Roasted Vegetable Pie

This recipe is from the March 2010 issue of Family Circle magazine. It's really good. I've been wanting to make it for about a year, but our local grocery stores only recently began selling parsnips. It's not hard to make, but it does take some time. Butternut squash are a pain to peel and cut. Still, the final product was well worth the effort. Savory and delicious, roasting gave the vegetables an almost sweet flavor.

Dad liked it too. After he adjusted to the fact that it didn't contain chicken. I told him when I put it on the table that it was Roasted Vegetable Pie. He put a slice on his plate, ate a few mouthfuls, and asked, "There's no chicken in it?" "No, that's why it's called Roasted Vegetable Pie," I replied. "I thought there would be chicken." "Then it would be called Roasted Chicken Pie," I informed him.

Roasted Vegetable Pie

Makes: 6 servings
Prep: 25 minutes
Bake: at 450 degrees F for 45 minutes; at 425 degrees F for 30 minutes
Cook: 1 minute

Roasted Vegetable Pie
Ingredients

* 1 small cauliflower, cut into florets, about 4 cups
* 1 small butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
* 2 medium parsnips, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
* 1 cup baby carrots
* 1 sweet red pepper, cut into 1-inch pieces
* 2 tablespoons olive oil
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
* 1 cup vegetable broth
* 1 tablespoon cornstarch
* 3/4 teaspoon dried thyme
* 3/4 teaspoon dried oregano
* 2 tablespoons plain bread crumbs
* 1 package (15 ounces) refrigerated rolled piecrusts
* 2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
* 1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water

1. Heat oven to 450 degrees F. Coat a large baking pan with nonstick cooking spray.

2. In a large bowl, add cauliflower, squash, parsnips, carrots and pepper. Toss with olive oil and 1/4 teaspoon each of the salt and pepper. Spread out on the baking pan in a single layer. Bake at 450 degrees F for 30 minutes, stirring halfway.

3. Meanwhile, place the broth in a medium-size saucepan and stir in the cornstarch. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer 1 minute until thickened. Stir in the thyme, oregano and remaining salt and pepper. In a large bowl, gently toss roasted vegetables, bread crumbs and sauce.

4. Fit one of the piecrusts into a deep-dish 9-inch pie plate. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the cheese over the bottom. Spoon in vegetable mixture and sprinkle with remaining 1 tablespoon cheese. Place the second piecrust on top and crimp crusts together. Pierce a few times with a paring knife to vent. Brush lightly with the egg-water mixture.

5. Bake at 450 degrees F for 15 minutes. Lower heat to 425 degrees F and bake for an additional 30 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool slightly before slicing.

Nutrition Facts

* Servings Per Recipe 6 servings
* Calories467,
* Total Fat (g)25,
* Saturated Fat (g)9,
* Cholesterol (mg)50,
* Sodium (mg)729,
* Carbohydrate (g)56,
* Fiber (g)7,
* Protein (g)8,
* Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet

What's for dinner?

I’ve obviously been serving Dad too many new foods recently. I’d fallen into a rut of just repeating all my old standby’s. It was getting boring, for me anyway. So I’ve been trying out one new recipe after another for the past week: Pasta with Roasted Cauliflower & Red Onions, Roasted Vegetable Pie, Whole-Grain Spaghetti With Garlicky Kale and Tomatoes, Pasta Fagioli. It may be getting too confusing for Dad.

He’s been game, if a bit wary, and tried everything I’ve put in front of him. He always has the option of fixing himself something or grabbing a pack of Nabs. I refuse to make multiple entrees. He has to eat what I serve or forage for himself.

On Tuesday night, he wandered into the kitchen and stood there with a quizzical expression on his face. I don’t normally cook in the evening, but since I’d gone out for lunch, and the kale needed to be used, I decided to fix Whole-Grain Spaghetti with Garlicky Kale and Tomatoes. When he asked in astonishment if I was cooking supper, I informed him, “Yes, because I don’t think you’re going to like this recipe so it’s good that you always tell me you’re not very hungry in the evening.” No point in sugar coating the truth or raising false expectations.

