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Forays in American cooking: two weeks on the USDA thrifty food plan

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 08:10:51 GMT

I have achieved heights of ludicrousness I never dreamed possible. I am feeding my family the USDA way. I've been planning this experiment for quite a while, and I'm not the only one to do it. Jeffrey Steingarten, in a hilarious essay published in The Man Who Ate Everything followed the USDA thrift menu too, although his experience was different from mine in that he didn't feed an entire family and the menu seems to have changed since then. What I remember from Steingarten's essay is his description of a “peanut butter snack cake” which he says he ate “not without enjoyment.”

What is this thrifty food plan of which I speak? The USDA publishes a guide to help you feed your family nutritiously on a relatively small amount of money. You can access it here. It includes menu plans for two full weeks, a cookbook with recipes of some dishes included in the menus, shopping lists for each week, and tips on healthy eating and thrifty shopping.

Day one started with a trip to the grocery store. If you plan to do this yourself, I recommend that you bring both the menu and the shopping list to the store. Both are needed for clarification. But you won't try this experiment yourself. I have suffered so you don't have to.

I'd grabbed the list without looking at it carefully and as we progressed through the aisles of Harris-Teeter I became more and more appalled at the foods we were expected to buy. The thrift plan is designed for a family of two adults and two children. Since I have four children I'd planned to increase what I bought by 50% but this left me buying stupendous amounts of food. Thirty-two oranges, sixteen bananas, nine apples and 1.5 pounds of melon for a single week? Not to mention that I had to bypass the luscious Ranier cherries that were on sale, and also in season. Sixteen pounds of potatoes? Aghast, I decided to scale back to the amounts specified on the list.

We were led to buy foods I had never known to exist. Spinach comes in a can? We could hardly believe it, but it's true, there is such a thing as canned spinach. White bread? Does anyone actually eat white bread anymore? An entire gallon of ready-to-drink lemonade? Eight cans of frozen orange juice concentrate? Three and a half gallons of milk? My cart was a veritable tower of food by the time we got to check out. The total came to a not-so thrifty $197.

By the time we got home, it was time to cook the lunch. Day one's lunch consisted of “Turkey patties, hamburger bun (4) Orange juice (3 c), Coleslaw (2c), 1% lowfat milk (2c).” Yes, a hot, cooked lunch. Every day. I have news for the USDA: most American children are in school at lunch time. How, pray, am I supposed to pack “Potato soup, low salt snack crackers, Tuna pasta salad, orange slices, and oatmeal cookies”--day five's lunch menu—in a lunch box? Don't talk to me about tupperware. There isn't enough tupperware in the world to pack a five-dish hot meal in four lunch boxes every single day, not to mention Jon's lunch—and my own—I'm in school too, usually. And one must question when I am supposed to cook all this stuff. Can you imagine yourself frying up the turkey burgers at 06:00 so they're ready to pack in time for school?

But this was my experiment and if the USDA wants my family to eat a hot cooked lunch every day then my family will get a hot cooked lunch every day. And so it came to pass that on day two I was roasting a farking chicken at 9:00 in the morning.

But back to day one. The turkey patties weren't bad, although by the time I had finished cooking them, my children thought I was clearly off my rocker. They were excited too. I think they liked the idea of a menu set out for them, especially Mr. McP, my nine-year old.

The scheduled snack for day one was a slice of white bread each and “chick pea dip.” Chick pea dip turned out to be an inferior sort of hummus and I thought to eat it with white bread would be disgusting, so I toasted the bread and cut it into dainty triangles and my kids loved it. Loved it! Dinner was a hamburger helper-ish “beef noodle casserole” with lima beans (prepared from scratch) and sliced oranges and bananas for dessert.

Day two I realized that eating from the thrifty food plan was like going back in time to the 1930s. I was cooking almost the entire day. No sooner had I finished serving and cleaning up from breakfast, it was time to think about lunch. The lunch required a stupendous amount of preparation. There was the chicken, plus homemade potato salad, homemade rice pudding and an “orange gelatin salad” which I had to make from unflavored gelatin packets and orange juice. The lunch was tasty, except for the gelatin salad, which was inedible. Why not just buy a box of orange jello? Making it with the unflavored gelatin was actually more expensive and when you consider that nearly 100% of it got thrown away, it was not a thrifty dish. Dinner was a turkey/vegetable stir fry with rice and a homemade peach/apple crisp, which we ate not without enjoyment, to use the words of the inestimable Jeffrey Steingarten. After dinner, Mad Scientist brought his empty plate to the kitchen and said, “Thanks for making dinner, Mom. It was almost decent.” High praise, considering the source.

Today we begin day four.

Forays in American cooking: two weeks on the USDA thrifty food plan

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 08:10:01 GMT

Today we begin day four.

If the van is a-rockin'...

