peachyteachy

For realsies

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch February 16, 2017

Filed under: humor,teaching,Uncategorized — peachyteachy @ 8:08 pm
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Part One: Breakfast

So they say, those naysayers who have never witnessed the veritable smorgasbord that is crafted for our youth at Peachytime Elementary on a daily–nay, semi-hourly–basis. Oh, look.  I have become a naysayer.

I am here to report that no one is going hungry during our school days; not the mice, not the kids, except for those who require ranch dressing for most every menu item here at Chez Peachytime Cafe.

Let me break it down for you:

Ms. Peachy circa 8:23 a.m.:

GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE! Get your breakfast, plasticware, and a pencil and start chomping! You have 7 minutes to eat your

Cinnamon Toast Crunch

Wonder Waffle in a Bag

Cream Cheese trapped in Bagel Dough

Muffin of Crumb

Rice Chex or Mouse Chex

Plus milk. Which reminds me,

PLEASE SPILL YOUR MILK EXACTLY ONE MINUTE BEFORE TIME TO LINE UP FOR THE HALL! SPILL IT WELL! SPILL IT UPON THE RUG! AND PLEASE SOAK IT UP WITH ONE LINEAR MILE OF THE LEAST ABSORBENT PAPER TOWELS AVAILABLE ON PLANET EARTH. GOOD JOB.

OH GOD I FORGOT TO COMPLETE THE SPREADSHEET DETAILING EXACTLY HOW MANY EATERS HAVE EATEN. IT’S A LEGAL DOCUMENT! I COULD SINGLE-HANDEDLY PUT OUR FEDERAL FOOD ELIGIBILITY IN PERIL! 8:40 AND I’M ALREADY SUCKING!

Spreadsheet and remaining food must go back to the cafeteria now, with data and in its breakfast cozy crate–pick the kids least likely to careen down the stairs with the straps around their necks. This, while five more kids arrive and need to take their breakfast from the crate carriers before we all joyfully walk to specials, hopefully not music. They hate music. Music is too happy. I tell them that it’s forty minutes of their lives and we can get through forty minutes of anything.

My inner monologue: “Forty minutes you’ll never get back…”

 

 

Non-Organic, Non-Vegetarian, Non-Greek, Sort of Yogurt: My Favorite! July 6, 2013

This post is really intended as a celebration of the fact that I have discovered this magical phenomenon:

früt Up

Yeah! Never mind the obvious capitalization issues—I have become somewhat desensitized to that sort of thing—I can now legitimately enter the international world of special characters!!!  It’s a special, special, extra-peachy day.

But enough of my word processing celebration.  There will be plenty of time for that mañana.  I am actually here with the express mission of spreading the gospel of the früt Up yogurt, my new favorite snack/treat/indulgence!  Here’s why you should join me in the früt Up revolution.

1) It tastes super yummy!

2) The top part is fruity moussiness!

3) The bottom part is super smooth white yogurt!

4) You can mix it up or not.  Although I am a proponent of not mixing.  We can duke that out in the comments, if you want to argue about it.

5) Müller has joined forces with Quaker in an inspiring food partnership. You can read all about it here.  So trustworthy!

6) It contains some trace amount of a tilapia-based gelatin, which will eliminate the annoying competition for früt Up supplies with pesky vegans (and when I say “pesky,” my dear vegan readers, I mean that in the most affectionate way).  Everyone else, just simmer down. It will be okay.

7) It has 150 calories per serving, and no artificial sweeteners, which will eliminate the competition for supplies with the light/lite/sugar free/under 100 calorie crowd.   Ü can take a chill pill, too. I love you.  I just don’t want you taking the last lemon one.  Surely you can see that this is all for the best.

8) There are flavors.  The flavors include Peach Passion Fruit (ironically, not my favorite), Luscious Lemon (myeffing favorite), Blueberry Bliss (not available in my area YET), Splendid Strawberry, Radiant Raspberry, and Very Cherry (also not available here). Yes, they have taken the time to make them cute.

9) It’s not Greek, although they have a Greek product also, and I have nothing against a tasty Greek yogurt, as long as you are not trying to pretend that it’s mayo.