Of course, just because I’m blunt, doesn’t mean he can get away with being rude. He’s not always as funny as he thinks he is and since I work hard to put home-cooked meals on the table, I don’t appreciate disparaging comments. When he sat down to serve his plate, he made some comment that I didn’t appreciate. I told him to watch it or I’d quit fixing him meals at all. Given that he won’t even spread pimento cheese on bread, that’s a threat he’d be wise to heed.

He not only ate Whole-Grain Spaghetti with Garlicky Kale and Tomatoes, he went back for seconds. It helped that the recipe called for Parmesan cheese to be sprinkled on top. Dad was very liberal with his topping. He’s a big fan of condiments.

I served the dish by placing the skillet on the table, with the pasta and topping all mixed together, and a pasta spoon resting alongside. I’d served the Pasta With Roasted Cauliflower & Red Onions the same way last week. This is important because it apparently led to the confusion of yesterday’s meal.

Yesterday, I finished off the kale by including it in a soup called Pasta Fagioli. The recipe called for diced tomatoes, chicken broth, small pasta shells, fresh kale, and white beans. It made a hearty soup.

Dad had set the table with plates. I put the pot of soup, with a ladle for dipping, on the table. Since I’m the dishwasher, I don’t waste time on serving bowls. Dad always helps his plate before I ever sit down. I assumed that when he saw we were having soup, he’d add bowls to the place settings.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I passed by his place at the table on my way to sit down. He was in the process of shaking the Parmesan cheese on top of his soup. Which he’d ladled directly onto his plate. I guess after I snapped at him the day before, he was afraid to ask what we were having, so he’d just served himself.

“That’s soup!” I told him in outrage. He looked in confusion from me to the package of shredded Parmesan cheese. “That’s soup!” I repeated again, still staring at his plate in horror. He kept looking from me to the package of cheese. “It’s supposed to be served in a bowl,” I informed him.

I picked up his plate, which was swimming with broth, and held it over the kitchen sink while I tried to tip the contents into a bowl. “Helpful hint. If you don’t see a base of pasta anywhere, and there’s a ladle involved, the dish is soup and meant to be eaten out of a bowl,” I instructed. He didn’t say a word, just ate his soup.

I guess he earns points for eating what’s put in front of him. I just wish he’d pay more attention to what that is. I’m not going to print those fancy menu cards like they do at state dinners, although I have been known to slap the recipe down in front of him so he won’t ask me what’s in it.

I think I’ll give him a break today. We’ll have something normal that he recognizes like corned beef hash and cabbage. He’ll probably be so relieved to see something familiar, that he’ll reward me with a “That was good,” at the end of the meal.

Packing for Mars

No, Dad hasn't made me so mad that I'm fleeing the planet. Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void is the latest book by Mary Roach. I just started it last night and I'm really enjoying it. I'm not really a science or space travel afficionado. In fact, science was among my least favorite, and least understood, subjects in school. Perhaps if the teachers had been as interesting and entertaining as Ms. Roach that wouldn't have been the case.

I just checked, and my library doesn't have copies of Ms. Roach's earlier books, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, and Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife. Maybe inter-library loan will help me out. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to learn more scientific facts.

Jumping Jack

I saw where Jack LaLanne died at the age of 96. Although no one in my family ever exercised when I was growing up, I remember seeing him on tv. The stories say that he was ahead of his time. When he first started preaching exercise and weight training, doctors cautioned against it believing that weight training made an athlete slow and "muscle bound" and made a woman look masculine. Obviously LaLanne was right and the doctors wrong. Wonder how many of those doctors lived to be 96?