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 09:20:03 GMT

Before the real estate bubble burst, our neighborhood was described by Realtors as every house buyer's dream location. Charming! Darling! Newly renovated! Mere steps from downtown! Jon and I used to snort at the hype because when you actually live here, you see that even after years of gentrification and grossly inflated house prices it hasn't really changed that much. True, it's less common to see passed-out drunks in the park, but it was only a few months ago that Jon had to speak sternly to a man who felt that it would be perfectly appropriate to sleep off his hangover sitting on the curb across the street from our house--his back against a tree and his legs sticking out into the street.

We call this "keeping it real."

So this Saturday I came home from an errand, about 4:30 pm and noticed an old van parked in the curve of the road between our house and our neighbor's. A suspicious car is very obviously suspicious. I knew immediately that the occupants of the van were not a family visiting the park. Nor were they guests of any of the neighbors. Perhaps the passenger-side door left hanging open was a clue. Still, it isn't a crime to park your car in a public street, so I went about my business. Jon came in the house a little while later and said, "That van is a-rockin'." And it was. Bouncing and jiggling in an obvious way that left no doubt as to what was going on inside. At one point, the female occupant could be seen facing half out of the open passenger door, in an attitude I can't describe without getting an X rating slapped on this post. Needless to say, the kids were inside with strict instructions to stay there.

I admit, we thought it was kind of funny. That particular spot on our quiet street has long been a favorite place for people to park and have public sex. We have seen it before, but it's probably been a good three years since the last time, when I called the police because when I looked out my daughters' bedroom window I got a clear sight of two people engaging in oral sex in the front seat of a pick up truck. This was in broad daylight right at the time when the kids were expected home from school.

We didn't call the police this time--I don't know why except that we've called so many times over the years for nuisance things like this, we've grown jaded. Our neighbor was less amused and the police showed up about five minutes after he got home and saw the van parked in front of his house. Then came an amusing little street drama: the police officer confronting the van, then stepping back for modesty's sake to allow the occupants to dress themselves. The man emerged first. He was older than I expected him to be. The lady took a few minutes longer to correct her dishabille. She looked familiar. I am almost certain that she is a prostitute. The cop either chose not to notice this or really thought he was confronting two ordinary people who decided to have sex in a van in front of houses and a busy family park in the middle of the afternoon. The couple was "advised" and then they and the cop went their separate ways.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 19:35:26 GMT

Ambitious day trip yesterday. Here are some photos

Places visited: US Post Office Museum, Jefferson Memorial, lunch near Capitol Hill, Library of Congress, US Botanic Garden, National Art Gallery, National Zoo, Dinner in Adams-Morgan. We left Charlottesville at 7:30am and didn't get home until after 11:00pm.

What I did wrong: not studying my guide to the Metro beforehand. We would have been quicker and more efficient at catching our trains if I had done so.
Settling on a restaurant mentioned in Fodor's for dinner--it was an interminable walk from the zoo, and we passed by dozens of likely looking restaurants, but we were determined to eat at this particular restaurant, and it turned out that it wasn't even very good.

What I did right: Saving our trip to the zoo for last. We got there at 5:00pm, after everyone else had left and we practically had the whole zoo, including the pandas, to ourselves.
Staying in DC for dinner and avoiding rush hour for the drive home.
Driving all the way in to town and parking at Union Station. So much easier than worrying about finding a spot in a commuter lot.

Stipping paint is like childbirth

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 09:38:52 GMT

Anyone who has given birth has probably experienced the post-birth amnesia. After a while, you forget the pain, even think, "Oh, labor wasn't that bad," until you begin labor with another baby and the memories come rushing back, and you think, "Oh God! How could I have been so stupid to have done this to myself again?"

It's the same thing with chemically stripping paint from an object. You try it once, are appalled at the results, vow never to mess with strippers again, until one day, you decide the fifteen coats of paint glutting your living room woodwork has got to go, and you once more expose yourself to mutagens, teratogens, carcinogens.

I did some research, and learned that "NMP" strippers are what you want and not this other stripper whose name I can't recall, but it did have a "T" in it. So off I went to Meadowbrook Hardware, which is my favorite hardware store, btw, and they had a selection of strippers, but none of them were labeled as "NMP" or as the now forgotten "T" formula.

I spent quite a long time in the stripper aisle at Meadowbrook, and finally selected "Dad's" brand stripper which came with a little plastic spray bottle. I thought it seemed handy, and that spraying the stripper would result in a quick, even coat and would be easier than applying it with a brush.

Choosing the brand with the spray bottle turned out to be a nearly fatal mistake, since with spray, you will have splashback. Tiny specks of stripper caused tiny painful chemical burns on my arms, my feet, my face, and perilously close to my mouth. It also dripped. A lot. I had decided that I probably wouldn't strip the baseboards, but as I sprayed the window, I noticed the paint on the baseboards bubbling and peeling as dripping stripper landed on it. So now I am doing the baseboards. Hurrah!

