In Transit

IN TRANSIT.

Those are such small, innocent-looking words, aren't they? In transit. Who would have thunk they could engender such roiling, boiling impatience in a person. But here I am, roiling and boiling, trying to keep the lid on my fidgets and fiddles, all because there are a couple of In transit situations on my calendar as we speak.

Like, fer instance, my brother and his wife are driving out from Illinois this year. Talked to them on the phone today and they were somewhere in Wyoming. They figured to spend the night near the Utah border and keep on keepin' on tomorrow. The ETA is Thursday.

They are IN TRANSIT.

Then there is the other item. I have been waiting -- quite patiently, in fact -- and saving so I could treat myself to a handy-dandy food processor. It's not something I need but it is definitely something I want. Did all kinds of research and then kept track of fluctuating prices and "best deals" and, finally -- when I least expected it, of course -- my targeted KitchenAid 750 went on sale. Woohoo! I had to make a temporary loan with daughter Patti and SIL Roger because the sale was going to be over before my monthly SS came in. Then, when we had that all arranged, the particular color I was going for was already sold out. Well, shucky-darn. The next best price up was only $13.00 more so I said, "Hah! I can do this," and I did. They shipped my baby out at 7:10 pm from Goodyear, Arizona Saturday.

From the moment I got that notice, my patience disappeared and I've been agitating ever since. Every day -- even though by now I know better -- I go to the page where you're supposed to be able to track your package, courtesy of the United States Postal Service. And it's true. I can do that. Sort of. Their idea of tracking and my idea of tracking do not make a perfect match.

Do they give me a blow-by-blow as the little guy wends his way to me? No, they do not. They tell me the estimated delivery date is Monday, September 14th. They tell me "Status: In transit." That's all the tracking I'm going to get. Now where's the fun in that?


There is an undeniable thrill one can enjoy when one is able to vicariously make the trip with the expected package. You can measure in your mind's eye each increment that inches tantalizingly closer every day. There is something about that kind of detailed tracking that helps the wait go faster.

It keeps you from raking long, wicked gashes in the walls with your fingernails.

It enables you to curb the incessant muttering and the sporadic howling is almost eliminated.

The twitching is easier to control so folks don't even know you're doing it unless they look close to see why you're slapping yourself.

Does the United States Postal Service care? I guess not. If they did, they'd be willing to inform me of interesting details like, maybe, the mail truck paused briefly at Gila Bend or Burro Butt and is tooling its way through the desert toward, oh, say Palm Springs or even Wendover. They would tell me neither sleet nor snow nor desert sand storm would stay the steady course of my trusty mail carrier truck/train/plane/person. They would include me in the fun, the excitement, the romance.

Oh. Excuse me. (Twitch. Slap!) I didn't mean to start howling again. Sometimes it just comes over me, you know? I'm going to "woman up" now and try to maintain my dignity until this coming Monday. I'm counting on Merle and Linda to distract me when they arrive Thursday. I'm sure they will make the final few days of the Other In Transit go much faster.

In the meantime, I'm going to wander into the kitchen and enhance my sacred coffee with some golden nectar. I might lay in one more casual swipe of gashes if I can find a section of wall I haven't already shredded but I think the worst of it is over now. Except for the snarling -- but I do that very softly.

Epi-logue Epic

Will you just feast your everlovin' eyeballs on those puppies? Have you ever seen anything prettier in your entire life? Okay. Your kids. And your grandkids. And maybe Sean Connery for those of you of the female persuasion. Well, yes, chocolate is mighty pretty. The list can go on so let me concede the point and just say the above photo is ONE example of pretty. Not only that -- it is also an example of creative engineering and, blessedly, much easier to accomplish than it appears. Therefore, should you choose to make a bouquet of these critters to present as a hostess gift next time you're invited to dinner, you will be almost ashamed to accept the awestruck compliments you're sure to receive.

What are they? The French call them "pain epi" and Wise Geek has this to say about them:

"In French, epi is the word used to describe the flower of a wheat stalk. Since pain, roughly pronounced “pan,” means “bread” in French, epi bread may be listed as pain epi at many bakeries."

What epi bread is, is a clever way of putting all your dinner rolls on a stem, like a little choo choo train with all the cars linked together. You just tear off one of the "seed heads" of the wheat stalk and dip it in whatever is provided and start wolfing down that crispy crunchy crust and the tender fluffy center that laps up your olive oil and balsamic vinegar -- or your melted butter -- or whatever. I've been going to try this for a long time and finally got around to tackling the project earlier this evening.

The recipe I used is adapted from one a charming young man named Pete offers at his web site, where he calls it Cheesy, Savory Monkey Bread. Pete, in turn, adapted his recipe from one offered by Chris Pandel, a popular young chef at The Bristol in Chicago. His version is called Monkey Bread With Dill, Butter and Sea Salt. My variation on their versions was a healthy dose of my Lemon Dill (because I didn't have any fresh dill) and a quarter cup of grated Parmesan (because I didn't have any fresh Parm) but otherwise I kept pretty much to what they said. Except, of course, for turning the dough into epi bread instead of monkey bread. Works for me, she said with an unrepentant smile.

For the magical moment when you actually turn your bread dough into wheat stalks, I have two links for you to enjoy. The first one is a very short but impressive demo on YouTube. The other is a photo shoot of epi making at the Fig Jam and Lime Cordial web site. (You have got to love a name like that!)

So I did my version of the monkey bread recipe and was grinning like a fool when I discovered clipping a branch of epi was actually as easy -- and fun -- as it looked. I didn't indulge in all that butter like the guys did, though. Just brushed the epis with some olive oil and sprinkled a small scatter of coarse kosher salt across the top. Put the pan in the 375 degree oven and set the timer for 20 minutes and then I decided to get artsy fartsy with my spread of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The idea was to put the vinegar in a shot glass, put a dish over it, then turn them both over so the glass would contain the vinegar. Then I was supposed to drizzle the oil around it, quickly whip the glass up and -- tah dah! -- there would be a little pool of vinegar beringed by olive oil.

Heh, heh. As you can see, I fumbled the pass and lost half the vinegar in the flip. Had to mop it off the table. That's why the purple puddle has a Rorschach-like tail. Please don't tell me what you see in that image. I'm laughing too hard at my own vision.

It really didn't matter because very shortly after I sat down with a small glass of some pretty good Australian Shiraz, the Rorschach puddle got thoroughly reshaped anyway. I am here to tell you, Coffee Mates, the next few minutes were pure bliss. I don't mind admitting, I moaned when I ate. It was wonderful. I dipped and munched and sipped and dipped and munched and sipped and -- in a magical confluence of the Forces of Light and Goodness -- all that sipping and dipping and munching came out even. That is to say, I decided I was stuffed at exactly the moment I emptied the wine glass.

And no wonder. I was shocked to discover I'd actually wiped out half of one of the epis! Shocked but not really surprised. When something tastes that good, accidental gluttony should not come as a surprise. As I sit here and gaze upon the final shape of the culinary Rorschach, I've decided it is a fitting epilogue to the epic Epi adventure. No, I will NOT tell you what I'm laughing about now.