I must admit that it would have been nice to live in a world where exercise was discouraged rather than encouraged. I'd love to be able to sit in my chair, reading or watching tv, without feeling guilty if I skipped a workout. Yeah, I always feel better after I exercise, but I'm not so crazy about the actual effort involved during the workout. And I really have no desire to live to be 96. Hopefully I've achieved the right balance between sloth and exercise to ensure that I live to a reasonable age in reasonable health.

As for LaLanne's other mantra of healthy eating, I'll eat my vegetables, but no way am I giving up sugar. What's the point of living to be old if you're miserable and deprived in the process?

A stitch in time

The church was having a Brunswick stew sale today. Dad went and picked up five quarts for us, so I didn't have to cook. We had one quart for lunch and I planned to freeze the rest. I bagged up the four remaining quarts and carried two out to the garage to put in the freezer. Dad followed with the other two.

Three of them made it into the freezer safely. One slipped off the top shelf and splatted onto the concrete floor. The bottom of the bag burst and Brunswick stew went everywhere.

After I finished cussing, I told Dad to open the door into the kitchen and call Dillon. Why should I waste time cleaning up the floor when I have my very own living, breathing vacuum cleaner? When Dillon finished, the floor was perfectly clean of all traces of Brunswick Stew. All three of us agreed that it was superior stew.

This afternoon, I finally got around to doing some mending. I bought an inexpensive Kenmore sewing machine years ago after my trusty old Singer started acting up. Since I hardly ever sew anymore, I didn't see any point in spending a bunch of money on a new sewing machine that wasn't going to see much use.

Unfortunately, the new machine has always confused me. My old machine just had one straightforward single stitch. The new machine has multiple stitches and a poorly designed bobbin compartment. The machine has been stored in the bottom of the closet for years. But my favorite bath towels were fraying at the edges and I've been meaning to attempt to mend them for over a year now.

Today I finally got the machine out and gave it a shot. Amazingly enough, I managed to figure out how to thread the machine and insert the bobbin. After several practice runs on an old pair of Dad's underwear, I figured out the correct zigzag stitch and tension and got down to work.

Since the thread I had on hand wasn't an exact match, they do look mended. After the first two, I changed from turquoise to pale lavender thread and that was a better match. The mended towels don't look bad and hopefully they'll hold together for a few more years. I like them and have no desire to buy new ones.

Is the glass half full?

The library has a used book sale once or twice a month. Every time Dad goes, he comes home complaining that the selection is poor, the layout is too cramped, and that the sale is poorly run. So when he announced this morning that he was going to the library book sale, I told him not to come back home complaining again.

Naturally, he returned and said for the umpteenth time that it was a lousy excuse for a book sale. "You know what they say about people who continue to repeat the same actions expecting a different result," I lectured, "it's the definition of insanity." "I prefer to think of it as being optimistic," was his immediate response. I must admit, he is still quick-witted.

A to Z

Years ago when I was living by myself, Dad warned me that he had insurance on the house, but not on the contents. So, I purchased a renter's policy. After he moved in, I let the policy lapse since I was no longer renting.

I asked him a week or so ago if he'd ever updated his homeowner's insurance so that it covered the contents as well as the structure. "Probably not," was his response. I suggested he might want to check. If something were to happen and I was going to have to start rebuilding my wardrobe from scratch, I wanted an insurance check to help fund the process.

I asked him again today if he'd checked. No, he hadn't. The next time I went through the den, he handed me a copy of his insurance policy. He had updated the coverage, so we're protected. Of course, I don't even want to contemplate the fierce battle that would ensue if I actually tried to claim a portion.

He pointed out the name on the file, Montgomery, so that I'd know where to look if I had any more questions. "Why is filed under Montgomery? I asked. "Because that's the name of the carrier." "That makes no sense. Who wants to have to remember the name of the carrier. Why don't you file it under Insurance?"

