whippersnappin' Playtendos (shout out to Cobra!).

Today he asked me to show him more pictures. I googled printing press and showed him a couple dozen machines, modern and antique, automated and painstakingly manual. He asked how they worked, and I pointed out the things that I recognized. Paper reels. Gears. Levers. I don't actually know how any iteration of the press works, so I made the process up. It might have involved steam power, hobs and alien technology, which may have made it slightly more exciting than the real thing. I'm not sure.

Earlier tonight, my son mimicked setting type and printing a book, which he then presented to us, carefully pointing out and describing the pictures and telling a wonderful story of a small hob who works on a printing press. I think it was magic realism, where the object of the story is telling you the story of the story. Or something.

And I wonder, how many printing presses will be around when my three year old is my age? How strange is it that he learned about the printing press by seeing an image on a electronic reader? How disappointed is my son going to be in his mother when the zombie apocalypse comes along and, as one of earth's last survivors, he decides to start printing books to tell their story, and finds out I made the whole process up?

These are the things that keep me up at night.

TIME OUT FOR DOMESTIC MANIFESTOES

Tweeeeeet <--that's the sound of a whistle being blown.

Why, you ask? Because we're taking a time out to talk parenting. Specifically, potty-training, that surreal period of time in which one or more humans employ every trick in their arsenal, as well as stooping to things like bribery and begging, to convince another human (or possibly an alien-monkey hybrid) not to poo in his own pants.

Granted, it's a new human (hopefully), but it's still another person refusing to not poo in his own pants. And it's awful. Just soul-searingly awful.

We've reached the point where our new human recognizes the need to poo (hereinafter referred to as the Poo Instinct), considers pulling down his scientifically-engineered pull-downable pants and utilizing the device specifically purchased for him to poo in, then says nahhhhh, not gonna do it.

I'm not sure what to do. When a person decides not to do something related to the Poo Instinct, there isn't much an outsider can do to force the correct reaction to the Poo Instinct. So, I've decided to put my college degree to work. It's English, for the record. I'm going to use all my skills of composition, borrowing of other's fine works, and rhetoric to attempt -once and for all- to get my son to use the potty. If you would like to try this at home, then feel free to borrow the following. I give you:

The Poo Manifesto

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one (tiny) person to poo, and to assume among the powers of nature a separate and equal location for his used sustenance, a decent respect to the olfactory sensibilities of mankind requires that this (tiny) person should remove himself and make use of the throne-shaped potty so highly recommended by Consumer Reports.*


Now we are engaged in a great and unbelievably frustrating time, testing whether this household, or any household, so conceived and so dedicated to the principal of not pooing in one's own pants (possibly while standing in the kitchen playing with an exceedingly irritating parrot toy from a McDonald's Happy Meal) can long endure.**


To thine own Poo (Instinct) be true; and it must follow, as the day the night, though canst not then reduce thine mother to tears and unproductive gagging.***

*Declaration of Independence
**Gettysburg Address
***Hamlet

Tuesdays with Freakshows

The place: Urban Chain Grocery Store

The time: 5:10 pm, on a Tuesday

Me: (internal monologue) Should I buy regular sour cream or Mexican sour cream? What's the difference? Or should I buy low-fat sour cream? Maybe that's the question I should be asking.

Guy: (stomps up to the dairy case, stops beside me) Really?

Me: (looks up, then around to be sure he's talking to me. apparently, he is)

Guy: I told you this was my store.

Me: What? (internal monologue) What the fuck, you short, skinny lumberjack-looking psycho? Am I going to have to take you out using nothing but this Mexican sour cream?

Guy: (looking perplexed) Oh, I thought you were my ex-wife. (looks me up and down) But if you were, you'd look sluttier.

Me: Awesome. (walks away, muttering to self about how, when I put my hair up into a hot-librarian bun, I seem to attract all the weirdos)

Parent's Log, Star Date Oh-5-90

Starring:
Mother - Played by Me
Son - Age 2 - Played by some spastic alien-monkey hybrid masquerading as my offspring

The scene: Wednesday Night, Dinner Table

Son (speaking through small Frankenstein toy): Where's my mommy?

Me: You don't have a mommy. You were created in a lab by a mad scientist.
Internal Monologue: I then think better of this. Perhaps one shouldn't tell one's child, even through a toy, that he is the motherless son of a crazed genius. Perhaps that's what leads to kids sucking their thumbs until they are 24, or going up on to water towers with Kalishnikovs. Perhaps in this one moment, I have just destroyed his sense of security for the rest of his life.


Son: Oh, okay. (resumes eating enchilada)

To Breed or not to Breed

All my friends are having babies, or talking about babies, or thinking about adding more babies to their current collection of babies and/or children. I'm not sure how I feel about this. We had one baby. It's now a toddler well on its way to becoming an adult and/or howler monkey. Sometimes you don't know until later how they turn out.

So, my friends say (paraphrasing here), you are still at a viable age to produce normal offspring. Why don't you jump on the baby-making bandwagon (not literal-that would be gross) with us?

I look at what that entails: nausea; heartburn; sleepless nights; demonic snoring; sciatica; trying to perfect the "latch" with a recalcitrant infant while going on 0 sleep for two weeks; trying to lose the weight, again; trying to be patient and kind and educate the child when all I want to do is take a shower or have breakfast. I won't even talk about giving birth, because for those of you who got drugs, you have no idea. For those of you who didn't, you know why I'm not talking about it.

Then I look at my son and his quests to eat Vaseline and climb everything and bite the backs of my knees, and I think to myself that he is just perfect. I'm not greedy. I know the next child would be different. Maybe it would sleep through the night starting at four months. Maybe it would want to sleep with us until it was four. Maybe it would prefer Comet to Vaseline. I think I'll just stick to the one.