Recipe: Osso Bucco
A few people have asked me for this recipe so I figured this was the easiest way to post it. Try to buy the veal shanks when they’re on sale otherwise they’re realllllllly expensive. If you have some farfalle noodles (or rice) and a green salad, this recipe can feed 4-6 people.
Ingredients:
Regular Pantry items: salt, pepper, olive oil, a few tbls flour, thyme (1 1/2 tsp chopped fresh OR 1/4 tsp crumbled dried), and rosemary (1 1/2 tsp chopped fresh OR 1/4 tsp crumbled dried)
Meat: 3 lb veal shanks (4-6 shanks depending on size)
Aromatics: 2 medium carrots, 1 large onion, 1 medium stalk celery, 2-4 large clove garlic, 2 large shallots - all diced in small pieces
Binders:
2 medium tomatoes, seeded and diced OR one 15 oz. can diced tomatoes, drained (I use one of the flavored canned by Hunts - depending on my mood)
1 small can tomato paste
1 cup apple cider
1 cup low-sodium beef broth
Optional Garnish items: chopped cherry tomatoes and chopped parsley
1. Turn 5-quart (or larger) crockpot to low and allow to heat up for a few minutes.
2. Sprinkle veal shanks with salt and pepper and dredge in flour, shaking off excess. Heat oil in a large skillet and brown the veal shanks 5 minutes per side on medium-high heat (don’t crowd pan - you may need to do this in batches).
3. Transfer browned veal to warmed crockpot.
4. To browning skillet add all of the chopped Aromatic veggies. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally until veggies are soft (about 5 minutes). Add Tomatoes, Tomato Paste, Rosemary, Thyme, Cider and Broth and bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Pour mixture over shanks in crockpot but Do Not Stir!
5. Cover crockpot and cook 8-10 hours on Low heat until shanks are tender. Remove shanks from crockpot and keep warm. Turn crockpot to High and cook, uncovered, until sauce is thick (about 10-15 minutes).
6. Serve veal over rice or noodles. Spoon veggie mixture over top. Garnish with parsley and fresh tomatoes.
This is really foolproof. Just don’t remove the lid during the 8 hours! It sets the cooking time back 15-30 minute when you do. Warm apple cider and some apple pie for dessert really make this a meal good enough for company.
Enjoy!
“Rubber Ducky, I’m awfully fond of you…”
I had to take Brinkley and Bogie on a BIG walk today because they were going to be alone for longer than usual. I figured if they were completely tired they wouldn’t mind being in their crates. Of course, I didn’t really take into consideration that I would also be completely tired.
Somewhere around the 1 1/2 mile marker (mostly uphill) I decided to actually look at the dogs. I usually walk with my head up and and my gaze level because I’m trying to maintain correct posture. I’ve also learned that if I spend too much time looking down at the dogs they think a treat is about to hit them and they sloooooooow down or stop. So I generally treat the walk as though I’m actually in charge. Not the truth, but…
So around the 1 1/2 mile marker I looked down at the dogs and noticed that Brinkley had picked up a 2-foot long stick and was walking very nicely with it. No big deal; he’s done that since he’s a puppy. After all he is a retriever. I look at Bogie…he’s also walking nicely with something in his mouth.
Not a stick.
It’s a child’s rubber ducky!
Now I’m laughing out loud, and that sets Brinkley off. He drops his stick and begins to gallop around me trying to figure out why I’m suddenly animated, and I’m busy trying to get the ducky away from Bogie who thinks I’m playing with him. I’m laughing and trying not to be pulled to the ground by two excited doggies. I have no idea how long Bogie had the ducky, but I left it along the curb in case someone came looking for it.
Why doesn’t this ever happen to Thunder when he walks the boys?