"Because I have more than one kind of insurance. There's auto insurance and health insurance." "That's why you label the files Insurance-home owners, Insurance-health, etc." I replied. "How am I supposed to know what all those things are filed under?" Now I understand why Mom claimed she could never find anything in Dad's file cabinet.

"There's only one file cabinet. Start at A and keep going until you hit Z," he suggested helpfully. "That's an efficient way to spend my time," I griped. "You now have a new way to occupy yourself," I informed him. "You can make a list of how everything's filed." He just laughed hysterically.

She Who Must Be Kept Dry

I bought this print on Saturday. It's now hanging above my nightstand. I confess, when I picked it out I thought the person was an overweight woman. Instead, it turns out the figure is a portly man, Ernest Hemmingway Mustard. The dog is a rather grumpy Jack Russell named Doris. They are products of the imagination of Sam Toft, who is a woman.

Regardless of the fact that neither Dillon nor I resemble either figure in the print, I love the spirit of the piece. If I had a dog that flatly refused to walk in the rain, I can see myself holding an umbrella above their head. Although I would hope that neither of us would be quite that broad in the beam.

I also like Tea for Three. That's what my dinner table looks like.

Today is Benjamin Franklin's birthday

From The Writer's Almanac.

One day when Franklin was dining out in Paris with some friends, one of the diners posed the question, "What condition of man most deserves pity?" Each guest proposed an example and Benjamin Franklin said, "A lonesome man on a rainy day who does not know how to read."

I tried reading Franklin's autobiography, but it wasn't nearly as entertaining as his anecdotal quotes. I never make New Year's resolutions, but this year I did resolve to try and read more books. I listen to audiobooks, surf the web, and leaf through magazines, but the number of actual books that I read has declined in recent years. Which is a shame because reading has always been one of my greatest pleasures.

I'm currently reading The Life and Times of The Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson. It's a memoir of sorts of growing up in the 1950's. He takes many humorous liberties with the truth. Although I wasn't born until 1958, many of his memories strike a chord.

Waiting in my TBR pile are Spider Bones by Kathy Reichs, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender, Packing For Mars by Mary Roach, Christmas Mourning by Margaret Maron (Dad's reading that one at the moment), and The Brave Escape of Edith Wharton by Connie Nordhielm Wooldridge.

I obviously had a good week at the library. Seems like it's either feast or famine. Don't know if I'll get through them all, but hopefully they can be renewed.

Maybe I should stay up all night more often

Dillon seems to be back to normal. Food is going in and out properly. We went for a nice long walk and then played ball in the backyard while I raked. I never did get around to that nap and neither did Dillon since he was determined to keep up with me. I actually accomplished more than I do on a normal day.

I took advantage of the warmer weather to rake the yard and take down the holly and cedar decorations I'd put up in the backyard. I should have taken them down earlier. Not because it's after Christmas, but because the holly and cedar turned into deadly weapons when they dried out. I swear one piece of cedar drew blood when I tried to pry it out of the grapevine wreath.

After lunch I worked on the stain on my carpet, vacuumed the entire house, scrubbed the kitchen floor, did some laundry, and baked Dad an apple pie. I'm not sure I'll make it through the entire Carolina game tonight. When we sat down to supper, I realized how tired I am. While I was working I was listening to an audiobook, so I was distracted and entertained. Now I'm just tired.

Hopefully Dillon and I will have a nice, peaceful night. We've earned it.

Sick as a dog?

Katie would throw up at the drop of a hat. Dillon has a much stronger stomach and rarely loses his lunch. So I was surprised, but not alarmed, when he got sick Friday morning. He also seemed to be licking his lips a lot and sort of burping. We skipped his walk, but I fed him supper as usual and he didn't get sick again. Until 1 a.m. this morning.

I woke up to a black, disgusting mass in front of my bedroom door. It was foul. I seemed to remember that could be a sign of an intestinal blockage. So after cleaning it up and letting Dillon outside, I got down my Dog Veterinary Handbook. Yep, that was definitely one of the symptoms. It went on to say that the condition was an emergency and could be life threatening.

