flashback: comfort in a can.

today was not a good day. it was just stressful and disorganized and by the time i left work (twelve hours after i started work) i was a bit of a frazzled mess. i got home and went to my cupboard to pull out the big guns, my ultimate comfort food.

deviled chicken in a can.

yes. i, the elitist foodie, absolutely love the deviled chicken that comes from that little paper-wrapped can you find in the creepily-named "canned meat" section of the grocery store. there's usually a can tucked in my cupboard, kept there just for those bad days when nothing goes right.

i didn't grow up near my grandparents. i got to see them maybe once a year as part of epic cross-country drives in the family van. my dad's parents lived in southern utah, my mom's parents near seattle. at the little yellow house in southern utah, i feasted on home-made banana-nut cookies and fresh apricots and ate dried bananas while i sat on my grandpa's knee. in washington, at the green house with the big bush out front, it was cocoa pebbles in the morning and deviled chicken sandwiches on wonder bread for lunch, accompanied by carrots pulled right out of the ground, dusted off on the thigh of my grandpa's slacks. (washing the carrots ruined the flavor.) i was the only person in my family who liked the chicken, besides my grandfather, so he and i would split a can and enjoy our special, secret, delicious sandwiches, half-pitying all the crazy people who didn't know the joys of canned chicken on wonder bread.

i had a special kind of relationship with my grandpa green. i was closer to him than any of my siblings were, right up until the end of his life. it makes me sad, sometimes, that no one else got to know him like i did-- not as the stern, vaguely-scary version of him they saw, but the mellowed, sweet man he became later in life. the man who played my little ponies with me and took me to feed the ducks (wearing his green cardigan and fedora, which i remember still, clear as day). the man who would sit on the sofa with me and ask me to talk about god with him. the man who shared his favorite sandwich with me.

that's why i really love chicken sandwiches-- not because of their actual culinary value, but because they remind me of all of that. because, with every single bite, there's a memory. and that's why, for those bad days, i keep that little can in my cupboard, so that i can tear the paper off and remember that things are okay after all.

recipe: tomato soup.

sunday night, i tried a recipe for spaghetti alla puttanesca.  (let's not worry about the etymology of that name right now.)  it was my first encounter with puttanesca, as well as my first encounter with those salty little sons of the sea, anchovies.  now, i'm sure it was a well-written recipe, and i'm sure it was a tasty dish for fans of puttanesca.  i'm also sure that i am not one of those fans.  the tomatoes, garlic, and greek olives were wonderful.  i'm probably going to make a sauce made of just that in the future.  it was the anchovies, i think.  and the capers.  oh, lord, too many capers.  my tongue felt as though it was being assaulted.  too bitter, too salty.  not for me.

the title of this post, however, is "tomato soup."  so let's move on to the soup.

the puttanesca recipe called for part of a can of tomato paste. (well... a whole can, but i split the recipe because i am cooking for one, after all.)  i hate letting things go to waste in my fridge, so i was determined to find something delicious to do with that tomato paste.  and oh, i found it.  how i found it.  tomato soup so good i was a little in love by the time i finished my bowl. pomme d'amour indeed.  and one of the best things about this dish is that i already had everything i needed to make it, save for the fire-roasted tomatoes.  (which are $.79 a can at target, by the way.)

plans: brenda + food = luv 4-evah

one of my goals right now is to develop a healthier relationship with food-- the key word here being "relationship." i want to be involved with my food. instead of having a craving for something and turning the the cupboard or freezer to grab a quick-fix convenience food, i want to create something. i want to satisfy every aspect of that craving, not just taste. i want to smell the food cooking. i want to touch the ingredients and measure them in my palms and feel the grit of kosher salt in my fingers. i want to see everything coming together just right. and then, when i finally do taste it, i know it will absolutely satisfy that craving because everything that is in that food i put there. it was literally made to suit me.

the rewards? fewer preservatives and what-is-that ingredients, a greater appreciation for what i eat, a boost in creativity, and a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction every evening when i finally flop down on the couch. a greater feeling of satisfaction will hopefully lead to less need to snack. a one-dish attack of custom-fit flavor will fix every craving instead of needing different things to cure the need for salty, sweet, and noodles (my cravings of choice).

the difficulties? "oh my gosh, i just spent eight hours trying to write this stupid project at work. screw you, raw chicken breast. pass me the instant gratification."