Chunky Split Pea Soup: a man's guide

I tried getting J to guest post but apparently I am the writer in the house so these duties fall to me and to me alone. So here's an interview with the master chef, and a recipe, as dictated to me by J.

Leila: I can't remember what inspired you to make split pea soup, can you?
J: I remembered eating it at Anderson's Split Pea soup in Southern California when I was young and I've always liked it. I couldn't find any versions I liked in stores though so I decided to try to make my own.
L: How do you like your split pea soup?
J: Chunks of ham, chunky vegetables. I like it thick enough that you can scoop it with a piece of bread and it'll come up with chunks.
L: You like it super thick, almost like stew.

Following is what I consider to be the vaguest and most imprecise recipe on the planet so I've added some edits. It works though. It really works. The soup is great on a cold day and yields plenty of leftovers. 

+ Soak the peas for as long as you're willing to let them sit on the counter (we usually soak a full 16 oz bag for about 5 hours).
+ When you're ready to start cooking (after the peas have finished soaking), pour some olive oil and a couple cloves of chopped garlic into a giant pot and turn it to medium heat. Let the garlic simmer while you chop up any available potatoes (2-3 Russets usually) into small cubes and throw those into the pot and stir. Let those cook since they need to cook the longest.
+ Grab some carrots (not the baby kind but the kind where you might get some dirt or a piece of stringy vegetable hair off of them) - the nice, big kind. You chop those into circles and toss them into the pot, stirring occasionally so nothing gets burnt. At this point you might want to add a gob of butter to the pot so that nothing sticks to the bottom.
+ Grab some celery and chop that up into half-inch slices, the chunkier the better. Stress that it should be chunky. (L: Yeah, I definitely got that in there.) Toss those in and continue stirring.
+ Now grab a whole yellow or white onion and chop off the ends. Cut that into reasonable sized chunks. At this point it's probably a good idea to start adding some spices to your mound of vegetables. Grab the heavy grain salt (sea salt) and put a healthy covering of it on. Grind some pepper for 10 or 15 seconds too. You might want to add Spike because Spike is amazing - about half a bottle....no I'm kidding. Give it about 10 shakes.
+ Now add some of the cubed ham. Chop it into small pieces because small chunks distribute better and you want those in every bite. Throw those into the pot. Right about now your house should be smelling like warm, buttery vegetables and people who walk in the room should be saying, "Mmmm that smells good."
+ Finally, grab your soaked split peas and pour the whole container of peas, including the water they've been soaking in, into the pot. Continue to fill your pot with water until it's 2/3 filled and stir it all up. Partially cover the pot with a lid. Bring the mixture to a boil and let it simmer until the water is cooked off and the soup thickens. Stir occasionally to make sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. You probably need to turn the heat down at some point too. Turn the heat down to medium or medium-low somewhere in the 2 hours that it'll take to cook the soup. Serve with artisan sourdough bread.

SoCal 2013: Chasing Gulls, Waxing Sentimental

I stood on a sandy shore in Malibu this weekend, my toes digging into the soft sand, and couldn't help thinking, hey man, my life is pretty groovy. Behind me, my best friend and her husband were enjoying the shallow waves crashing into the shore and J was running around terrorizing filming seagulls in slow motion.

We were all having the kind of day that is only possible when you make no plans and let the universe lead you from one serendipity to another.

We started out taking a casual stroll through Gardens of the World, where we found an extremely harried little squirrel trying to collect materials for the harshest and coldest of SoCal's 65 degree winters. Imri pointed out flowers and smells that we would otherwise have passed over, and I attempted to get my iPhone to bokeh, with some success.

We covered the gardens in a hearty twenty minute ramble and were left wanting more without having a clue as to where to go next. Dror threw out the possibility of checking out the Getty Villa in Malibu but all the time slots for the next four hours were already booked. Instead we thought we'd check out West Lake, rumored (by Dror's dad mostly) to be a hidden gem in the Westlake Village hills. Siri informed us that the lake was nearby and we drove to it, but we could only gawk at it from the safety of our vehicle because the man-made lake is surrounded by a private community in which you may not park just to access the lake. Thwarted, we decided to drive around the surrounding hills and canyons to find a hiking path to meander on. We did that for about a half hour, driving further and further up and into the windy canyon, until we were forced to give in to the fact that there were no public hiking paths on this road and that we might as well just continue driving until we hit the beach.

