Cooking with the Pilot

Wandering into the kitchen one morning last weekend, my hockey-playing, pilot husband, who is an exterminator and has a degree in Biblical studies, was vigorously chopping some food source in a frying pan on the stove. I mention his hobbies, schooling and his occupations to point out that he has no formal, or informal for that matter, training in the culinary arts. NONE! He is widely renown for his burnt grilled cheese sandwiches. So his attempt at cooking amused me initially. As I began to ascertain the situation at hand, I became highly amused…. blog-worthy-amused!

On impulse at Costco, my sweet husband, the provider for our family, purchased a skid of hashbrowns. Just look at how crispy-fried those salty morsels appear! He was probably salivating in the super store. Gluten free and 100% REAL potatoes. How could he go wrong?

Kindly I explained that the objective of hashbrown cooking is to leave them alone so they can get brown and crunchy. Smashing them to smithereens won’t get the desired results. Previously I had cooked two boxes of said Costco bulk purchase, so I was quite well-informed on the procedure.

Peering into the pan, something didn’t seem right. The limp potato strips looked dry (and smashed.) Kindly I inquired, “Did you read the directions?” It was an honest question. As soon as my question was delivered, my 13-year-old daughter, who has been trained in our kitchen by my capable side, started laughing and pointed at her dad the I-told-you-so-finger-of-doom. Seems she already mentioned reading the directions to him. That’s my girl!

Rick, Mr. Master Chef, (term used very sarcastically) opened the little carton of goodness and dumped the freeze-dried potatoes in the hot frying pan. He realized something was off. His spidey senses alerted him to the need for butter. In went a dollop of creamy yellow goodness. Butter is the answer to SO MANY cooking situations.

THEN he proceeded to read the directions. And I’ll admit, the instructions for this delicacy are unusual. 1. Open carton and add hot water to the fill line. 2. Close carton and let stand for 12 minutes. Drain well.

Uh oh.

Things were off to a poor start. The pan he had chosen was obviously too small if water was to be added, so he switched to a larger pan. (The only reason I know this is because I discovered a small frying pan in the sink with the remains of burnt freeze-dried potatoes stuck to its non-nonstick bottom.) It was too late to add water to the carton full of spuds, so he added water to the frying pan full of crunchy strips and butter. It said HOT water, so the stove burner was turned to HIGH, obviously. Just like whipping up a grilled cheese sandwich to quality blackness.

Disclaimer: my daughter filled me in on this whole process after the fact so this is all hearsay.

Okay, thinking he was good, he went back to the directions. 3. Preheat a large, non-stick skillet and 2 TBSP. oil over medium-high heat. So, FAIL on the non-stick part. Next oil was poured over the soggy white, limp, smashed potato strips. Doesn’t this make you want to have some???

This is when I wandered in… to witness the mutilation of the oily, half-saturated delicacy. Kindly I probed to see what oil he used. There are four oils in my cupboard: coconut, olive, sesame and vegetable. He had a 75% chance of success. Again, my daughter who loves home-ec informed me in a Dad-is-so-busted tone, “He used butter from your bowl. The one you measured to make cookies.” Ooooh, there are several things that could make this mama go all kinds of crazy on you. Using my softened butter that is measured in a bowl for baking is one of them. And she knew he knew better! That’s my girl. Again the finger-of-doom was pointed at the perpetrator.

It’s doubtful if he ever did read 4. Fry on one side for 3-4 minutes, or until golden brown. Kindly I offered to show him how to divide the pan of scrumptiousness into thirds and flip them to golden brown perfection.

Surprisingly, they tasted okay.

The moral of the story is: When at first you don’t succeed, fry fry again.

Or: Touch mama’s measured butter and die a slow death of much pain. (Kindly I let him live.)

Happy Bday to my Hunka Hunka

Yes, not only is February the month of looooove, but it is also the month of my Hunka Hunka Burning Love’s birthday!  Happy Birthday to Rickey, my sweet husband who is absolutely more than I could have ever hoped for in a best friend, husband and father.

We recently discovered Flying Wild Alaska on Netflix.  Basically it is a reality show about his first flying job… just the names have been changed.  We have watched it for a couple nights in a row now, with several episodes still calling our names.  Rickey is (I was about to say “having a sleep over”) overnighting away from home tonight which is extremely rare for him in his current pilot job.  So we won’t be watching FWA tonight.  Anyway, the show brought back MULTIPLE memories of our time spent in the North when he was flying for Little Red Air Service.  Seriously, the flight crew that spent the same three years up in Fort Vermilion would have at least two seasons of episodes simply from the stories I know about.  And as all good pilot’s wives know, there are many stories that we are glad we still don’t know about.

