NaBloPoMoDay 28: Halushki Award Day

I have to make this quick.

Today was one of those days...again.

My big project was making a spinach lasagna using this fabu recipe from Cook's Illustrated. It took me all day and half of yesterday to finally get this lasagna in the oven. That's because I had a very sad croupy-coughy-fever baby who could only be made happy by a) hanging on my leg or b) helping me whisk the bechamel.

Whisking bechamel is not typically a toddler-friendly activity. And yet with our giant blue and yellow Little Tykes Bechamel Whisk and a pair of fire-retardant pajamas, cooking at a gas range while holding a 15-month-old kid isn't quite as daunting as one would think. I still kept a dousing tub on hand. And there may be a Froot Loop or two in the bechamel. (Can you tell that I love saying the word bechamel? Seriously...every time I type bechamel, I'm saying it out loud. If I ever have another daughter - or a cat, more likely - I'm naming her Bechamel.)

But, ahhhhh, Froot Loops would be my secret ingredient.

That and the leeks.

The recipe originally called for five minced shallots.

I had zero shallots.

And there was no way I was going to load up Mr. Cranky Cook in the car just to drive to the grocery store to find shallots. They always keep those things hidden in some odd corner of the store, like hanging in little mesh bags off the corner of a forgotten dried soup display. And I'd tell myself I was just going in for shallots, but along the wandering-way, I'd end up picking up a bunch of stuff I didn't need, and eventually leave the store with tofu blocks and goat yogurt and dried soup, but no shallots.

So. What I did have on hand was leeks. I had about eight leeks in my fridge.

So, a leek is sorta like a shallot, right? Onion-y, but not so strong as an onion. Also, much easier to cut than an onion - or a shallot - for that matter. Leeks slice right up into cute, round leek coins that separate into delightful, green leek streamers when you sauté them in oh so much butter. It's like a little party, really, with festive leek confetti!

Anyway, even though a leek is about three times larger than your typical shallot, I got it into my head that eight leeks chopped would somehow equal five shallots chopped. However, once I started chopping the leeks and they began unraveling, the eight leeks turned into the equivalent of ninety chopped shallots, and that's a lot of shallots, anyone will tell you. The leeks kept expanding and expanding and suddenly I had chopped-leeks in Biblical proportions.

Jesus would have been proud of my food-doubling skills.

It had crossed my mind at one point to add to the bechamel only the amount of leeks as seemed equal to five chopped shallots. But I have little opportunity for madcap adventure in my life, and so I got all crazy and just tossed the whole shebang of leeks into the pot, damn the torpedoes! For a second, the heap of leeks just lay on top of the cream sauce and towered over the top of the pot. Then, as I was wondering whether to begin un-heaping the leeks and even, perhaps, starting the whole thing from scratch by just ordering pizza for dinner, the bechamel rose up and surrounded the tower of leeks like some oozing white primordial swamp creature, and sucked them all under. I think there was even a menacing Gloop sound. It was all quite astonishing, and even the baby stopped crying and began to watch the bechamel in amazement. Or maybe it was in horror.

Anyway, long story short, the addition of the leeks made for an amazing spinach lasagna. Although, in all honestly, I should probably call it a leek lasagna because, damn, that was a lot of leeks.

And so, in conclusion, today's Halushki Award goes to the incredible, expandable, and oh-so-delectable leek.


This isn't the first time I've written about the Joy of Leeks, either. Some blogs, you can read for years and years and never come across a leek post. And here, there's been two. Not to toot my own horn, but I think that's the main reason that readers keep coming back to this fabulous blog time and time again:

You just never know when there's going to be another leek post.

The Halushki Awards: Central PA - Part 1

Everyone loves an award, don’t they?

Gee, they make you feel good. Really…really boosts the ole self-esteem, puts a bounce in your walk, a spring in your step, a…uh…a some other overused cliché about walking very up-and-downish

Yup.

Awards.

They’re really something.


I haven’t gotten one recently.


An award, I mean.

No awards for me. Nooooo awards.

Nope.

Nada.

Nuthin'.


Ah well…

Although, come to think of it, I was whining about something at work the other night, and I caught someone doing that tiny violin hand motion in time to my complaining, so that’s kind of like an ovation, right?


No?


Darn.

But hey, I’m no sour puss. And if no one is going to hand me any awards, what better way to soothe my ego and feel all high and mighty - I mean, humble and generous - than to hand out a few awards myself.

