The Toasted Tomato

Oh, dear bottle of buttermilk, why are you so big? And why are your contents always needed in such small amounts? These are questions I’ve been asking myself for years now, especially after I read a recipe for muffins, say, and discover I need a quarter cup of the stuff to make them extra moist.

I traipse to the grocery story, scan the dairy fridges and compare three brands: Kroger, Southern Belle and Prairie Farms. I don’t actually care which brand is best, all I’m interested in is the best-before date, since I know I’m going to need the longest amount of time possible to use up this half gallon.

And let’s just think about that for a moment. Because, yes, I said, “half gallon.” If you can’t picture how big that is in buttermilk terms, let me just tell you there are 32 quarter cups in a half gallon. That, dear readers, is a lot of muffins.

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I’ve just returned from the carwash, where I’ve sat nearly every second day for the past month. I’ve become intimately acquainted with the wash and rinse cycles and even more familiar with how much it hurts when I have to hand over $7 to get grey-looking water sprayed over my hood.

But the expense has been necessary ever since a certain bluebird made a home in one of our birch trees.

It all started four weeks ago when my stepdaughter Gabrielle and I were getting in the car to drive to school. As Gabrielle went to sit down, she couldn’t help but notice a shocking pile of white and brown stains running from the lip of the windowsill down the length of the door.

“That’s one sick bird,” she said, giggling.

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This column, which ran in The Sentinel-Echo, was written in the aftermath of a tornado that hit East Bernstadt, Ky., on March 2, 2012. It claimed six lives.

When I met Eric Allen for the first time, truth be told, he looked slightly nervous. We were in the foyer by the North Laurel High auditorium, and I was there to interview him about his experiences in the marching band. Tucked up beside him was his mom Debbie, who, at first, answered most of the questions I lobbed Eric’s way.

I’d looked forward to the interview ever since Mr. McFadden — one of the best teachers in Laurel County, as far as I’m concerned — called me to let me know about Eric.

“Wait until you see this kid,” he said. “He’s an inspiration.”

Indeed, as soon as I met him, I knew it was true. Eric had a strength about him that was beyond his 17 years. He was quiet but kind. Seemed content. Poised.

When I asked him what it was like being in the marching band, despite the hardship of having spina bifida — a garish question that, unfortunately, needed to be asked — he didn’t flinch.

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When my friend asked me a few months ago if I’d like to jump in a lake in the middle of February in support of Special Olympics, I immediately felt the only answer a Canadian could reasonably offer was, “Absolutely.”

So last Saturday, I stood on a dock along with a few girlfriends and my stepdaughter Gabrielle in advance of the Polar Bear Plunge, an annual event on Lake Cumberland that attracts dozens of divers and raises lots of money. Though it was a sunny day, it was a chilly 43 degrees, with the wind off the water neatly scooping up strands of my hair and depositing them in my mouth whenever I happened to open it.

“I, umm, don’t want to do this,” Gabrielle announced as she watched two jumpers emerge from a houseboat wearing ballerina outfits. “This was a terrible idea. I don’t … I just don’t know what I was thinking.”

Her lack of thought made me somewhat thoughtful, and as we watched the ladies plug their noses, jump in and emerge with shocked looks on their faces, I was brought back, way back to my childhood, when going for a swim was a lesson in hypothermia management.

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I think we can all agree we’d gotten pretty ripped off this winter. Especially compared to the glory of last year, when snow fell nearly every other day, this winter had been blaher than the blahiest of blahs.

Every day had been about the same: not that warm, not that cold, just that disturbingly bland designation of “luke.” And so, for the past several months, our views have been that of bare trees, stunted grass, deserted streets and leaves that wish they could just decompose except the wind keeps picking them up and tossing them around.

Even poor 11-year-old Gabrielle, who has the most optimistic of outlooks, had stopped wishing for snow. She knew from just a mere glance outside there wasn’t a snowball’s chance of getting any so she strapped on her backpack and trudged to school for another long, tepid day. She didn’t put ice in the toilet the night before, she didn’t do her snow dance, she just went to sleep, not cozy, not cheery, just tired.

