Penne with shrimp and herbed cream sauce

Add this to your repertoire: I've been making this for awhile, but for some reason have neglected to post about it. It's very simple and comes together fast, especially if you get shrimp that is already peeled and deveined. When I do the peeling and deveining myself, I like to leave the tails on, because I prefer the way they look. However, this means you often have to twist off the tail by hand mid-meal, much to the husband's chagrin. He doesn't like to get his fingers shrimpy whilst eating a bowl of pasta. Doesn't bother me. Who am I, Emily Post? I suppose a more civilized household might employ what are known as "knives" to trim off the tail; not so here.

The one addition I have made to this recipe, which was at the husband's suggestion, was adding asparagus. This is reminiscent of a dish I am wildly fond of at Pasta Pomodoro (egads! a chain!), which is pasta shells in a spicy, creamy tomato sauce studded with shrimp and asparagus. I've been known to eat this dish at 10:30am while everyone else is ordering brunchy fare, like poached eggs and French toast.

Giada's sauce is not as delightfully spicy as Pasta P's; I'll have to bump up the red pepper flakes in the future. But in most other ways, it is similar. Here's the link to her recipe. As for the asparagus, I trimmed it, cut in into one-inch lengths, blanched it in the pasta water, then added it to the sauce along with the shrimp at the end.

I'm pretty sure whoever you make this for will fall in love with you (unless they have a shellfish allergy, which would make it a tragic lovestory), so be strategic. Don't say I didn't warn you when you're fighting off someone's unwanted amorous, shrimpy paws.

***

 

Gimme your money, then beat it: The other day, the husband and I had a spectacular afternoon: lunch at Out the Door (daikon rice cakes with spicy soy sauce and shitake mushrooms/vermicelli bowls with five spice chicken and imperial rolls/a carafe of wine--perfection!) followed by some leisurely book perusing. We weren't near my favorite bookstore, Green Apple, but fortunately, San Francisco does not hurt for bookstores, and we were a stone's throw from Browser Books. 

We each picked out three books. I brought the stack to the counter where the store owner? employee? grunted at me, flipped over the books, scanned them, then barked out the total. Once I'd paid, he shoved them in a plastic bag and literally swung them on the counter at me. When the bag slapped the counter, it sent a little puff of air into my face.

Why are people who work at bookstores so often surly, second only to record store employees? I don't need a standing ovation, but is it so old-fashioned to want a, "Hi, how are you? Did you find everything you were looking for?" or, upon leaving, "Thank you!" I mean, let's be honest: it's easier for me to order through Amazon. I choose to go to bookstores because I feel, in my heart, that they make a community warmer, richer, and better. This guy was not supporting this theory.

Anyway, I'm excited about the books. Here is what we got. Can you guess which three I chose and which three the husband picked out?

***

Crazy Town: Two odd things happened today. Not to me, but near me. The first was this morning, around 8am. I was just sitting down to work when I heard a commotion out front.

I peered through the slats of my shades and saw six people pour out of a cruddy looking car, right into my driveway (lucky me!). They were all yelling and taking swings at the other ones. Men and women both. It was like a big free for all! The car was stopped halfway in the street so traffic was having to go around them.

I was about to call the police when I saw one of the men winding up to smack one of the women, when all of a sudden, they abruptly shut up, piled back into the car, and drove away. The only trace they left behind was, disturbingly, a pair of bright pink underwear. Stranger still, when I looked out a few minutes later, the underwear was gone.

Then, this afternoon, while depositing some checks at the bank, all of a sudden I heard a man loudly cursing at some of the bank employees, hollering about having to wait. Like any longtime city dweller, within seconds I expertly assessed how close this lunatic was to me without actually appearing to look at him. (The last thing you want is eye contact.) Then, I surreptitiously identified the nearest exit.

To my surprise, this foul-mouthed character was not what I expected. He looked like a hipster, younger than me, conceivably someone I could be connected to on Facebook. He had a nifty little driving cap on and super stylie sneakers. The bank manager tried to placate him, which wasn't working out too well. The man was on a roll, a furious, expletive-chocked roll.