And not to be outdone by Harrisburg Magazine - well, except for the pseudo-diversity of content and slick photo spreads - I’m taking it upon myself to hand out some of my own ding-dong-dang awards to those people, places and institutions who and which have made my life - me, mine, moi - a tad more palatable and comfortable with downhome versions of cosmopolitan amenities, the likes of which I’ve been sorely missing since moving from Philadelphia to Arkansas

I mean, Central Pennsylvania.

I’ll admit it: for a girl who grew up frequently using outhouses and not thinking twice, I am a snob. And fussy.

Eh-hem.

And so without further ado, and in no particular order…


Best Place To Eat Something In Central PA That Isn’t Covered in Breading and Fried in Lard or Lard Substitute

I like me some Thai Palace at 3608 Market Street in Camp Hill. Although, technically, I think it’s located in Hampden Township. Yay Hampden Township!

(I’m trying to find a stinking link to the place, but no go.)

Okay, with all that chili oil and coconut milk, this ain’t necessarily health food. But really, if you’re in the mood for greasy anyway, grab an order of the duck with coconut and pineapple curry. And the soups will brighten even the darkest night of the soul, all while clearing-out your sinuses and scenting your breath with lemongrass. And it even smells better when you spill it on yourself. I’m just saying.

Bonus: If you go to Thai Palace with little kids, the hostess may let the kiddies play with all the cool native instruments adorning the restaurant. I don’t know whether they’ll extend the offer to adults, so if you want to fiddle with the big wooden xylophone looking thing - well, not fiddle - grab someone’s kid to go along when you pick up your take out.

Mmmmmmm…lemongrass.


Best Guy To Fix Your Volkswagen

If your Golf is running low on farfegnugen, or if the flueven hueven isn’t groovin’ and movin’ on your Jetta, you best get your German-lovin’ backside to Floyd’s Garage, 18 Gettysburg Pike in Mechanicsburg (although, it may be Upper Allen Township, who the hell can tell around here?)

Floyd is a man of few words. And he has no time for the silliness that goes on at “Country Mark-up” Nursery (that’s a genuine Floydism) down the pike and their overpriced petunias, he’s made that very plain to me. He’s also told me with steely gaze and the dismissive shrug of a man who knows his way around a set of metric wrenches and a John Wayne movie, that I was a sucker for paying $500 for tires at Sears, even though that price included free rotation and balancing for the life of the car. C’mon, Floyd! That has to be a bargain, right?

Floyd just shakes his head and pinches a dip of his Redman chew.

(Well, maybe he didn’t really dip any Redman. But, he could have.)

Anyway… I felt justly chastised.

Don‘t get me wrong. Floyd is a good guy, salt of the earth. I’d trust Floyd with…well, with my spanking-new, soccer mom-approved Toyota Sienna, impeccably engineered and delicately scented with crushed Cheerios and Japanese lotus blossoms. But, I’ve also never felt more like a non-man than at Floyd’s Garage. In fact, I’d never send my husband there with the Golf. He’d return completely emasculated. Maybe even wearing lace panties.

But, does Floyd know Volkswagens? Let me tell ya…

About two years ago while driving the Golf and minding my own beeswax, for no good reason that I could figure all of the little warning lights on the dashboard suddenly went haywire, flashing and pulsing like a Munich discotheque. In the bad part of Munich. The car seemed to still be running fine, and I figured the red glowing icon of all four tires exploding at once was activated by, you know, a jiggly wire.

Or something.

Growing up, 99% of all my car problems (that weren’t precipitated by me running over cement parking barriers or bumping down dirt roads on my way to keg parties) seemed to be solved by my father reaching under the dashboard and jiggling some wires.

And I probably would have been able to ignore all the dancing lights were it not for the two words feared by all Pennsylvania drivers: State Inspection.

Damn.

Back in the day, if your dad hunted with the local mechanic, you could get an inspection sticker for the price of deer steak and the promise to not drive the car over 40 miles an hour or into the wind. But today? Psssshhhht. You gotta have the real inspection and everything.

At the very least, the first three mechanics who looked at the Golf were honest about scratching their head and throwing up their hands. In Philly, they’d be just as likely to fix the problem by cutting the wires to the dashboard lights and then charging me $500. Like Sears. (Oh, evil, evil Sears.)