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I feel like I write about this every year around this time, but, listen folks, I am out of ideas for what to make for dinner tonight. In fact, I’ve just spent the last hour wandering around on epicurious.com to try to get inspired. Sure, I’ve managed to decide on what to make tomorrow and how to use this leftover pork tenderloin that’s been in the freezer for a month, but the menu for tonight continues to be blank, blank, blank.

See, I started off wanting to use this pumpkin purée I have left over from Christmas pumpkin pie. I’d planned on pumpkin ravioli and already bought the wonton wrappers so I wouldn’t have to make the pasta. Well, when I started searching for recipes, I discovered that pumpkin ravioli is served almost exclusively with a butter, cream or butter-cream sauce.

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So I ask you this: Who doesn’t love Ike Adams? I, for one, would like to count myself as one of his biggest fans — and thank him for his kind words following our wins at the Kentucky Press Association awards. Ike — he insists I don’t call him Mr. Adams — is one of the best writers in Kentucky, and the stories he shares with us each week are as much narratives as important documents that capture culture in 500 words or less.

I first started reading him on a deadline day years ago when we needed to get the paper proofed. Bent over the page with marking pen in hand, shoulders tense with pressed time, I was in no mood for literature. But when Ike started talking about Blair Branch — and yes, “talking” rather than “writing” seems like the more appropriate verb here — I was immediately enveloped. I could feel the warm summer air, I could hear the critters in the distance, I could smell the breakfast sizzling in his mom’s skillet and I could just imagine eating it too. I looked closer. This stuff was good, incredibly wholesome and good.

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I walked into the change room at the Y this morning and saw it was empty. Small, wet footprints leading to the pool were the only signs anyone had been around, and I felt instant relief I could do this alone.

But as I walked in farther, past the mirrors that make you look skinny and the lockers that make you remember high school, dread replaced the initial relief. For there, in the corner, was The Scale looking strict and unhappy, almost as if she could smell the brownies on my breath from the night before. I inched forward and prayed I’d get lucky, that maybe my jeans really had shrunk in the drier. And my T-shirts had too.

It was a weigh-in that was a long time in coming. At the beginning of December, I decided I would avoid The Scale because I knew even her frank numbers weren’t going to stop me from indulging. While Christmas was in full force, I ate and ate and ate and continued the trend into New Year’s.

Since, I’ve been trying to lose all the rolling weight I’ve gained. But they’ve been long days, dear readers. Sure, they start with oatmeal and fruit but as the day goes on, my stomach gets angrier and angrier. By 5 p.m. I’m nibbling on Triscuits and cheddar. By 9 p.m. I’m succumbing to whatever I can find.

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I don’t know about you, dear readers, but I want to blow this popsicle stand and head to the beach. In fact, looking outside my window right now, with the raindrops hanging from naked branches and the sky looking downright depressed, all I can think about is the smell of coconut-scented sunblock.

Especially in January, with Christmas over but winter here to stay, dreaming about warm climes is a nice way to spend a few hours.

With utter clarity, I can imagine myself walking by the ocean, with the slow whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the waves. I can feel the water-soaked sand soften and relent under my feet. The breeze spreads the smell of salt and seaweed, and little kids comb the beach for seashells. Women are basking on towels, reading cheesy novels whose plotlines improve as they become greasy with Coppertone. And at the end of the walk? Grilled mahi mahi and a frosty, umbrella-adorned drink tasting tropical and sweet.

Ah yes, there is just nothing more perfect.

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Right now, I am heating up some green lentils for lunch. I can hear the microwave groaning, and soon the kitchen will be filled with the smell of, well, green lentils. Then I’ll dump them on a plate and dig in.

I, of course, don’t want to eat green lentils for lunch. And as I hear my meal heating up, I’m thinking about all the stuff I would much rather have today: a pimiento cheese sandwich, a burger and crinkle fries from Burger Boy, the chicken parmigiana from Dino’s, a hot fudge sundae, those buttermilk mashed potatoes Brandon used to serve at Sel et Poivre, a slice of cherry cheesecake, a Reuben, some coleslaw, some onion rings, please.

In fact, if I really had to get serious about the ranking, green lentils would probably come in at the bottom of the list of what I really want to eat right now.

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