Peach Passion Fruit

I am going to complete this post so that you can run into the store and find some now.

P.S. I have not been compensated for this free advertisement.  I am not opposed to accepting compensation, including but not limited to: money, free yogurt.

I would also consider accepting an all-expenses paid trip to Curaçao.

The place, not the liqueur.

 

Survival sans Food Processor and Deep Fryer April 25, 2013

What?!

How can it be? How can someone who bloggingly refers to baking on at least a bi-monthly basis not own a food processor OR a deep fryer? I have asked myself that same question over the years, more times than I care to admit.  Usually this question arises directly following the gift-giving  holidays, when I come to terms with the perpetual reality of not having received a food processor. Again. Many couples receive food processors as wedding gifts, right? I got a “Footprints in the Sand” wall clock.  So you see how it is. (Just so you know, clock gifter, that one ended in a divorce, so. . .)

That’s cool, I tell myself.  Processed food is frowned upon.  Paleo dieters certainly can’t employ a food processor in their pursuit of pre-historic living.  Tell them that, will you? Tell them, while I mortar and pest the hell out of my fresh pesto, in preparation for my upcoming woolly mammoth hunt.

As for the deep fryer, that would definitely be a deep-sixed item in my house.  I understand that many wedding gifts meet a similar fate.  Do they still have the Fry Daddy (by Presto), and the Fry Baby (by Presto)? I don’t think that the Fry Mommy ever made the cut.  Fry Mommy would never let them eat all of that fried crap anyway. Fry Mommy doesn’t bow to Presto, either. She’s more of an Abracadabra kind of girl.  She’d be sneaking the shredded zucchini into every frittie-fried thing she would turn out.  You know it’s true.

The way I imagine it, there are so many lonely wedding food processors out there, languishing on the shelf, like unloved Velveteen Rabbits, waiting for just one new, special, forever home in my kitchen.

Preferably a Cuisinart.

I will pay the shipping.

 

Now THIS is Corned Beef! March 17, 2013

1932 Libby’s Corned Beef Ad ~ Recipe File, Vintage Food Ads (Other).1932 Libby's Corned Beef Ad ~ Recipe File

As I prepared to embark on the corned beef and cabbage pilgrimage, I was pondering how very difficult it can be to make corned beef actually look appetizing.  Is it any wonder that the above version hides out inside a can until the cash has been exchanged?

Settle down; I am not serving canned corned beef—just because I like Jell-O doesn’t make me that scary and misguided.  However, I am considering departing from the unfortunately named “Boiled Dinner,” and opting to make some nice crispy roasted potatoes, rather than sending them to bathe with cabbage.  If St. Patrick is that offended by a little olive oil, I don’t know how he could have affiliated himself with the Vatican.

Just in case you haven’t bothered (lazy reader syndrome) or can’t (NEEDS readers syndrome) read the copy on the ad, I have to quote some of my favorite portions:

“Everybody’s happy when the mastermind that plans the menus remembers Libby’s Corned Beef!

The family rejoices! Families have a way of being pleasingly outspoken in their approval of this mild corned beef—mild, yet rich-flavored.

She rejoices—the mastermind, that is.  Nothing to do but chill the can in the ice-box, then slice the firm, tender meat.”

Moo0-hooo-ha-haa! The menu mastermind strikes again! Cabbage, schmabbage! We’re having peach halves with maraschino cherries as our side dish! Excuse me while I go and slice that firm, tender meat.

 

Betty Crocker is Like Lassie January 9, 2013

I wrote this post when I had approximately four readers. It still seems like a fresh and current issue to me.

Betty and I collaborated again this evening; we made the “healthy” cake mix concoction where you add a can of pumpkin and none of the oil and eggs that the box calls for.  This time, I tried something loosely named “Carrot Cake.”  Except that the fine print under “Carrot Cake” said “with carrot flavored pieces.”  This should have read, “with no carrot whatsoever,” but someone (I presume Betty herself) thought these carrot flavored pieces would be a better selling point. Damn it, Betty!