Those were exhilarating years we spent up in the freezing tundra, but I must say that our last 16 years in the desert have been my favorite!  We have traveled more, laughed more, forgiven more, cried more, spent more, prayed more and have definitely loved more in the last 16 years.  Thanks, Rickey, for making my life so thrilling by living out the calling on your life to be a man of integrity and passion.  I love you!  XOXO

Past Perks of a Pilot’s Wife

Years back, my husband was stationed WAY up north in Alberta, Canada, flying Cessna 206s and a Britten Norman Islander in and out of remote Indian reservations along the Peace River.  Back in the good ol’ days, I was allowed to go flying with him if there was an empty seat in the plane.  I flew as much as possible and relished almost every minute of it.  One such enjoyable day started with a call from my pilot down at the airport, “I’m flying the chief and councilmen into Margaret Lake fishing lodge in the Islander.  Get our fishing poles and we can fish all day while they are in meetings.”  He flew for a Native Indian band and flying the chief was a big deal… fishing just made it that much more sweet!  With poles in hand, I met him on the ramp. 

I flew right seat and was happily viewing the extremely flat scenery on the 40 minute flight when I noticed something odd.  My pilot was not moving his head, but his eyes were roving to and fro…. searching for something.  In my mic I asked, “What are you doing?”  Not that the men could hear a word he said with the roar of the engines, but he quietly answered, “Look for two lakes next to each other.  I can’t find them.”  Ah.  Lost… with the chief in the back. Being a bit sarcastic, I suggested, “Ask them where it is.  They’ll know!”  No response from Mr. Roving Eye.  We eventually spotted the lakes and landed somewhat without incident.  The strip was usually 2,000 feet of solid dirt with a few grass patches, but for this occassion it was 2,000 feet of solid mud and a few grass patches.  Several moccasins had to have  mud wiped off of them after de-planing.

Being a supreme fishing queen, the anticipation of the day made my little casting heart beat with glee.  I assumed we would fish for several hours alone where the river ran into the lake.  How romantic!  Just me and my pilot.  Not so.  Seems the chief and his posse were supremely into fishing as well.  Their “meetings” were all hooked up and reeled in after the first hour.  They joined us on the banks in amongst the pine trees.  Unbeknownst to me, it turned out to be one of the best fishing days of my life.  I couldn’t throw the hook in without snagging a pike or a trout.  My pilot was genuinely happy for me…. in the beginning.  He was not experiencing the best fishing day of his life.  In fact, he couldn’t catch anything!  He snagged trees, lost hooks and finally just stood near me to take the hooks out of the mouths of the fish I kept pulling from the cool water.

The chief and councilmen noticed my supreme fishing ability (and probably my pilot’s too!)  They casually cast closer and closer to where I stood next to my haul on the bank at my feet.  The chief asked what I was using for bait.  Another wanted to see my lure.  Was I using weights?  Was I reeling quickly?  Where were the blinking fish hiding?

Wanting to keep his place of employment with these men, my pilot started giving my fish to them.  One at a time.  Two at a time.  Saving face is what I summed it up to be.  The brave Indians would now be returning home with booty from the fishing lodge…. and my pilot would still be their pilot. 

When we were all snug back in the plane, right before take-off, I heard one of the men comment under his breath, “Next time I’m bringing my woman.”  HAHA!  We dropped off each of them at their reservations with my fish in their hands and we returned to the hangar.  One of the other pilots asked if we had trouble finding the lakes.  “Nope!” I replied, making no eye contact with Mr. Roving Eye.  Then he asked how the fishing was.  “Not bad!  Want to see my fish?” and I proudly held up the one fish my pilot let me bring home for dinner. 

The moral of the story is: Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day.  Give many men many fish and you’ll be able to keep feeding yourself.

It’s the Holiday Season

After all the pictures of my messy house in pre-home visit haphazardness, I decided to let you see a glimpse of our Christmas house decor now that things are put straight and purty.

Jesus and his posse are on the piano this year.  There is far more room in the stable now, because there was no room in the inn.