Naturally I followed up with an internet search. Which told me pretty much the same thing. Our local vet isn't open nights and weekends, but there's an emergency clinic in Wilson. I was ready to go except that I'd have to explain it to Dad. And when I'd let Dillon outside, he'd been ready to play ball, not behavior indicating that he felt at death's door.

So, I went back to bed at 2 a.m. and planned to get up at 6 to call the vet. I spoke to someone at the vet's office and had waked Dad up to tell him we were going. Then I let Dillon out for a bathroom trip. He pooped. That sort of indicated that he didn't have a complete intestinal blockage. He was still bouncing around, demanding his breakfast. I decided to rethink a trip to the emergency vet.

I fed Dillon his breakfast and then Dad and I went to Oscar's. I practically mainlined coffee, but I'm still exhausted. I think I got about an hour's sleep last night. I kept listening for any sign that Dillon was sick. Even when I dropped off, I dreamed about Dillon in the exam room. When I was awake, I worried.

Dillon's breakfast has stayed down so far and he pooped again. Only mothers of babies and sick animals can truly appreciate how thrilled one can be by a bowel movement. Fingers crossed that he just ate something that violently disagreed with him. And that all I have to worry about is getting the stain out of the carpet. And that I can get a nap sometime today.

Extra, Extra, Read All About It!

Our forecast was for sleet and freezing rain overnight and through the morning. Dad was already up and reading the paper when I got up. "My car is covered in ice, but the driveway was just wet when I walked down it," he informed me. I didn't say anything, just let Dillon out the door. I was thinking, "Are you insane? What could possibly be so important in the N&O that you had to risk walking down the driveway to get it?"

Was it only yesterday that I had to spend my morning taking him to Rocky Mount to see an orthopedic doctor to have his hip checked out? Didn't he tell me on the way home that while the doctor said he was fine, Dad figured he'd just have to be careful not to fall? Isn't he the one who's always complaining that he's a bit unsteady on his feet anyway, even when there is no potential for ice on the pavement?

Given all those facts, wouldn't you think he could have waited another 15 or 20 minutes for me to go out and get the paper? Do men possess any common sense at all? I've seen very little evidence of it.

Snowmen, Yes; Snow, No

Here's hoping that these are the only snowmen I'll be seeing this week. The forecasters can't quite decide what type of precipitation we'll be getting, but they don't seem to think it'll be much. Of course it doesn't take much ice to make life difficult. At some point during the last snowstorm, someone ran into our fence with an ATV. Naturally they didn't bother to stop and apologize or offer to make reparation.

Dad's hip is better, but I made him an appointment with an orthopedic doctor in Rocky Mount on Monday. Funny how it's easier to make an appointment with that doctor, whom I've seen before and has a good reputation locally, than it is with a GP. Of course when I made the appointment, they suggested we call before coming on Monday if there was inclement weather. Hopefully they aren't like the schools and don't close at just the threat of snow.

I finished most of my undecorating yesterday. The chore was made a little less painful by listening to an audiobook on my MP3 player while I worked. The fireplace looks especially bare. I still have a few decorations up. Anything with a snowman theme got a pass. January is just too dreary without a few lights and ornaments.

But I don't want to

January is a depressing month. Christmas and the season of excess is over and now the media is full of stories touting exercise and organization and dieting and resolutions for a more productive and successful and healthy new year. It's bad enough to look around and realize that all of those Christmas decorations have to be put away, the house has to be cleaned, and it's time to start a new filing system for this year's important papers without all those self-improvement stories urging the reader to clean and organize and make 2011 the best year ever. All of the suggestions involve work and self-denial and aggravation. They look good on paper and the pictures are very nice, but I don't want to.

My method of saving last year's important papers was to pile them on top of the accordion file located between my desk and the wall. I realize there's room for improvement, but I don't want to.

