That's My Beef

Today I had lunch at a local hot-spot in the Catalina foothills.  I ordered chopped salad with blackened chicken. The ingredients were marvelous: sliced avocado, fruit, pumpkin seeds, cheese and of course chicken.

First bite: Bitter.  Second bite: Bitter.  All of it was bitter.

It suddenly dawned on me that I’m not the only one who should have a bad reputation for cooking.  And this chef is actually getting paid to cook lousy.  Maybe it’s time for a career change. Mine!

I inspected the salad and realized the ingredients weren’t bitter …except for the charred meat.  Who on earth decided that blackened chicken was nouveau?  To me, it’s just overcooked, overdone, and over-the-top.

I admit that my very first cooking experience was using my Easy Bake Oven at the age of eight.  Now, that was one heck of an oven.  I created so many great treats and never had a disaster. Nothing was bitter and I wasn’t even a chef.  Then I grew up…well, that story was told a few blogs back.

So, I’m sitting in the restaurant wondering if I should complain.  But how could I?  The description of the salad was on the menu in black and white.  It should have read overcooked, charred like a forest fire and tough as nails…but instead it read: blackened. 

I always thought that meat was overcooked if the edges were dark.  And of course, if my father were alive, he’d be able to open a restaurant and charge beaucoup bucks for his award winning hockey-puck colored and textured hamburgers.

I take a sip of my water, contemplating when the world got so crazy that overcooked meat was now a rave.  I can imagine the first chef to burn meat.  Knowing the owner would fire him for ruining good food, he labeled it something fancy, like it was meant to be that way.  Genius!

So, with a new name or buzz word a.k.a. ~Branding~ you can salvage anything.  Old clothing becomes vintage.  Burned meat is now blackened. My disastrous cottage cheese dish sprinkled with food coloring merely needed to be re-invented with a new name: Rainbow Delight.

Remember when thongs were those inexpensive, rubbery sandals you wore to the beach?  Now, a certain undergarment has taken that name and the poor sandals have been reduced in title to: Flip Flops.

I have been trying to live down my reputation for being a lousy cook.  And then one day some numbskull burns meat and labels it:  Charred Chicken.  Are you serious?  He ruins an entree and gives it a kitsch label and Voila! it went from ruined to refined!

Apparently,the standards for good food have been redefined…and That’s My Beef!

Allergies Are Nothing To Sneeze At!

After my cooking fiasco, which lead to an ER visit, I kept waiting for the prednisone side effects to take effect. Having researched the medicine online-where almost every disease and medicine you read about are fatal- I was actually excited to learn I would have feelings of euphoria and a better appetite. After the scare, I was terrified and afraid to eat anything. But no, that was too much to hope for. In fact, without exaggeration, the side effects I experienced convinced me that I would end up back in the ER under Nurse Ratchet’s inspecting eye and gracious bedside manner.

After muscling through the bad side effects of prednisone, it was finally time to call the allergist.  I made an appointment to find out which culprit: shrimp, Indian spices, or muscle relaxant caused my almost demise.  The nurse said to bring a list of all my allergies.

And so I did.  I gave the doctor enough sheets of paper to cover the world at least once as well as the recipe for Moglai Shrimp.

He exhaled after reading my extensive list and looked over his bi-focals at me.  “Seems the only thing you’re not allergic to is water.”

“That would pretty much sum it up.”

“My partner is Indian,” he said, taking the recipe.  “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned to the examination room, he said his partner agreed that there wasn’t anything suspect about the Moglai and in fact most Indian spices are used medicinally.

“So, what caused the severe allergic reaction then?”

“Definitely the muscle relaxant.”

Great, I thought, I have a doctor’s excuse:  No yard work or vacuuming the house!  Certainly no tasks for a girlie-girl like me, and now I have permission to just play lady. How great is that?

“I would recommend that you get allergy tested to see what foods you should eliminate from your diet.  You need to carry an Epi-Pen in your purse, just in case this happens again.

I scheduled the allergy test immediately.  The nurse did a scratch test with only fifty items from my long list. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to test me for any of the Indian spices or muscle relaxant, but when she came back into the examination room, she saw one area on my back that was inflamed and indescribably itchy.

This has to be the shrimp, I lamented.  My favorite food.  How am I going to give up shell fish?