Finally, Dave of Dave’s Sunoco in Mechanicsburg (and I think it’s really IN Mechanicsburg) quite righteously steered me in the direction of Floyd. And Floyd told me, without blinking, that from where he stood and from what he knew about Golfs, this problem was either going to cost $70 or $1700, and then - God love him - Floyd managed to fix the problem (for real) for $70.

And once when asking Floyd whether our 1998 Golf - with 78,000+ miles, missing hubcaps, a crushed bumper, and a tendency to break down whenever we’d just stretched our monthly budget to make an extra payment on our mortgage - asked him whether it would last us another winter or two, Floyd narrowed his eyes and budged his leathered jaw into the slightest shadow of a grin and reckoned,

“78,000 miles?

Car’s not even broken in yet.”


Thank you, Floyd. Thank you.


Best Coffee Joint To Hang Out With Your Mommy Posse and Kids

This one is tricky, cause see, I work at A Big Bookstore Which Shall Not Be Named and really, I think they have a pretty fine and dandy café there. Even more dandy when you consider that I get a 50% discount on lattes and chocolate cheesecake.

But a few days ago, I wandered in to The Little Coffeehouse on 115 St. John’s Church Rd, in…in…MechanicsHillShip…HamCamBurg…okay, if you’re on the Carlisle Pike driving west from Camp Hill through Hampden Township toward Mechanicsburg, after you pass the dejected-looking Good’s Furniture on the left, get ready to make a left onto St. John’s Church Road. The Little Coffeehouse is a few yards down on your left.

Or just mapquest it.

Where was I?

Oh…so a few days ago, I wandered in to The Little Coffeehouse to grab me some hazelnut steamer -

because, you know, even though I heartily applaud the fact that Starbucks is trying so hard to figure out this recycled-content cup, and I want to support their at least pretending to be hip to the whole fair trade thing by offering whole bean coffee packaged in PANTONE® Eco-Friendly Color Scheme bags with graphics approved by Guatemalan Fair Trade Advertising Executives…



…and what the heck is “recycled-content” anyway? It sounds like someone backwashed into your mochaccino…

jeepers, I can’t stay on track here….

Anyway, sometimes I simply like to hand over my dollars and cents to the mom and pop joints, the little guys. You know, as long as they’re not surly.

But no one is surly at The Little Coffeehouse! Recently under new management and - best of all - minus the LARGE SCREEN TV THAT PLAYED “COPS, BAD BOY, BAD BOY, WHAT YA GONNA DO” at nine in the morning when you were still trying to get your head together and wanted nothing more than to pretend that you were vacationing, if only for a minute, in a peaceful, cobblestoned village in lavender-dipped Provence - double jeez -The Little Coffeehouse is comfy, cozy with mixed-and-mingled stuffy chairs and sofas in one room, and tables ready for games of checkers or chess or a few hours of quiet journal writing or Suduko in the adjoining room.

And although there isn’t a dedicated Self Improvement or Business Management reading section or a selection of magazines ranging from Bangladesh VOGUE to Poodle Fancier, I think that the shelf of well-worn miscellaneous books is still propped against the far wall, ready to borrow and browse over your steaming cuppa.

And here’s the best part, mommies: The Little Coffeehouse will be toddler friendly.

Or at least, that’s the new owner’s plan. After I shook her hand and thanked her for removing the blaring plasma panel, the owner talked a bit about her idea for bringing in some children’s toys and books and dedicating a section of one room to mommy-kiddo outings for the pre-preschool set, making it as welcoming and safe as possible for wee ones wandering amidst hot coffee and hot mommas using big hand gestures while animatedly discussing the redefinition of “feminism” to include minivans and Pampered Chef home parties as well as practical shoes and secret crushes on k.d. lang.

I am sincerely thrilled.


But never fear. If knee-biters give you the heebie-jeebies, relax in knowing that most rugrats are home by noon for lunch and a nap, so the coffeehouse is all yours in the afternoon and evening.

Now open until 11:00 PM, and look for brunch on Sunday coming soon.



Okay, there’s three awards.

I did go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on, didn’t I?

Gah.


Anywho, watch this space for more local yokel Halushki Awards, also coming soon. For now, thank you so much for your time and attention to these deserving award recipients. Although I’m only a presenter, I’m humbly honored even to type on the same page as the winners' illustrious names. That I also typed. With much humility and no thought for myself.

Drive home safely, (but please, don’t worry yourselves about me.)

Goodnight and God bless.

Mr. Conti, please bring up the orchestra.


Now would someone find my freakin’ hair and make-up girl so I can fire her.