A few minutes after you apply the stripper, the paint comes bubbling up in an encouraging way, and you think it will come off easily, but you have been fooled, because it comes off in slimy bits, and inconsistently, as some areas will be stripped to bare wood, and others will have lost just the first coat of paint. Don't get me started on trying to get the paint off curved moldings.

I had been worried about the fumes, but one whiff of stripper evoked a distant feeling of very early childhood. I have a feeling I spent some time, as an infant, sitting in a swing or bouncy seat, watching my father strip woodwork. In that respect, the "Dad's" paint stripper was appropriate. Indeed, all that day, even after I'd scrubbed my arms and hands thoroughly (and of course I'd worn gloves) an odor of paint stripper hung about me that was, I admit, not unpleasant.

Here is a picture of the Window of Sorrow.

GWB comes to C'ville

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 12:27:14 GMT

Everyone has been all in a tizzy here in Charlottesville because George W. Bush was scheduled to come to Monticello today to speak at the annual naturalization ceremony there. My neighborhood cuddles up against Monticello and its neighboring hills, and I admit, it was kind of exciting to see all the huge military helicopters flying low over my house on Wednesday, in preparation for the visit. (Jon said the Secret Service came to inspect his Emergency Department.)

Anticipating how the Bush visit would disrupt local life, I took care to stock up with groceries on Thursday because I didn't know which roads would be closed. It turns out we spontaneously invited some guests for dinner tonight, but I figured I could pop into the Food Lion down the road if I needed anything. "I'm sure George Bush won't come between me and Food Lion," I said. So this morning, I see Bush's helicopters landing and I thought, "Gosh, it's almost as if he's landing at Food Lion." Actually, he was landing in the parking lot of the school right next-door to Food Lion. So much for my emergency errand plan.

We didn't attend the ceremony. 1,000 tickets were distributed on Wednesday, but I didn't have the initiative to line up at 4:00am to get one. We did watch the ceremony on live TV. I am not a fan of GWB--many of his policies and actions over the past eight years have left me feeling helpless with outrage--but I was acutely embarrassed when people started screaming "F---YOU!" and other things as he gave his speech. Public scenes always upset me, and although I don't think much of the man, I do respect the office. I don't think I could ever actually scream at anyone in public, no matter how angry he made me, least of all a public figurehead I didn't know personally.

I have to give GWB credit for continuing to speak graciously over the screams. Even in the safety of my living room I wanted to hide under a chair. I can not imagine the mortification of the Monticello Foundation people who had to sit on the stage and witness the spectacle.

After the ceremony, each new citizen (there were 72 of them) was able to shake hands with the president and say a few words. He seemed genuinely pleased to welcome them as new citizens, and did not at all give the impression of a bored guy in a receiving line. He appeared to be saying different things to each person, spending varying amounts of time with each one. There was one child and of course he picked her up--I know, total cheesy photo op--but she'll remember that her entire life.

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Wed, 02 Jul 2008 07:59:25 GMT

Now that I am unemployed, I am about to repaint my living room so I have plunged bravely into the world of paint chips. My neighbor lent me her Benjamin Moore fan book, and with it were pamphlets from Pottery Barn with their paint collections from Spring, Summer and Fall of 2007. This was very exciting, as I had already purchased fan books with the Pottery Barn palettes for Spring and Summer of 2008, so now I have a wide variety of Pottery Barn-approved colors to choose from. Because where would the middle class be without Pottery Barn to guide us?

Even with all the help from PB, I'm having trouble deciding between Wedgewood Gray, Crystal Springs or Silvery Blue for my living room. I want the perfect blue-gray. Not too blue. Not too gray. I feel like Myrna Loy in Mr. Blandings Builds his Dreamhouse, a movie I rented last weekend because the narrator in Do the Windows Open? says she watches it often because it's so unrealistic. And it is unrealistic. Especially the scene where Cary Grant is arguing with his architect and his lawyer while wearing a quilted satin smoking jacket. It's also very funny. Anyway, there's this one scene where Myrna Loy is telling her painters what colors she wants. She says something like, “I want the kitchen to be white, but not a cold white, a warm white. Warm it up with something but make sure it's a color that doesn't give a suggestion of anything other than white.”

Actually, painting the living room is turning out to be something of a Project. Before I could even get started, I had to paint the armoire. We bought it second hand at Circa. The previous owner had antiqued it. She'd painted it blue, with an umber glaze and hand painted flowers on the door panels. She even signed it: Gloria Mitchell, 1993. I'm sorry, Gloria Mitchell, but what worked in 1993, does not work now. I felt bad painting over your hand painted flowers, but it had to be done. Now the armoire is a dark gray, although I'm thinking it needs to be black. I did just find the most fabulous new knobs for it at anthropologie.

