Curried Potato Salad and Trail Running . . . not that they're related or anything . . .

It finally occurred to me, as a(n unwilling) single person, that maybe the secret to cooking/preparing solo meals lies in "prep work." As in, set aside a day to make a variety of stuff ahead of time. That way, I'll have something ready to eat all week, without being reminded over and over again, with each meal, each day, just how much cooking (and by "cooking," I mean "a bowl of cereal") for one sucks the big one . . . I know this concept ain't a Jen Original, that even non-single people do this kind of thing all the time (and is also a great idea to handle cooking in this eternal infernal world we seem to be living in this summer), but preparing and sharing meals was one of the most blessed past-times I spent with Bob, especially out here at Wrenwood, and has been one of the most difficult things for me to engage in, as that act alone is so awash with memories . . . when Bob got sick, as I mentioned in my last blog, cooking and feeding him transcended from an enjoyable activity we did together, to a sacred ritual for me. Even though, deep in my heart, I knew all the good food in the world wouldn't "cure" him, I saw in him other positive effects of good, healthy food—he often couldn't eat much of what I made for him (and believe me, every meal was made with him solely in mind), but he was so appreciative of my efforts and never failed to tell me so . . .


Maybe it's the summer weather and the bounties pouring forth from gardens and farmer's market that has me kind of excited to be cooking again, maybe it's all the therapy that's finally helping clear some of the trauma that's clogged my brain for so long, making way for some good things again, maybe it's that I'm finally, just damn hungry—I dunno . . . but I have been taking more time and effort in preparing meals for myself again, which is still lonely as hell, but kind of enjoyable, in a talking-to-myself and answering-myself kind of way. And beats eating cereal. Again.

When I made the heavenly Brussels Sprouts the other night (I swear I hear angels sing whenever I type that), I also whipped up a big batch of Curried Potato salad, a Mediterranean Quinoa salad and tuna egg salad. Now, I'm wondering what the hell I'm going to do with all this f'n salad. . . maybe I could crash a 3M picnic . . .

The Curried potato salad was something I happened upon while searching online for a good, easy potato salad recipe, because I had some potatoes that weren't just growing eyes, but long, spindly tentacles that kinda scared me every time I opened the pantry door to grab a box of cereal. For dinner. Again. (An aside: there is nothing you can't find an answer to, online, btw, which is a whole 'nuther blog entry for a whole 'nother time). I've made curried chicken salad before, but never curried 'tater salad. What's the difference, you ask? Well, the simple answer is: dump a couple tablespoons of curry powder into anything, and suddenly, you got yourself not just plain ol' 3M picnic potato salad, but exotic 3M picnic potato salad! This recipe, however, also calls for chopped apple, sweet pickle relish and sour cream, for extra exoticness. The pickle relish was an interesting touch, but I'd do raisins next time, for the sweetness to counter the curry seasoning. I also use plain Greek yogurt in place of sour cream in pretty much any recipe (in fact, I don't even buy sour cream any more for these reasons), but do what you want, I'm not the boss of you, man.

Unappetizing soups, served with rocks, apparently.
 Courtesy of BH&G Soups  & Stews cookbook, 1978

As you can see, I took a totally unappetizing picture of my totally appetizing potato salad, for your viewing displeasure. It reminds me of the food photos in the 1970's collection of cook books I inherited from my father's estate after he died ("inherited from my father's estate" = "no one else wanted 'em"); those photographers did such an amazing job of making everything—beef stew, chicken cacciatore—even chocolate cake!—look so disgusting, I'm surprised anyone was inspired to cook anything back then. Or, maybe it's just that people really did cook things that looked super-grotesque back then. Who really knows for sure . . . anyhow, my Curried Tater Salad tastes much better than the photo lets on. I tossed a handful of walnuts in just before I served it up with a simple li'l pastrami, avocado, provolone and tomato sandwich, with a smear of wasabi mayo (<---- the only time you'll ever see the word smear without the word pap). A nice variation on the ol' run o' the mill potato salad, especially for summer.

So, I know the title of this post is "Curried Potato Salad and Trail Running, and blah, blah, blah," but I think I'll save the trail running part for my next entry, in an effort to reign in the ADD aspect of my ramblings. I can hear the collective groan from y'all, wanting sooooooooo badly to keep on reading, but don't worry. I'll be back. Until then, watch your back. Whatever that means.

Brussels Sprouts: not just a means to punish your kids anymore!

They're like tiny, baby cabbages! How can you not like 'em?!