I Believe…
in acceptance of all people – race, creed, color, ethnicity, lifestyle
that children should be cuddled more than chided
in baking brownies and calling on the new neighbors
that the universe created figs just for me
in the promise of spring on that first warm day in April
that learning is lifelong
that stories about the human condition and the ironic, bombastic, insightful language used to describe it should be taught in schools based on two writers: William Shakespeare and Aaron Sorkin
that each of us should be immortalized in our own special folk song
in the stress-reduction properties of twinkling white lights on the little trees lining the West Village streets during the holidays
in patronizing the small business owner whenever possible
the only thing I have to fear is fear itself…and penguins – I really hate penguins
that I’m a stronger, better human being than I was when I was 20…at least I hope so
in the legend of Pinus and I can’t wait until I’m 60 to participate
in Chef’s Salty Chocolate Balls
in reincarnation, and that the theme song from Love American Style will still be running through my brain at the oddest moments in my next life
that even one act of kindness makes a difference
in hot chocolate with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it
that I’ve reached my tipping point in my ability to handle new technology…on the other hand if “IPod” were a cult, I would shave my head and beg people for money in the airport to support it
in cleaning out the basement every year whether I want to or not
that some occupations are more noble than others
that red toenails are sexy but red fingernails are slutty
that any television show titled “My Three Sons” should only have three sons
in a Christmas tree even though I really don’t celebrate Christmas
in the Sweet Potato Queens’ view of life and love
that my dreams are way more vivid and imaginatively odd than the norm, based on the stunned stares and general laughter that ensues when I describe my dreams
that I should be able to have an intelligent conversation after 8:30pm, but it hardly ever happens
that even though children love the Harry Potter books, they’re really for adults
the most famous classic blunder is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well-known is “Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line”
that you really have to like the person you’re in love with so that you have something to talk about as you fall out of love, then back in love, then out of love, then back in love
that two dogs are not twice the work, but two cats would have been half the trouble
that somewhere in the world my childhood best friend, Michelle, thinks about me sometimes too
there are very good people in every part of the world, but we often only hear about the bad eggs
that I should have worked harder in science when I was in high school and college because most of the careers I wish I had now require it
that I have zany charm – my Myers-Briggs assessment says so
that sometimes you just have to put your head down and keep going…what else ya gonna do?
that I’m not the only middle-aged woman who still has Bobby Sherman memorabilia hanging around
that I’m not the only middle-aged woman who still has a Vietnam MIA/POW bracelet hanging around
that everything is a choice…and ‘not choosing’ is still a making a choice
that getting through the day is made easier by what I Believe.
“Courage” - It Doesn’t Have An Expiration Date
I wrote the following Op-Ed piece in the aftermath of a terrible Tuesday morning eight years ago. I am grateful that so many newspapers across the country published this piece in the two-week window after that devastating day.
“COURAGE”
“Do you go into the city often?”
I snapped my head up from my newspaper and looked into the wrinkled face of the elderly woman seated next to me. Her chubby cheeks and protruding chin made her look like a turtle. Her hair was a stark shade of white, so white that I could not figure out what color it had originally been. She was wearing a green warm-up suit made of some crinkled material. I thought, “This is what the Ninja Turtles will look like at 70.” I am at my most sarcastic and unkind when I am tired. And today had been a particularly tiring day.
The train was nearly full when I got on. I took the first available seat to avoid standing for the 25-minute ride home. I was exhausted and cranky. I had been volunteering at a restaurant on Canal Street in Manhattan, serving food to the firefighters, police officers and emergency workers involved in the recovery efforts at the World Trade Center site. I was feeling noble and full of myself for my volunteer efforts, wearing my grease-stained clothing as a badge of honor. All I wanted to do was change my pace, catch up on the news and get into a bath.
The train had just started to move when the turtle sitting next to me tried a different approach.
“Do you spend a lot of time in downtown Manhattan?”
She was handing me a piece of paper containing a picture of a young man, a list of vital statistics and a phone number to be called if anyone had any news to report. The page was limp from repeated foldings and unfoldings.
“Have you ever met my son?”
I wanted to kick myself.
Here I was, feeling so smug about my compassionate efforts and this woman’s life had been completely and irrevocably destroyed by this tragedy. And all she wanted was someone to listen to her.
In that instant the whole world became a pinprick of time and space. Nothing existed except the two of us on that brown naugahyde train seat. I reached for her hand and met her blazing, red-rimmed blue eyes. I wondered if she had earned this wrinkled, wearied face over a lifetime or in just the past week.
“He’s a broker in the World Trade Center,” she said, using the present tense. When she mentioned the name of a particularly devastated company, I realized that she had not accepted the inevitable. She told me how he was supposed to be on a business trip to London and Paris that day, but the trip was canceled at the last minute. “If he had been on that trip,” she continued, “he’d probably still be over there since so many people have been inconvenienced by this terrible thing,” completely missing the irony in her own statement.