"That guy was in here earlier," the teller said to me softly as she finished my transaction. She looked at me with wide eyes. "I tried to help him and he yelled at me too. I'm not sure what's wrong with him. Wouldn't you be embarrassed to be yelling like that? If I were him I'd be so mortified."

"I'm pretty sure he's not embarrassed," I said to the teller, who looked about 12. She had her nails painted black and orange for Halloween. "I do, however, think he's a grade-A asshole."

I guess that's what you get from living in a city for a long time. You don't always feel sorry for people the way maybe you should, or consider the reasons that might cause them to act strangely or dangerously. You just want them to get the hell away from you.

Maui Zowee

 

Returning from vacation is full of lies. You tell yourself that you're happy to be in your own bed, with all your stuff around you. You say you're tired of eating out all the time. Maybe you claim to miss your friends. The most outrageous lie is that you're fully refreshed and ready to go back to work. Honestly, these things are only, at best, half true. I can put up with a mediocre bed if each morning I'm getting up and within an hour I'm swimming in the ocean. I can tolerate eating at restaurants three meals a day if it's a steady rotation of the freshest Ahi, mahi mahi, and opakapaka I've ever had--grilled, in tacos, as sushi, or straight-up sashimi. And, I love my friends, but I don't miss them when I'm on vacation. (I'm not even addressing the work lie.)

Thank goodness for Sophie, otherwise we wouldn't have returned. I mean, why would I want to leave this?

We spent nearly the entire trip in the water or on the sand. Of course, there was eating. Hawaii may not be known for its food, and that's certainly not the reason we go there, but that doesn't mean there isn't good food to be found. Like Star Noodle in LaHaina, where they pull their own noodles. I got the Hapa Ramen, since I'm a Hapa and all.

It was delicious. I especially liked how they brought out a tiny set of sauces to doctor it up.

 

Miniature seemed to be a theme, based on the teeny glass the husband got for his beer ("Bikini Blonde" by the Maui Brewing Company).

The husband was very pleased with the beer, the noodles, and his new Star Noodle hat.

OMG, he's cute!

We also had a stand-out lunch at Mama's Fish House. Ok, let's just get it out of the way: this place is expensive. My sandwich was $38. But it was beyond worth it. The menu changes every day and includes the name of the person that caught the fish you are about to eat. That's how local it is.

The food was fantastic and the view from our table was:

We had a gorgeous trio of sashimi to start.

For an entree, I had a panko-battered mahi mahi sandwich on a homemade onion roll with creamy, tangy tartar sauce, accompanied by coleslaw with pineapple and edamame and light-as-air taro chips. I forget what the husband had, fish of course, I think with ratatouille. I don't have any good pictures of these, so you'll have to use your imagination.

We were too full for dessert but they brought us some haupia which I enjoyed in spite of my anti-coconut stance. When in Rome Maui...

Tragically, vacation can't last forever. Leaving felt like a kick in the stomach. But, we'll be back. In a year if not sooner.

Aloha and Mahalo, Maui!

***

As you might expect, engagements, weddings, and honeymoons are big in Hawaii. We saw a few weddings just by chance, including this intimate one which occurred one evening at sunset right in front of us.

 

Also, while on a boat trip out to Molokini, we met a lovely couple who were to be married a few days later in Wailea. What a beautiful place to get married! we said and wished them well. 

They asked us if we were on our honeymoon, which I thought was cute, since we're six years into marriage and 11 years plus together. That actually happened a few times on the trip, which probably isn't unusual--like I said, people (including us) go there on their honeymoon. But I'm glad to know we could still be mistaken for newlyweds. We really do have fun together, I have to say, both on vacation and at home. Every day I thank my lucky stars we bumbled across each other on this big old planet.

***

In case you're interested, the title of this post is a pun on one my favorite albums--Wowee Zowee--by one of my favorite bands, Pavement.  

Recently I've been wondering what the hell happened to my interest in music. I mean, I like music. But I never seem to discover new stuff, unless the husband turns me on to something. The last time this happened was with Broken Bells. That was probably about a year ago.

Other people are always discovering music. It comes up all the time. People asking if I've heard this or bought that. I'm always like, uh, no. I'm still listening to music from the mid-90's, when I graduated from college. It's like my music growth got stunted when I entered adulthood. Even the husband is discovering bands --when, I'm not sure. I guess people secretly search for music while I'm watching TV, spacing out, or eating--my primary at-home hobbies.