I don't know if I've always liked Brussels sprouts or not; I do know I've liked them for as long as I can remember, which, in my world these days, means since yesterday. But I don't eat them often, because though I've had some gorgeous emerald-green, crisp-tender, flavorfully roasted (or otherwise prepared) sprouts in my day, I was also weaned on the frozen variety, which were usually just boiled in water, drowned in butter, and ended up on the pale, mushy end of the vegetable scale (which means it's no longer is a vegetable, by that point). That may have somewhat tainted my perception of the cute li'l leafy baby cabbage-like globes, and gives me pause when I see them in the grocery store, or on a menu.

I don't remember hating B. sprouts, like I did peas when I was in Kindergarten—peas are truly the only food item I can immediately recall having an honest-to-God visceral reaction to; as a tender five-year-old, peas honestly made me gag till my eyes watered—I think I even threw up in my hand once, when the cafeteria lady tried to force me to finish my cupful of creamed peas before I was allowed to leave the table. I cried really hard till snot ran down my nose and into my mouth, and I threatened to tell my Dad on her—now, if anyone knew my Dad back in the day, as the youngsters nowadays say, those were some serious fightin' words. Invoking the wrath of my Dad would be the modern day equivalent of a terroristic threat that could result in a lockdown of the school—trust me, you did not want my dad, a fierce li'l pitbull in his heyday, clamped onto your ass, man . . . but wait, we're talking Brussels sprouts here, not peas, or my dad, which I like just fine these days, creamed or not, in case you were wondering. Peas, I mean, not my Dad. With a glob of butter, some salt & pepa, I've learned that just about anything can taste pretty awesome. Well, except my Dad. And that's just plain bizarre, that I'd even type that. And now, I have the song "Push it" playing in my head and will, for the next week, all because I thought I'd be cute and type salt & pepa back there, 20 minutes ago, and you, too, can have it on a continuous brain loop, if you click the link! Double-dog dare ya . . . 'scuse me while I go see if I can score a few tablets of Ritalin from a high school kid . . .

Heavenly Hash, or something like that . . . 

Anyhooooooooodles. . . few summers ago, my sister, Jill and her li'l girlie, Amelia came out to visit us a few weeks before Bob went into the U for his godforsaken nightmare of a surgery. I remember the day well; though Bob was on a strict (self-prescribed) ice cream diet at that time, we still made a kick-ass lunch from farmer's market bounty we had picked up earlier in the day, hoping to tempt him with some delicious, savory home-made goodness. One side dish from that day, that has stuck in my mind is a killer Brussels sprouts with cashews and maple sugar recipe that Jill whipped up (and in the process, created an utter disaster in our kitchen, btw—swear to God, every freakin' pot, pan and utensil we owned was filthy—there were Brussels sprouts sticking to the walls and ceiling, by the time she was done with the meal, Gaia was lopping up maple syrup and cashews from the floor—but it was tooooootally worth it). These were The. Best. Brussels. Sprouts. Ever. In. The. History. Of. EVER. Even Bob forsook (forsuked? forsaked?) a bite of ice cream for a bite of this baby green vegetable heaven and pronounced it good. But, I haven't had it, or made it since.

The other day at Trader Joes, I spied a little bag of Brussels sprouts in the produce department, and threw them in my cart, as the memory of that memorable side dish infiltrated my brain, and it's all I think about, whenever I open the fridge, since I bought 'em. I couldn't remember the exact recipe, and have been playing phone tag with Jill these past few days to try to get it, before the sprouts, which have been in the fridge for the past several days now, start to sprout fur. But, I couldn't reach her, so I did a quick search last night, and found a recipe: Maple Syrup Brussels Sprouts with Pecans which I'm pretty sure is similar to what she made on that bittersweet, beautiful summer day, back in August of 2010. This recipe calls for pecans; I substituted cashews (toasted them, too, as the recipe says). Instead of 4 tablespoons of coconut oil (not sure why it asks for so much, seems like they'd end up grotesquely greasy), I used a good heaping tablespoon, and added 2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, for kicks and giggles. Oh, and I had some onion in the fridge, so I chopped it up and roasted it along the sprouts, too.

I served the sprouts with plain ol' cooked quinoa, to round out my meal. As I was preparing it, I could almost transport myself back to the time when I used to love to cook and would lose my self in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes, ingredients . . . I traveled back in time, to when our lives were so insanely out of control and the only thing I felt in control of, was what I was making in the kitchen, what I was feeding Bob, to help nourish him, to help stave off the effects of the chemo and cancer, to help him gain weight . . . and in the time-travel, I also thought how much love went into ever act I did for him during that nightmare, and how much love he radiated back to me, as sick as he was, he was always so grateful, so appreciative of everything everyone did for him . . . I still, to this day, maintain the believe that there never will be a cure for cancer, but that's another blog for another time, if ever. The best, and really only thing we can do is take care of each other, along the way. And that is all we need to do.