That's how I ended up wistfully wondering how in the world it was possible to have such a pleasant day in such ideal company while waves crashed at my ankles. It truly is a shame that this kind of day cannot ever be a regular occurrence. To bring the four of us together takes a 15 hour flight from Israel and a six hour drive to SoCal. Dror tries to make the flight at least once a year but it doesn't always happen; the last time we saw each other was October 2011. Imri usually stays in Israel unless a special occasion brings him to the States with Dror. Yet here we were, getting on as comfortably as family. This was J's first meeting with Dror and Imri and only my second time spending time with Imri, yet I felt like we'd all known each other forever.

The day ended all too soon but will be one I'll remember for a long time. Maybe it will be more special to me because it is such a rare occasion, but also I think it will be a glaring reminder that I am extremely lucky when it comes to meeting and keeping quality people in my life. Here's to many more rare days together, dear friends.

7 Quick Takes: Perfect bananas, public bathroom etiquette, and SGB

I've never linked up before. Is there some kind of blog etiquette for this? Should I have introduced myself somehow to the linkee before linking up? I guess I'll just say I've been following this blog for a little while and really enjoy Jen's humor and writing style and maybe we can be blog friends? No? I dunno. Onward we go... 

one.
J was held up with krazy karaoke by his work peeps this week so I found myself engaging in some Single Girl Behavior. I think this concept was introduced on an episode of Sex and the City, and while it made my then-single self think, ohemgee Carrie et al are so quirky!, I couldn't really relate to the idea at the time because my Single Girl Behavior was just regular ole Behavior then. But now I can relate! It's rare that J is gone from the house for very long so mostly the SGB is on lockdown, but this past month J has been waylaid long into the weeknights by work events and I've found myself alone with two dogs and Netflix. We only use one Netflix account at the moment because of the way our media is set up and it's technically J's but if you perused the Recently Played list you'd mostly find that "J" has been watching a lot of indie dramas and Comedies with a Strong Female Lead (I know, he's such a feminist). In the last couple of weeks, "J" has watched The Kids Are All Right ("he" gave it four stars), Friends With Kids (three stars), Bachelorette (a surprising four stars, but only because the movie pulls itself together at the end and Lizzy Caplan is my favorite at the moment), and Orange is the New Black (fivefivefive stars!!!). It's not that J wouldn't watch these movies and shows with me if I really wanted to watch them together, but for some reason I really prefer watching these girl-feelings-pseudodramas by myself. It's my SGB. 

two.
Speaking of strong (or not so strong) females (and if you're the type of woman who does this, please don't take this the wrong way because I understand everyone has her own path in life and sometimes that path requires emotional indiscretion in public places) -- Ladies. Please stop having life altering conversations with each other in public restrooms. Your emotional catharsizes might be feeling great as you weep it out on the groady tile floor while your sympathetic gal pal nods and offers you advice on which life path to pursue next, but you have to remember that there are innocent women attending to their business in stalls just a few feet away from you and they (I) don't want to bear witness to your breakdown. Some women (me) seek the public restroom because in addition to having to pee they need to momentarily escape from the tumult of the outside world, but here you are in their (less than ideal) sanctuary, tumulting all over the place. Also the more you weep the longer you stay in the bathroom and some people (me again) are self-conscious about their bathroom habits and want to walk out of their stall to an empty bathroom and not feel judged for not washing their hands because public bathroom soap always dries their hands out and it's not like they've really touched anything to warrant washing their hands anyway plus they have hand sanitizer at their desk so back off! So please. Take it elsewhere. 

three.
I'm starting to wonder if these takes are quick enough. Am I doing okay? I really hate doing anything incorrectly. 

four.
Speaking of which. The Boy is showing traces of perfectionism at the ripe old age of 7. It's both incredibly endearing and nail-bitingly frustrating. Last night he had a melt down because he couldn't fit his Spanish vocabulary word into the allotted box on his homework worksheet, and if he can't fit it in then what's the point of doing any of it at all and the world is a horrible place and why do I even have to do this and on and on and on. There were alligator tears and a lot of fist clenching. J sat with him and tried to calm him down while I tried to think of ways to explain the perfectionism trait to a seven year old in a way that would both inform and comfort him. If someone had told me at a young age that I would never be done chasing perfection in my work I really think the following years of junior high and high school might have felt less hectic to me. I would have spent less time wondering why I was worrying my essays and math homework into perfect margins with perfect penmanship and perhaps more time focusing on the content of the assignments. Perhaps. 