As for eating healthy, one of my least favorite chores of the day is figuring out what we're going to eat for lunch and supper. Planning a month's, or even a week's worth of menus and grocery lists may be a good idea, but I don't want to.

Yes, I'd feel better if my desk and study were organized, the clutter cleared from every surface, and the closet organized so that I didn't have to open the doors slowly while standing well clear with a hand out to prevent falling objects from hitting me in the face, but I don't want to.

Am I beginning to sound like a two-year old? Fine, but I still don't want to. I'm thinking that paper grocery bag I bought the collards home in yesterday would make a really nice container for last year's important papers. I'll just use a big black Sharpie to write 2010 on the outside. And try to find a way to cram it into the closet. There's no point in getting too carried away because I don't want to. And my new year would be much happier if all the Martha Stewart wannabes would quit telling me that I should.

I'd like to see their houses. The ones they have to clean and organize themselves without the help of assistants and stylists and maids. The ones that they actually live in, not just photograph. Anyone else thinking Christmas in Connecticut? Why don't they use some imagination and come up with an original theme for the month of January that's more realistic and doesn't set us all up for failure. That would require real effort on their part and I guess they don't want to.

What did I tell you?

I knew it wouldn't take long for Dad to find some way to frustrate me. He announced at supper tonight that in case I noticed him limping, it wasn't because he wanted to. When he got up to come in for lunch, he said it felt like someone shot him in the left hip. Apparently it's been hurting for a while, but today it really hurts. He claims he can't really put his weight on his left leg.

I suggested he might want to consider going to the doctor. The doctor might tell him something he doesn't want to hear. He's going to wait and see if it improves. In the meantime, he just wanted me to be aware of the fact that he can hardly walk. I pointed out that I didn't plan to carry him, so I suggested he be careful. I asked why he didn't try using a cane. I'm sure we have several around here. "I tried that. It's more trouble than it's worth."

Given that the cane I saw in his room was a twisted piece of wood that looked more decorative than useful, I wasn't surprised. I pointed out that a less artistic cane and some practice might be helpful. Then I suggested instead of struggling down the steps to his room in the garage, he watch tv in the den. "If I can't get up and down these few steps (there are only two) I really am in trouble." I was more concerned about him falling and hurting himself when he hit the concrete or the trunk of my car.

My next suggestion, made mostly because I'm a smart-ass and I was annoyed with his refusal to exercise reasonable caution, was that perhaps we should get him a bike helmet so when he did fall and bang his head, he wouldn't do too much damage. "I don't know. I might be better off unconscious. Then I wouldn't know that it hurt."

I doubt he'd be too happy to come around strapped to a gurney and he definitely should think twice before he does something to put himself completely at my mercy. I keep telling him that I'm not cut out to be a caregiver. My final suggestion was that perhaps I should bring a blanket out to his room and he could just sleep in his chair. I was being sarcastic, mostly anyway, although frankly the idea has merit.

He may have a pain in his hip, but I can tell it's going to be a pain in my neck.

Happy 2011

You'd think I made a New Year's resolution not to blog in 2011. Wrong. Dad just hasn't done anything to completely frustrate me yet this year. Give him time. He'll get around to it.

He's spent the past few days taking down his Christmas decorations, with the exception of his new Norman Rockwell print which is still in front of the fireplace. I haven't even begun. I generally claim that I'm waiting for Old Christmas which is somewhere around January 7th. That sounds better than I just haven't gotten around to it yet.

My hairdresser has decorated her shop with blue and white lights, blue and white ornaments, and snowmen for the month of January. It looks nice. January can seem so dreary after all the excitement of the holidays. A friend's daughter once referred to the lonely spots that are left after the decorations are taken down. On the one hand, it can be a relief to reclaim the space, but as someone who enjoys lights, it can seem awfully barren once the decorations are packed away.