“Pleeeease don’t tell me it’s the shrimp,” I pleaded.

“Actually it’s not.  It’s…celery.”

“Celery? You’ve got to be kidding.  My body reacted to celery?  Like who’s allergic to celery?  It’s ninety percent water and ten percent fiber.  I eat it in salads and never had a reaction.  And besides, there was no celery in the Moglai Shrimp recipe. So, now what?”

“I’ll get the doctor.”

Still stretched out on my stomach on the table, the doctor entered. 

I looked up, “Well?”

“The tests show that you can eat shell fish and everything else on the list.  Stay away from celery.”

“But what do I do now?  You couldn’t test me for Indian spices or the muscle relaxant.  The test was inconclusive. So, what do I avoid?”

He shrugged his shoulders.  “Whatever it is, you might not be lucky the next time.”

“Lucky? What do you mean?”

“With a reaction as severe as yours, the next one could kill you.”

I left the office more confused than ever. Celery! And called my internist.

At his visit, I showed him the recipe and told him what had occurred. 

“No, you’re not allergic to the muscle relaxant. You’ve taken it for years without side effects.”

Darn, back to household chores.  I thought I could milk this one forever. No such luck according to him.

He looked at the recipe.  “Most of the spices are in many foods, so it isn’t the Indian spices.  Wait!  It could be the Cardamom. That spice is unusual and isn’t in Mexican food or any other dishes.  That’s it!  I’m positive.”

So, who do I believe?  One for the muscle relaxant…One for Cardamom.  I need a tie-breaker.  I made an appointment with one more doctor. She was absolutely certain the culprit was: Shrimp.

“But, I’ve eaten shrimp my whole life and sometimes 3-4 times a week.”

“Doesn’t matter.  Some people have an allergic reaction to foods they’ve eaten for years.  Stay away from shell-fish.”

“But…but, the allergist said the shell-fish test came out great.”

“It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t.”

Thoroughly confused, I drove home convinced I needed to give up Indian food, shrimp and the muscle relaxant. I couldn’t take a chance.

One week later, I received a bill from my allergist.  Five hundred dollars.  My eyes widened: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS for an inconclusive test?  Is he serious? 

I’ve got to tell you…between the testing and that bill…Allergies Are Nothing to Sneeze At! 

KILLER RECIPE

AS PROMISED 

<drum roll> 

 ~THE REST OF THE STORY~

MOGLAI CHICKEN

8 pieces boneless, skinless chicken

1 cup flour

1 tsp. salt

1tsp. pepper
Vegetable oil
2 Tbsp. butter
2 Medium onions, chopped fine
2 Tbsp. ginger-garlic paste (see note)
16 oz. can stewed tomatoes, undrained
¾ cup chicken broth
1 Cup sour cream
1/3 cup  brown sugar
1 tsp. saffron threads
1 tsp. cumin powder
1 tsp. cumin seed
 ½  tsp. turmeric
½ tsp. cayenne or crushed red pepper
½ tsp. ground cardamom
½ tsp. ground nutmeg
½ tsp. ground cloves
2 Tsp. ketchup
Cilantro, chopped for garnish

Mix flour, salt, and pepper in a large Ziploc baggie.  Rinse and dry chicken pieces.  Shake chicken in the flour mixture to coat.  Lightly coat the bottom of a large skillet or Dutch oven with oil. Brown chicken pieces on both sides over medium-high heat until golden brown.  Place chicken pieces in a 9” X 13”  baking dish and set aside.

Melt 2 Tbsp. butter and 1 Tbsp. oil in the same pan used to brown the chicken.  Sauté the onions until light brown.  Add the ginger-garlic paste and all the remaining ingredients except the cilantro.  Heat sauce until hot and well combined.  Pour sauce over chicken in the baking dish.

Bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes.

Garnish with cilantro.  Serve with Basmati or white rice.

NOTE:  You can buy a jar of ginger-garlic paste or make your own by grinding a 2” piece of ginger and 6-8 cloves to a paste in a blender.

Since I’ve never had a sense of smell, I can’t even begin to tell you how extraordinary this meal was from the tip of my nose to the tip of my tongue.  Fabulicious. Yummilicious. Oh-so-delicious!