Tears streamed down my face as she proudly listed his accomplishments. Track star in high school. Four years in the US Navy. College. Dean’s List. Graduate School. Marriage in February to a wonderful daughter-in-law. I listened and smiled through my tears. But she didn’t cry. Not even a sniffle. I figured that she had cried enough as she told this tale many times in the past week, wandering from police station to hospital to news vehicles to the Armory where the missing and dead were cataloged. She needed to keep repeating the story hoping that someone would tell her what she wanted to hear.
I would have traveled to the end of the train line with her if necessary, but we both got off at the Maplewood station. I held her hand for a moment and then I hugged her. As she slowly made her way to the waiting commuter minibus, the driver got out to help her up the stairs. This frail little woman turned to the man and asked, “Do you go into the city often?”
“Please listen to her,” I silently begged the stranger, “Dear God, please listen.”
California, Here I Come…
…at 4:30am. That’s a.m. Morning. Brinkley and Bogie didn’t wake up when we left. No one in my neighborhood seemed to be awake. There were very few cars on the road. If we had a rooster, it would still be asleep!
And yet, there were plenty of people at Newark-Liberty International Airport, all bustling off to somewhere. 4:30am? Really? You people have lives that put you in an airport at 4:30am?
It’s probably true here in the NYC area, in Los Angeles and in Chicago. But where we’re going – 6 hours north of San Francisco – I’m betting nobody has a life that forces him/her to an airport at 4:30am. In fact, I’m counting on it.
Bury Me When I’m Dead and Gone…or When I Become Incontinent
Old. People.
I spend a good part of my day dealing with senior citizens. Most are very nice, some are cranky, and a few are downright scary. Like the woman who drove slowly into the metal-pipe handrail at the back of my building. I didn’t actually see her drive into it, but her car’s front bumper was bent around it in the exact shape of the pipe. If she had BANGed into the pipe, her bumper would have had more obvious damage. Instead, it looked like she slowly worked her way up to it and then kept pressing around it. You know…she wanted to be close to the building. When I called this strange situation to her attention as she was leaving, she claimed her bumper had always been like that. You know, perfectly fitting around this particular pipe structure. Generally speaking, I wait until I’m sure she’s far away before I get into my car to go home.
Yesterday I was at the grocery store waiting on line at the checkout behind yet another kind of old people: the funny kind.
A man and woman, either long-married or long-together, were on the checkout line in front of me. Let’s call them Hortense and Alfred. Hortense was unloading the cart onto the conveyor belt and Alfred was standing behind the cart, waiting mostly. Hortense lifts a package of Pampers Pull-Ups out of the cart.
Hortense: (speaking a little too loudly) What’s this? 
Alfred: (taking the package from her and placing it on the belt) I need these! The stuff I use isn’t working right. I’m leaking too much.
Hortense: (taking it off the belt) They’re for kids, not adults!
Alfred: Yeah! You don’t see kids dripping all over the place. These are better.
Hortense: (exasperated and shaking the package at Alfred) They’re for kids! They won’t fit you!
Alfred: Oh, they’ll be fine! You worry too much!
Hortense: And they’re for girls!
Alfred: What difference does it make!
Hortense: Look this isn’t going to work. (handing them to Alfred) Take them back.
Alfred: Well, I need something…how about those things you used to use. You know…
Hortense: (still speaking too loudly) What?! You mean sanitary pads? You can’t use those…
Alfred: No, the other things. The things you put inside. They’re all over the TV now…they’re supposed to be pretty good.
Hortense: (now, completely worked up) Are you crazy?!!! Where would you put those???
Alfred: I don’t know…wherever you put them, I guess.
Hortense: (ready to blow her stack) …*blink*…*blink*…YOU are an idiot! Put these back!
Alfred: (shuffling away with the Pull-Ups and muttering) …still need something…
I was trying so, so, SO hard to not laugh throughout this transaction. I could have moved to another checkout line, I guess, but then I would have missed all the fun. Hortense continued to load the conveyor belt, muttering to herself. I busied myself with a Rachael Ray magazine while she finished. When Alfred returned, empty-handed, they finished their shopping business as though nothing odd had previously occurred.