Naturally, I decided to have a heart-to-heart with BC herself, so I went looking on the box for Betty.  Remember how Betty has calmly walked with you through your baking-from-a-box development, shifting and changing, getting older, then younger, then older again? Just like the many collies who became Lassie for a few years, then disappeared, making room for a newer, fresher, puppier Lassie? Well, let me save you seven seconds out of your life.  Betty is gone.  The only humanoids on that box are a Mister Mom and Daughter on the back. Yes, they ARE wearing matching pale blue button down shirts! As if that is going to make you forget to put out an APB on Betty.

I went to bettycrocker.com, where there was a prominent feature on rhubarb (fine), but no sign of Betty, except for a teeny little tab on the left that said, “Follow Betty.” Even on Facebook, she is nothing more than a red spoon.  Not even an I- don’t-have-a-profile-picture-yet silhouette. Oh, Betty.

General Freaking Mills needs to be court martialed.

P.S. Betty, if you are reading this, please post a photo of how you look now so that we can all make copies and paste them onto our cake mixes.

 

Peachy Likes Apples, Old School November 11, 2012

I spend so much time immersed in the ridiculous, it becomes absolutely essential that I find my way to the sublime as often as possible.  Food, gardens, and a select group of awesome people are my Xanax.

A passion for apples was instilled in me from an early age, when my mother would roam the family homestead’s orchard, which had been planted somewhere around 1890.  She would name varieties like Transparents (varieties were usually referred to in the  plural), Greasy Pippins, Spies, Winesaps, Jonathans, Russets, Dutchesses,  and Snows.  It was, really, a wild orchard of sorts, as she didn’t “cultivate” the fruits.  An occasional trim of dead wood was the only maintenance of which I was aware, and the apples probably resembled their predecessors as a result.  These were not fancy, unblemished fruits—and yet my mom extended affection and respect to each one, spots and all.  I suspect that this was a mater of course for earlier generations, especially those with connections to life during the Great Depression.  There would be a good deal of grave rolling if those folks saw some of us in our petulant rejection of imperfect-looking, diminutive fruits, as we lob them down the orchard rows as we seek the perfect apple-picking experience.

She rejected almost no apple.  She would sit on the porch, or in the kitchen if it was later in the fall, with an enameled pan full of apples on one side, another full of water in which to deposit the prepared slices.  She peeled, quartered, and sliced using a little paring knife that wasn’t particularly sharp.  She would salvage any part of a yucky-looking apple, even if it resulted in two slices being added to the pan of water and apple slices.  I suppose that this was a meditative practice for her, despite the fact that her lovely pan of apple slices was periodically raided by kids.  When I think of the considerable labor it takes for me to make a pie using enormous, perfect apples, it’s pretty humbling.

I am a better cook, in general, than my mom was.  We didn’t have a lot of financial security growing up, and she used some cheap-ass ingredients and menu-stretching methods as a result.  She was also allergic to onions and to black pepper, so the Flavor-Meter was pretty much permanently set to “Bland.” Another side effect of Depression days was the practice of cooking the hell out of everything.  And when I say “hell,” I mean flavor and texture and nutrients.  My mom burned out many a cheap pan while cooking vegetables on the stove.  The one exception to this rule was her baking, and especially her pie baking.  The apple peeling process described above yielded a mixture of apples, whose flavors would meld together into something pretty remarkable.

Right now, I have some Granny Smiths and some Winesaps in the kitchen.  Neither are shiny from the grocery store.  Both were locally grown.  Winesaps are tough to find, and they were not named after an over-emotional drunk.  You must try them, especially in a pie, to understand.

I know, I know—those pricey Honeycrisps are trademarked and tasty.  But if you get a chance, hit a farmer’s market and try something that is old along with something that is new.  And remember that it won’t kill you to cut off a blemish; it takes a lot of chemical seasoning to make an apple look “perfect.”

 

I love the honor system at farm stands June 12, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — peachyteachy @ 9:19 pm
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I love the honor system at farm stands

This has inspired me to try to remember to take pictures of the places where I find the honor system in place when I buy squash, corn, tomatoes this summer.

 

 
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