five.
I am realizing that most Americans have never experienced the perfect banana and probably have no idea what they're even missing. I know all about perfect bananas though, so let me tell you how they should taste. The perfect banana is just barely green. Like it's coming off its green and it's mostly yellow but that delicate canary yellow bordering on meringue lime yellow, not the sunflower deep yellow. It should be nice and firm without a single brown spot or soft spot to the touch, and when you take a bite out of it, you shouldn't hear the soft sound of banana slowly separating from banana but a pert and brisk sound or no sound at all. Also when you chew it, it should offer just the slightest bit of resistance and then when you swallow it should have the most pleasantly fruity aftertaste, not a dull sugary aftertaste that sticks to the back of your throat and makes you want to inhale water and scrape your tongue.

The reason I know all of this is because when I was still a tot in Russia, perfect bananas were all that we ate. They got imported from somewhere tropical because goodness knows no banana tree would survive a Russian winter, but because they were imported they were all very exotic and special and perfect. I remember standing in line for them at five in the morning with my mom to get some.

The reason I bring this up at all is because I hardly ever buy bananas anymore since they're usually overripe and gross or under-ripe and never ripen properly at home, but I bought one at Raley's on a craving whim this past Monday and it was the perfect banana. I scarfed it and with each bite I was taken back to my young days in Russia. Food is powerful. 

six.
The Girl was getting her bedtime on yesterday. Her eyes were already half-closed and her voice groggy with sleep when she busted out with, "Leila, girls don't have beards, only boys do." And then she was down for the count. This wasn't her first nighttime revelation. Just a few nights prior she observed that caterpillars don't have noses. Check them facts. Girl ain't wrong. 

seven.
It's fall and there is yellow evvverrryyywherrreee!

I loooveee yellow!

Happy Friday everyone!

Brown Thumbing

I'm starting to think the third floor is not hospitable to plant life. Either that or we just have thumbs the color of dirt up here. First the cucumbers succumbed to an aphid infestation. Then the pumpkins went the way of the dead and decaying only two days after we carved them. Now the IKEA tree is drying out.

Aren't IKEA plants supposed to be indestructible? It's not like we're not watering the plant life up here. It's not like we're not feeding the plants nutritious soil bought in a prefilled bag from Target. I mean what does it take to keep a plant alive around here?

Oh good lord I just googled the tree we have. It's called the money tree people. These trees are typically associated with good financial fortune. Does that man our financial "fortune" (snort) is going the way of the dead and decaying too?

Are our bank accounts going to dry from the roots up? And no wonder the tree is drying out. These trees need a tropical climate. Folsom had a particularly dry summer and now the winter chill is setting in and bringing with it central heating and closed doors and windows. Also we happen to keep this guy right by the gas fireplace. Whose bright idea was it to sell these in Northern California?

At least the dogs are still alive and kicking.

In Motha Russia, Halloween costumes wear you! (Or not even a little bit at all ever.)

To be reallyreally honest, I've never been a huge fan of Halloween. It's not a holiday we had in Russia, and it was not a holiday that broke the immigration barrier when my mom and I moved to the U.S. I remember dressing up just twice in all my childhood. The first time I was Lisa Simpson. I had a plastic Lisaface mask to cover my face and Lisa's orange tube dress to wear. In retrospect, it was the perfect costume. I identified with Lisa Simpson even at the tender age of 6.

But you can't do anything like an American kid when you're not an American kid. Russian parents are all too familiar with the cruel bite of cold and they protect their children from it like the fiercest of mama and papa bears. Every American I know is always like whyyoualwayscoldyouarefrommotharussia!! 

I mean, I get it. I do. I should be used to the cold. It snows heavily in Russia. People wear furs and ushankas.

But I don't like the cold. In fact, I hate the cold and like to cover up in it - a proclivity I'm sure I developed during my childhood when my mom insisted on smothering me in coats and multiple layers when the thermometer read anywhere below 78 degrees. That's why on my first Halloween in the U.S. (Southern California if you want to be semi specific-er) I was forced to wear beneath my perfect Lisa Simpson costume a wool black onesie that my mom had procured for me over the summer at some obscure garage sale. Also we were pretty poor and I think I had only one pair of shoes at the time and they were sneakers. Summary: black wool onesie, scuffed white unisex velcro 90s sneakers, orange tube dress, yellow Lisa mask. I was a disaster and I knew it. I spent the entire night making wistful eyes at all the normally costumed kids without black onesies miring their get-up. The following year we recycled the onesie into a cat costume.