I’ve already explained to Thunder that he should begin now thinking about where to hide my body after he puts me out of his misery.
It’s Always Something…
I know. It’s been quiet lately. I’ve been struggling with some health issues. I’m hoping that some of the rather drastic changes I’ve made this past week (under a doctor’s supervision) will improve the problem.
I can’t really continue to live with the old methods.
I think it’s killing me.
So, we try something new. While drastic, it can’t be worse that the non-functional way my body is currently trying to slog ahead. The new method has diminished my pain over the past few days, and that alone is worth a great deal to me.
We’ll see…
I’m Not Violating the Dog If It Saves Me $35, Right?
Brinkley is a black Labrador Retriever. This is his puppy picture.
Very adorable, right? Right.
However, the maxim regarding Labs is “Watch Ears and Rears.” Their ears get full of gunk that has to be cleaned out regularly. Their rears also get full of…uh…gunk, of sorts. Specifically, their anal glands fill up and have to be expressed from time to time. You’ll know when it’s time because the dog is scooting his butt along your very best rug.
Very digusting, right? Right.
Now, Brinkley has been scooting for several days. Often, this problem will resolve itself if I just give Mother Nature a little time. But not always. In the past I’ve taken him to the vet and the tech slaps on a pair of latex gloves and lubes up her fingers, and then it becomes an episode of South Park. Poor Brinkley looks at me with those big eyes as if to say, “I hope she’s paying US for this. I’m going to get some cut of this, aren’t I?”
After a few visits, the tech told me that I could learn to express the glands myself. I just needed patience, a relaxed manner, and some basic instruction. She gave me my own gloves and lube and had me practice. Now Brinkley was looking at me as if to say, “Really, Mommy? Et tu?” But it would be worth it if I could save cash every time he needed it.
Very practical on my part, right? Right?
So tonight was one of those times. I just couldn’t see him in discomfort anymore. I hadn’t “practiced” in a little while, but I thought I could provide at least some relief for the poor doggie. I gathered up the latex gloves and the lube, some paper towels, and a special sweet-smelling Butt Spray for afterwards. No, they really make such a thing for just this activity. Why? Because the secretion from the Anal Gland? Disgusting liquid…stains everything and is heinous-smelling. This is not an activity you want to perform in the house. Why? See Above Re: Staining and Heinous.
I coax Brinkley onto the stoop out the side door of the kitchen. It’s a small cement stoop with 3 steps down to the side walkway. I figured this would be an enclosed area where I could corral Brinkley and get the job done without him escaping. Cuz Brinkley - he’s already on to me. The moment I took out the latex, his doggie-anxiety antennae went up. Dogs have amazing smell receptors. Brinkley can smell latex if I simply move the box around. So it took some effort to get him out there, but I managed eventually. I also decided this was a good place to fumble around inside my dog’s anus because the stoop is mostly secluded. Not entirely, but mostly.
I lube up. I…uh…sally forth into the task at hand (no pun intended). I’m making some progress. I can feel the gland is diminishing as I milk it into the paper towel. Surely, this will be good for my boy.
Just then, the UPS guy parks his big, brown truck at the curb between my house and the house next door. This is where the “not entirely” part of ’secluded’ becomes important. This is our usual delivery guy; he’s been to my front door many, many times. He hops out of the truck and waves to me as he moves across my neighbor’s lawn.
What would you do? I ask you…what would YOU do? Wouldn’t YOU reflexively wave back? Since my left hand was still holding tightly onto Brinkley’s collar preventing his escape, I whipped my right hand out of my dog’s butt and waved at the nice delivery man.
Oh. The. Horror.
At about the same time he quickened his pace to put distance between us, I realized what my gloved, “expressed” hand looked like. I’m pretty sure it was not how this man wanted to end his workday. I’m also pretty sure that the shirts I ordered online are never going to be delivered now.
We’re headed back to the vet tech tomorrow to let her finish the job.
Very wise decision on my part, right? Right.
Neutrality is a Tricky Thing: A One-Act Play about Self-Absorption, World War II and Hats
Setting: Early Evening. Tempest is watching television with two dogs draped across her lap. Thunder enters the room, showered, wearing new pants and shirt and getting ready to leave for a tournament.
Thunder: What do you think of this shirt?
Tempest: Shirt?