I'm going to rectify this situation.  I can't be 65 years old and still talking about bands I loved in college. I at least need to add to the list of favorites. Seriously.

Skillet trout

I guess I'm not ready to give up on blogging entirely. I am thinking, though, of morphing The Hungry Dog into something broader,  posting less frequently but about more things, not all food-related. Don't worry, nothing too heady--just stuff occupying my brain.

The first is trout. While grocery shopping a week or so ago, I stopped to admire the whole butterflied trout in the fish case. They were very lovely, with that silver-iridescent skin. Also, cheap. I got one wrapped up to go.

Once home, I had to decide what to do with it. Sometimes I can be very creative; sometimes I'm a total blank. What I decided on was a little on the blank side: lemon slices and rosemary. But actually, it was lovely! I opened up Mister Trout, stuffed him with the goods, and baked him in a skillet at high heat for 12 or 13 minutes. Delicious!

I only have a "before" picture because the after ones didn't look that different and I was in a hurry to eat it.

A few nights later I was talking to my sister on the phone about trout and we started reminiscing about this dish my dad would make sometimes, pan-fried whole trout with brown gravy, Chinese-style. I have no idea what was in that gravy, except I do remember green onions being part of it, which I confirmed with my mother. However, none of us know where the recipe came from.

I've have been mulling over how I might recreate this trout. I'm actually hoping some of my cousins that read this might chime in if their parents--my dad's sibs--ever made something along these lines. Pete, Carole, Tracey: I'm talking to you guys.

***

The second thing that's been on my mind for a couple of weeks is The Catcher in the Rye. While at my favorite bookstore a few weeks ago, I picked up a used copy of the classic. I found one with a cover I liked, a real old-school edition.

Now, of course I have read this book. I read it before high school, in high school, and quite possibly at some point afterward. But, reading it now, as a fully formed adult, was a totally different experience. Man, this book killed me. I just wanted to cry every 5 pages. I mean, it's funny, too--there's a lot of stuff that made me laugh out loud. But reading it from an adult perspective, I just felt like I wanted to save Holden. His depression is so clearly linked to the death of his younger brother Allie...and isn't this crazy, I didn't even remember he had a brother that got leukemia and died.

The book made me think about all kinds of things: Are there singular events that determine what kind of an adult you will be? How do you learn to face the future? Why are some people able to let the sadnesses of the world slide off them, while others find them debilitating?

One thing that I ended up really thinking about in the end was how glad I was the book was written, published (in 1951!) and that it is/was taught in schools. Sometimes I get so frustrated with the conservative dive this country is taking, it makes me worry that books like this won't get taught anymore. (Re)read it awhile you have the chance, before all the phonies have it banned.

***

The third thing on my mind is something I've been doing recently. One of my clients is a wonderful organization called Family House. They provide free, temporary housing to low-income families whose children are being treated at UCSF for life-threatening illnesses. They are a fantastic organization and I am honored to work for them.

I recently started volunteering there with Sophie, as part of their therapy dog program. Once a month, we visit the kids, who range from infant to teenager. Many of them are undergoing chemotherapy; for some of them, this is not their first round. Some are part of exciting but exhausting clinical trials. All  of them--and their parents--need a bright spot now and then, between treatments, appointments, and test results.

Here's Sophie about to go into her first day of therapy. Family House is located right next to Golden Gate Park, so I took her for a long walk first to get some energy out. Now she's getting focused.

The kids really love Sophie. There was a teeny girl there the other day--only two--whose father told me she was generally very afraid of dogs and would cry when she saw them. Not so with Sophie. She's extremely docile, you know. The little girl petted Sophie's head, fed her a biscuit, and even let Sophie lick her face.

Another boy, about 13, who was rather shy, hung out with us for the whole hour. He told me that Sophie reminded him of his four dogs at home, who he missed very much. He just wanted to be around her.

There's something about this experience that makes me happy, in spite of it being rather difficult. Not for me--I don't mean to imply that I'm suffering. But, you know, I wish I could fix these kids. No one should have to go through this kind of pain when they are so young. But, I'm glad I can do this one thing for them. It's not a lot, but it's something.