While I love everything Italian, I especially love shell fish and eat it 3-4 times a week…with pasta of course.  Anyway, the following week, I decided to make Moglai shrimp.  If Moglai chicken was amazing, how bad could the shrimp be?

I was only cooking for two, so I needed to guesstimate the quantity of spices, placing each one in a bowl and taking a whiff…or two…or three… Heaven on earth.

After stuffing myself with this exotic entrée, I then took a whiff of each spice jar again, enjoying the pleasure of those wonderful Indian  ingredients when my palms began to itch.  Strange, but I ignored the annoyance.  But then, my ears were crazy itchy, and I couldn’t stop scratching.  The swelling was immediate as was the redness that followed.  My face and scalp were next.  Then, my torso.  I took a Benadryl and watched my entire upper body turn into one red welt.

Nurses on Call:

Me:  I’m really sorry to bother you, but I just finished dinner and I notice a rash all over.

Nurse:  Is your tongue swollen?

Me: What?  Well, er, no, I don’t think so.  >Rapid heart beat<

Nurse: Does your throat feel like it’s closing?

Me: My throat closing?  Oh, my G-d! Nooooooooooooo…>Pulse escalating<

Nurse: Did you eat something before this happened?

Me: Shrimp with Indian spices and then I took two Benadryl when the itching began.

Nurse:  Listen carefully.  Hang up and call 911.

Me:  Are you serious?  I can’t bother them.  It’s just a little allergy to something. 

Nurse: You may go into anaphylactic shock.  The Benadryl will cover you for a short time, but once it is out of your system you could die.  Hang up and call 911. I'll call back in 10 minutes to make sure that the paramedics arrived. 

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve always been a girlie-girl and even with this emergency, I couldn’t help think how dreadful I looked and I was about to have “company.”  Racing to the bathroom, I combed my hair, brushed my teeth and debated whether or not to put on mascara.  How ridiculous is that?  But, help was on its way, and I didn’t want to look bad. 

With one more glance in the mirror, it didn’t take a rocket-scientist to realize that mascara wasn’t going to improve my swollen red face, blotched body and dumbo ears.  And yet, I knew the paramedics would be gorgeous.  They always are and if they were Italian…I’d be doomed, looking sick and disgusting.

The doorbell rang within minutes.  Three firemen, dressed to put out my fire, raced into the den.  One sat on the couch and opened a laptop and started with the questions.  Another took my finger and pricked it until he drew blood.  “Hey!  Not niceeeeeeeee!”

“Sorry, Ma’am, but I have to check your blood sugar.”

“I’m not anemic or diabetic.  Just embarrassed.”

The third took my blood pressure and pulse.  Both were incredibly high for me whose BP usually falls so low you’d have to place a mirror under my nose to make sure I’m breathing.  He said that was a good sign.  Having high blood pressure is a good sign?  Go figure. 

“What did you eat tonight?”

I filled him in on the details, plus a muscle relaxant that I had taken earlier after doing yard work, which was no job for this girlie-girl. 

“So, what would you like to do?”

I’d like to put on a cute outfit, make-up and go out, I thought, instead of looking like a big blob of cotton candy. “What do you mean?”

“You can either wait and see if the Benadryl will help or go to the hospital.”

“Since I took it, I’ve actually gotten worse.”

Then, he gave me the look.  Oh, how I hate that look. My heart raced.  I panicked.

“Go to the hospital before the Benadryl wears off, just to be safe.  Would you like us to take you?”

“By ambulance?  Are you insane?  No, I’ll drive myself…Is it okay if I drive myself?” second guessing my decision.

“If you leave now, yes. Hurry, you only have about 15-20 minutes or so.”

My heroes left and I changed out of my pajamas and drove quickly to the hospital where I waited and waited and waited, watching the red welts go from my torso, down my legs-all the way to the top of my toes.  Panic set it.  I ran to the check-in window.  “My tongue is starting to swell!”

So, Nurse Ratchet looked at me like I was a hypochondriac and moved me to the inside hallway where I sat with other pathetic souls waiting for a bed to open.

Eventually I was seen by a nurse and ER doctor.  They kept me from 9 pm until 4:30 am, pumped me up with epinephrine and a sedative to slow my heart rate.  With a prescription for prednisone in hand, they sent me home, advising me to get allergy tested.  Really?  Ya, think?!