Soooooooooooo, try this recipe, today, dammit! I mean it! You can't leave the table until you do! It won't cure cancer, but even if you think you don't like Brussels Sprouts, this recipe might change your mind. But if you still don't—absolutely NO spitting them out in your hand. I mean, throwing them up.

House For Sale. . .

Went to see my mom and brothers over the weekend, and what a nice weekend it ended up being, despite the furnace-like temps we're being subjected to, for what feels like going on an eternity. . . maybe hell really is on earth . . . I've got our house for sale. Yes, again. This time, hopefully for good. I have been "researching" all options for where I will go, if and when it sells, and the St. Peter/Mankato area is definitely an option. I'd love to be back in St. Paul, but the reality is, it is so f'n expensive to rent a decent house, in a decent neighborhood. Damn near what my mortgage is (and in some cases, even more). I'd like to find a small house, with at least a one stall garage and a small, fenced yard. My hope is to downsize and simplify this time, not make things more complicated. Been there, done that, don't need that t-shirt . . .

I'm going the short-sale route, we'll see what transpires. My hope is that my mortgage co. will see my situation for what it is, a true hardship, and allow me to bow out of my home gracefully and painlessly as possible, given the circumstances. Trouble is, I'm not behind in my payments—kinda trying to be proactive here, peeps, though I should know better, as I've discovered time and time again on this f'n journey, that doesn't seem to be the way the rest of the world operates, unfortunately . . . sorry, a little worstcasescenarioitis flare-up, there . . .

This has been a long, dragged out process, which is one of several reasons I've not written lately. Such an emotionally-charged decision, yet one that I finally have to reckon with, and I can't even begin to describe how difficult these decisions are to make, on my own. Our house is far too much for me, financially, emotionally, physically, and is slowly bleeding my dry, financially, emotionally, physically . . . losing Bob means an infinite number of things to me, but one glaring "real world" loss is a significant portion of our income. "Back in the day," when we were together—healthy, able-bodied and working full-time—maintaining this house and all the expenses connected to it were never an issue. Bob loved to head outside and "do chores," as he called it—mowing lawn, cleaning gutters, clearing buckthorn, hell, he'd even scramble to the top of the metal roof and clean the sky lights. I even liked helping him, as together, we could make short order of a big project . . . Now, I alone am responsible for the upkeep and expenses of a life/home that two once shared. Bob, with his capable body, is gone, his income is gone, but all expenses and responsibilities of this house are still very much here, for me to deal with . . . we've been in a dragged-out heat wave for weeks now, yet I lie awake at night, dreading our "pending" winter, which in my mind, is "just around the corner . . ." We lucked out last year; we can't bank on two winters like that, in a row. I am ecstatic that this heat wave without rain has kept the lawn care at bay. Usually, it seemed that no sooner would I have the lawn mowed, I'd turn around and start all over again. . . So, with those thoughts and a whole host of others in mind, I started thinking about my options: stay in the house, try to sell, try to refinance, rent it out, get a roommate, and on and on and on . . . You'd be surprised at the various other "options" I came up with: the man-cave behind the garage would make an awesome meth lab, for example. I mean, the dude on Breaking Bad seemed to make a rather interesting go of it (disregard the fact that he nearly dies at the hands of drug lords in every episode) . . .

As lonely and easy to isolate as it is out here, I thought, perhaps if I could refinance, it would make sense for a few years to stay put. I could then justify the costs of paying someone to do yard work, snow removal and other expenses/repairs as needed. I may even feel better about spending a little extra money to travel a bit . . . So, I contacted my lender to see if I might be able to refinance, short answer is no, because I'm not working. Long answer is still no, because even if I were working, my debt-to-income ration wouldn't qualify me for a refi. So option B is the "Obama Hardship Plan," (aka, Making Homes Affordable) where there are several ways to modify a loan for homeowners, to assist in keeping one's home. Again, the short answer to "Do I qualify for that plan?" is a resounding no, because I'm not behind in my payments, because my Freddie Mac loan doesn't qualify under the programs, because of a whole host of other reasons. So much for a real hardship. . . this process took about three days to get through, several long phone conversations to various entities, and required copious amounts of financial paperwork on my end, only to be told there are no options available for me, to try to stay in our house . . . I can see how someone would become so frustrated and daunted by this whole process that they'd just throw up their hands in despair. But I plodded along, damned and determined to find some solution to my circumstances . . .

I was eventually referred to my local county housing and development authority, for further assistance. Another three days, copious amounts of paperwork and dragged-on, tearful conversations later, and coming up empty-handed with a solution to help me stay in our house, the very kind woman who helped me through this process finally asked me, "How badly do you want to keep your home?" I don't, really, I told her. It's too much property, too much house, too much work, far too expensive for just me to be here much longer. "Well, the only other option I can see for you, is to try to do a short sale, but if you go that route, definitely find a realtor who specializes in them, because it's a long and tedious process and might still not work out for you, in the long run," she replied. A short sale basically means that the bank accepts an offer for a home that is less than what is owed, but I soon learned it's a helluva lot more complicated than that . . . she gave me the names and numbers of a few realtors in my area who specialize in short sales, telling me that the county doesn't endorse any of the realtors, but simply offer their contact info as references to start the process.