My favorite part of getting ready for Jesus’ birthday is getting out all of our ornaments and reminiscing of those who gave them to us, or where we purchased them.  When we go on vacations, we try to remember to buy and ornament for the tree.  This is our first year where we’ll have two trees, but the real one that will inevitably drop pine needles in my shag carpet is not being purchased until Dec. 19th, the day after Rick and I get home.  So the fake Jenny Craig blue and silver tree is up and shining, but the remainder of the not blue and silver ornaments are still in their boxes.

My second favorite part of getting ready is finding the on-sale decorations that I bought last year.  I never remember them!  It’s like opening surprise Christmas presents to myself.  This year was no exception.  I found these silver balls and pinecones in their packages… all ready for the silver snowman basket.  So cute… and there’s mirrored disco balls too.  Perfect for the Crosby Christmas Dance-Off.

Because the Nativity scene took over the piano top, the Christmas village moved to the entry table… and of course, any pilot’s Christmas village has a hangar and an airplane or two.  Duh!

Here’s the love birds that are sitting behind the lit archway… it’s so cute.  He’s playing his accordion and singing to her…. probably “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

All we need is a roaring fireplace, some hot cocoa with marshmallows and some snow outside.  Well, one out of three ain’t bad.

Garage Sale Jackpot!

Three weeks ago today, I asked my dear love-to-sleep-in husband if he would get up early on his only day to sleep-in and go with me to the park for my veggie co-op at 8:00 am.  He was nice and said yes.  The co-op is called Bountiful Baskets and is such an amazing deal… $15 for a laundry basket full of fresh produce… if you don’t mind getting up early on Saturday morning.

As we’re driving there, Rick delivered a speech about an unexpected bill that came and the freeze that was currently slapped on Crosby spending.  Hey, the co-op HELPED save money!!  It is good to be informed.  I was heretowith informed. Secretly I was hoping to be taken out to breakfast, but those thoughts were dashed after the speech.  Oh well.

After picking up the bountiful basket, we were heading back to I-17 and saw several garage sale signs that sucked us in like gypsies to a fountain full of tossed coins.  The first stop was not inspiring to me.  Neither was the second stop, even though I found some Mason jars for science experiments for twenty-five cents.  Ready for departure, I was at the van waiting for Rick, when I noticed he was trying to get my attention in a covert fashion.  Head nods, throat clearing, undecipherable silently-mouthed words.  What could he have possibly found at this old folks garage sale???  I meandered over to his location and got a close up view of his eyeballs bulging from his head.  He obviously thought he had hit pay-dirt, baby.  All I could see were some old metal airplane signs.  “Great!” I surmised sarcastically, “More junk to put in the garage.”  Rick whispered, “The guy went into the house to get some more aviation stuff!”  Imagine my excitement!  I felt no need at all to do a jig.  I could tell Rick did, but was refraining.  Out came stacks of books…. more metal signs… 8×10 glossy black and white photos… postcards… and two huge metal boxes of slides.  ALL of vintage airplanes.  Rick started asking the elderly gentleman about the collection.  Seems it belonged to his passed-away old buddy and he was unloading it.  With every new photo and flight training book, Rick was positively salivating… with eyes bulging and eyebrows raised… trying to convey the glory of the moment without anyone but me witnessing this jackpot.

I was standing next to my thrilled husband reviewing the “unexpected bill…. spending freeze” speech I had just endured.  It had left Rick’s mind temporarily.  As Rick is known to do, he talked the lovely old folks down to $50 for all the airline paraphernalia.  But he didn’t have $50 cash on him.  He asked where our nearest bank was and we were off in a flash to the ATM.  As soon as we got in the van and shut the doors, Rick started spewing joy unspeakable and gobs of glory about the collection.  He explained that “we” could sell it on eBay and make a bundle (“we” = me.)  What could I say?  I knew nothing of the value of dusty old airplane books from the 40s…. and hundreds of slides of airplanes that don’t fly anymore… not my idea of an eBay goldmine.

Ok, my thinking has since changed.  The first book (of 25 in the box) sold on eBay yesterday for $89.  … a few hours later SIX of the 300 slides sold for $21.50.  I was starting to drool myself… and I believe my eyes were bulging.  Was that a jig coming on?  Larisa asked if I was going to do my eBay dance.  Maybe.  Some of the pictures are so old, we don’t have a clue how to  explain the planes… so Gramps, we might elicit your expertise!

Current garage sale score: Rick 1 – Linda 0.