Anyway, I realized that it makes no sense to paint the living room without doing something about the ceiling. Ever since we moved in, the paint has been peeling off the living room ceiling in large, loose flakes. Underneath is bare drywall. I realized that this means my ceiling hasn't been painted since about 1974. Long ago, some previous owner of our house covered all the old horsehair plaster with drywall. They did a really bad job, too. They also installed a hideous ceiling fixture in the living room. Yesterday I scraped all the large, loose flakes off the ceiling and I covered the areas with a thin coat of drywall mud. Today I will sand and prime those areas, and tomorrow I can paint the ceiling.

But I also realized that something needs to be done about the woodwork. Previous owners—probably the same ones who put in the drywall and the hideous ceiling light—painted all the woodwork in the living room mustard. Mustard. The people we bought the house from had painted white on top of the mustard, only now the white paint is peeling off in long strips—probably because the mustard paint is oil base and the white paint is latex. I have seen this happen before.

Not only that, Jon and I damaged the paintwork badly when we replaced the sash cords.

The only thing to do is strip them. Gah! I suppose I ought to strip them before I paint the walls. It's a good thing I'm unemployed.

The way we live now

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 08:24:50 GMT

I just finished reading Do the Windows Open, a collection of stories by Julie Hecht, who truly understands the trials of modern American life: the awfulness of florescent lighting and stuffed animals; the despair one feels when Easter decorations start to appear in stores. The narrator, who is never named, shares many of my own neuroses. I'm just like her, only not a macrobiotic vegetarian. The consumption of meat does not offend me. Or does it? Actually, meat-eating does offend me when it's people at Disneyland eating entire fried turkey legs. Isn't it bad enough to be at Disneyland without having to see people eating giant fried turkey legs? I could make an entire casserole out of a turkey leg.

I once had a relative named Auntie. That is the only name I knew for her. She was my grandfather's aunt, and died before I was born. One day my grandfather shook his head and said, “Auntie just wasn't made for the modern world.” I feel the same way about myself, which is why I enjoyed Do the Windows Open so much, whose narrator, like me, can't do many of the things that modern people take for granted or even find pleasant or desirable.

I realized there are many, many things I “can't” do. I can't drink tea out of inferior-quality porcelain. I can't make left turns onto busy streets. I can't shop on Saturdays and I can't shop at Sears on any day. I can't use a drive-through window. I can't live in a house built after 1940. Once, I lived in a house that was built in 1967. I lived in it for eleven years and it crushed my spirit. I can't live in a suburb. I lived in a suburb once. It coincided with living in the 1967 house. It was a dreadful experience, but it taught me a valuable lesson: it is perilous to raise one's children in the suburbs. And yet, there are people who believe that the suburbs are the ideal, indeed the only, place to raise one's children.

I can't shop for electronics and I can't be in the presence of too much mass-produced clothing at one time. I can't go to amusement parks on hot summer days. I can't watch children's sports. I can't drink water out of anything but glass, indeed, I can't drink anything out of plastic.

Obviously, I can do any of these things, but doing them comes with such a profound sense of despair that I try to avoid them at all costs. I even pack my own tea cup when I am traveling, so that my lips need never touch Corelle and I will make a right turn and find a place to turn around rather than try to make an impossible left turn. I am always somewhat in awe of people who attempt the impossible left turn, and yet also slightly contemptuous.

Anyway, if you find the modern world is hard and you can't understand the things other people do, then you will probably like Julie Hecht's stories and her delightfully neurotic narrator.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 20:14:59 GMT

The party was a success! Huge relief. There was plenty of food and I did not break both my arms. I didn't get to bed until after 2:00am and had to be at work at 7:00am. Good times. Some party pics: Actually, it had pretty much turned into the after party by the time these were taken. At the height of the party, there were close to fifty people.

Me, Jon, Miss G and Mad Scientist

West Virginia friend. Did you know that June 20th is West Virginia Day? According to our friends, 145 years ago, West Virginia broke free of that yoke of oppression, Virginia.

Some people were musicians, and we ended up with some impromptu live music.

What was so funny?

Killing the keg this afternoon.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 11:44:51 GMT

Pickled vegetables
Candied nuts
Lemon curd
Unbaked tart dough
baked beans
Beer.
soda
cold cuts
crackers
chocolate chip cookies
Shropshire blue
Wensleydale
Delice de Bourgogne
Mousse trouffee
Red wine salami
red apple caramels
chocolate covered figs
quince paste

Thus will my party guests eat if I break both my arms right now. If I can make it to tomorrow morning, the lemon curd and the tart dough will be baked together into a lemon curd tart.