As for my fully Americanized adult life, I can say I've dressed up for Halloween just twice, both times as Alice in Wonderland. The Renaissance Fair doesn't count.

This year though!

This year.....

This year won't be any different. J is out of town tomorrow evening and my highest hopes for the night are that nobody comes to my door because a) I did not buy any candy (I mean, we're on the third floor people. What parent is going to drag herself and her child up this high anyway?), and b) the dogs will bark up a storm and scare pretty much everyone away anyway.

However, I'm not totally eschewing Halloween this year. Somehow I talked my coworkers into celebrating the day by bringing in coffee and fruit. I'll be contributing baked pumpkin spice donut holes.

Oh and I'm not such a curmudgeon as to deprive the kiddos of some good ole' fashioned pumpkin wreckage carving.

Happy Halloween everyone!

7 Quick Takes

one.
Let's start with the most disappointing and work our way to happy. We tossed out the cucumber plant on Monday due to a rampant aphid infestation that we weren't able to get a handle on. Literally tossed. The cukes went flying off the third floor and now lay in a sad mulch on the dirt below. Here's a picture of them thriving before the toss out.

two.
We decided we will re-plant cucumbers but with an onion in the planter this time, because according to my all-knowing gardening boss, those are almost as good at keeping the aphids away as a swarm of lady bugs. But why not go the lady bug route? you ask. While I'm sure that at least the two youngest members of this family would be tickled to pieces by lady bugs on their patio, I'm not sure the dogs will be able to handle themselves. Cukes are the only thing I want careening off the third floor, thank you.

three.
Speaking of the dogs, this fella is rockin' a tie these days. Who's the handsomest!

We're still keeping a semi-serious eye out for a tutu for Sophie.

four.
If you can't successfully twice-bake a potato, just butcher it into chunky pieces and stick it in the oven with so. much. cheese.

First of all, these potatoes were massive. Like, big as the four year old's head massive. And we baked them for an entire hour at 400 degrees but they still failed to cook properly in the dead center, which is coincidentally the very area you have to scoop the guts out of prior to mashing them. Lesson learned: if the guts are too hard to scoop and you keep digging at them with a spoon, the entire potato falls apart. But if you're J, the crumbling potato is exciting because now it's food experiment time! For J, a meal is not worth cooking unless it's unique or sentimental. Well twice-baked crumbled potatoes, here we came! The end result was good. Lesson learned squared: there's no real way to ruin a potato, fret not.

five. 
I'll spare you the picture, but know that my car's windshield was the recipient of fairly epic bird droppings earlier this week. A normal American would have been grossed out by this, but while I was raised in the great U.S. of A., I am Russian by birth with a Russian mother to boot. I was fed Russian superstitions as often as I was fed pork dumplings (which was often, if you weren't getting my drift). So, my immediate thought upon seeing the massive dropping was, "Yes! Some luck is coming my way!"

six.
In the spirit of the impending Halloween, here are a few other Russian superstitions I grew up with.

+ It is considered taboo to step over people's legs or body parts. It is often said that it will prevent the person from growing. My mom extended this belief even to the cat, whom I tripped over on many occasions and each time received a stern warning that I was preventing the feline from growing. The cat is going on her 16th year of life now and is itty-bitty. Maybe I'm responsible...maybe it's the hyperthyroidism.

+ Returning home for forgotten things is bad luck. It is better to leave what was forgotten behind. If you must return, you must look in the mirror before leaving again. I can't tell you how many freakouts my mom had after forgetting something important upon leaving the house and feeling incapable of retrieving it for fear of bringing bad luck upon herself. I also can't tell you how many mirror sessions there were growing up.

+ When describing a scar or other disfigurement on someone's face or body, you should not gesture on your own face or body where the scar or disfigurement was. Anytime I ever gestured at myself or my mom when describing a friend's illness or any kind of disfigurement, my mom would flinch and physically pull my hand away from my body. To this day, I feel like I'm testing fate any time I use my body as an example of where someone else hurts.

seven.
Pumpkins wilt really fast in 80+ degree heat. I thought for sure that carving pumpkins two weeks out from Halloween would help them keep until the Hallow's Eve, but I was wrong. Mold in all four, and what used to be a carving of a wolf is now just sad pumpkin mash. But then, I don't think it's normal for it to be 80+ degrees this late in October. Don't tell me global warming isn't happening. Pumpkins don't lie.

Happy Friday!