Thus, ensued another three or so days, contacting the realtors, talking with them and setting up appointments to go over my "situation." I tell you, some days, I'm astounded at how I downplay my circumstances, as though it's something everyone goes through on a regular everyday basis, and how guilty I feel, thinking there are others who have it so much worse, and that I should suck it up and figure all this out on my own. Until a stranger who, hearing our story for the first time, sits across the table at me, mouth agape as words tumble out of my mouth . . . maybe it's because I've just become numb to the circumstances, having told the story so many times . . . maybe it's because any time I've tried talking to our mortgage company, their response has always been, "How far behind are you in your payments." I'm not, see, I'm trying to prevent that, is always my answer, which seems to be the wrong answer, because to them, at this point, I'm not a hardship. Or, maybe it go back to the time, after Bob had gone through 12 weeks of grueling chemo, was down to 112 pounds, had had his second heart attack and countless other crises, and I was blogging like crazy about the horrific situation we were in, when someone had the nerve to tell my mom that I needed to drop the martyr act already, or no one would follow my blog any more, because everyone has problems, y'know. To her, we were not a hardship . . . or the time a client of mine told me, in the heart of Bob's ordeal, "Well, just remember, there are always other people who have it far worse than you do . . ." What we had endured, in her opinion, was not a hardship . . . anyhow I digress, as usual . . .

As I sat with the realtor whom I finally decided to work with, he stopped taking notes and said to me, "Jen, your situation is about the most difficult scenario I've ever encountered, and I've been working with short sales for several years now." He then said he commended me for being proactive, as most people wait too long to try a short sale, when the foreclosure process has already started, and by then, it's too late. I asked why any other realtor that I had spoken with after Bob died, about selling our house, had never mentioned a short sale to me. In their opinion, I was told, I would not get what was owed on our home, but if I listed with them and had to sell below what I owed, I, personally, would be the one making up the difference, which could easily have been in the 30-60 grand range. That was the deciding factor in pulling it off the market in January, and move back . . .

He said that many realtors hate short sales because they involve so much extra stuff—paperwork, time, information gathering, etc.—that most realtors don't want to be bothered by them. Or they simply don't know enough about a short sale to offer it as an option for someone in a real hardship situation. Suddenly, I felt like I was back at the U of M again, when everyone is shouting the battle cry, "You have to be your own advocate!" But how can one be an advocate when you aren't even told what allf your options are . . .

There is no cut 'n' dried process of a short sale, unfortunately; each circumstance varies wildly, and my realtor has seen all outcomes. "In theory," the process is simple: seller writes a detailed hardship letter to their mortgage company and fills out all the paperwork involved with the property as well as insanely detailed financial information, all as "proof" to the lender that the seller is, indeed, facing a hardship. The house is listed, an offer is made and the bank approves. Done deal. An appraisal is done, inspection is done, everything that happens in a "normal" sale is done, but then, if an offer is made, the hope is that the bank will accept the offer, and wash the difference. But that doesn't always happen in that way. Sometimes, the bank simply refuses the short sale. Sometimes the bank says they want the seller to pay the difference. Sometimes, the short sale drastically affects the credit history of a seller, especially if the seller is behind in payments, which in the past might have freaked me out, as I have stellar credit, and have been somewhat of a pitbull in protecting that . . . But, I've also gotten to a point where I don't place such importance on something like a number assigned by a credit reporting company any longer. I'm not behind on payments or any other bills, nor am I about to turn around and buy another house any time soon. I am simply trying to be proactive and hoping to avoid the financial disasters that so many people have ended up in, in recent history. . . I keep telling myself, "It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house . . ." In other words, the flip side to the hit to my credit number with a short sale is far more devastating an option . . . it's not worth going into financial ruin over, just because I'm having a little difficulty letting go of the emotional ties to the house . . .

So, as luck would have it, the week I put the house up for sale, my lawn mower broke down and the central air unit began leaking water all over the utility room . . . and I got an offer, less than two weeks "on the market." A ridiculously low-ball offer, but an offer, nonetheless. Ultimately, with a short sale, the offer doesn't impact me at all; it is up to my lender to accept it or not. And I can always say "no" if the bank says I have to pay the difference in a short sale. At which point, I'll start perusing the internet for a good meth recipe and set up shop in the man cave . . anyhow, more stories on the widow front, to come . . . I promise. Lucky you.