Th: Yeah, how does it look? Should I wear this one or the other one we bought?
Te: (Looks at Thunder. Thinks he looks fine and doesn’t think it matters which shirt he wears.) Hmmm, you know what? I think I’m…Denmark.
Th: Denmark?
Te: Yeah, I’m neutral. I can’t be Switzerland any more. We used to always say, “I’m Switzerland.” You know, your friends are arguing. They turn to you to sort it out. You want to stay out of it. We used to say, “I’m Switzerland.” But then we found out that Switzerland wasn’t neutral. They were helping the Nazis all over the place. Hell, they were picking out flatware and monogrammed towels with the Nazis. We just didn’t know it. So now, I’m Denmark…
Th: Uh…no, I don’t think so…
Te: Denmark?
Th: “Occupied Denmark” I believe is the phrase. Adolph and the boys wandered in and took over. Maybe not “rah rah, Germany,” but the Danes weren’t removed from the war, either. Can’t be neutral with people high-stepping all over your countryside.
Te: Okay, so what am I? Sweden?
Th: Uh…debatable. They allowed the Nazis to use the Swedish railways throughout the country. Not exactly neutral, no.
Te: Canada?
Th: Nope, they entered the war early with Great Britain.
Te: Okay, how about… American Samoa?
Th: With a U.S. military base there? Nothing in the Pacific was neutral.
Te: Not even Papua New Guinea?
Th: What?
Te: I just like saying it…Papua New Guinea, Papua New Guinea… Okay, so what am I?
Th: Well, you could be Argentina, I guess. Didn’t pick sides, and sold supplies to everyone. Declared war on Germany, but only after Germany surrendered. But probably… the most neutral country was Vatican City. Limited resources, couldn’t provide supplies to anyone, had nothing to offer either side as far as strength… hell, they couldn’t organize enough Cardinals to play a soccer match…the most they could have done was throw stones across the border at the Nazis or Allies.
Te: …how do you know this?
Th: I read a book.
Te: More like 5 books.
Th: I got game.
Te: No kidding. Okay, so I’m the Vatican. Nobody is going to know what that means if I say it. They knew what “I’m Switzerland” meant. Now when I say “I’m the Vatican,” they’re going to think of big, pointy hats and fussy robes. I kind of like the big pointy hat. And the vibrant red the Cardinals wear would look good on me. If I could be Argentina, then people would think about Gauchos. They wore those long ponchos and hats with little balls on them and cool boots. (Thunder bends down and kisses Tempest on the cheek before heading for the front door.) If I were Papua New Guinea, I have no idea what I’d be wearing, but it would have to be lightweight and comfortable. It’s got to be hotter than hell there, right? Papua New Guinea…Papua New Guinea… Hey! I wonder how I would look in that hat with little balls on it. Do you think I would look good in a hat with little balls on it? And what about the Cardinals’ hat? It looks like an upside down Chinese takeout box with its own big pom-pom on that. Would I look better in the Argentine hat or the Cardinals’ hat?
Th: (stopped listening long ago and is already wandering out the door) Sorry… I can’t hear you… I’m all the way over here in Vatican City…see you later!
and SCENE
May IS National Masturbation Month! Yeah!
May is here! It’s Spring! Flowers! Birdies! Masturbation! (WHA?)
Gather ‘round, kiddies. I have a bedtime story for you.
Once upon a time, there was a land where the overlords suppressed many, many personal freedoms of the lowly people…Actually, there were a lot of lands where this happened…Actually, we live in one of them…but I digress.
Okay, you want a bedtime story? Here it is from Menstuff:
“…Today, in many parts of the world (including the U.S.) children are punished if they are caught masturbating, which can affect their sexuality for the rest of their lives. Adults in cultures across the globe are presented with heterosexual marriage as the only acceptable form of sexual expression. Masturbation is not honored as an important form of safer sex, much less as a way a person can love herself, learn about himself, or exercise, as one wonderful Chinese euphemism puts it, “self-comfort.”
Yes, that’s right, May is National Masturbation Month. And since there’s a lot of talk now-a-days about getting back to basics, well…it’s organic, it’s free, it’s natural relaxation so it’s good for you.
I could also mention that May is also National Stroke Awareness Month…so what more do I need to say to convince you?
C’mon…give yourself a hand.