Before I even opened it, I knew what it was. It's obvious, the brown residue leaving it's mark, filling your nostrils and causing the dog to bark. I just couldn't figure out why it appeared to be a wrapped throw pillow.
Back story... I love to cook, always have. It seems every time I make that assertion, Kelly comes back with, "Well, if you like to cook so much, how come I'm always the one cooking dinner?" I usually respond with, "I like to cook good things," then quickly wish I had chosen a different adjective to replace 'good' with, something more like 'complex', 'detailed' or even 'big'. You can imagine the words that follow, a montage of "I'm
sorry's" and "I didn't mean it that way's".
I believe it was two years ago this Christmas that I received that sweetest Christmas gift ever. Let's back step a little though. Prior to that Christmas I had hosted a large family dinner at my folks house for about 20 family members, in which I pulled out all the stops. I cooked authentic Italian food: Fresh spinach ravioli stuffed with cheeses, fresh sauces, an
excellent gnocchi,
tiramisu that would almost leave you dead and a lemon cello that actually did. I think it was there that my family saw just how much I enjoyed cooking. My passion for fresh
ingredients and spices really shines in my dishes.
So now, back to the present. I have an Aunt that, to say is well-traveled, would be an understatement. When she is absent from an event, it's understood that she's just off in another country somewhere. Through her world travels, she has
apparently found a source for fresh spices.
It was two
Christmas's ago now as I sat in my Grandmother's living room clutching an
awkwardly wrapped packed roughly the size of a small pillow. I shook the gift, as I always do, and noticed the brown pungent powder puff out as though a lady was powdering her cheek. I
recognized the scent instantly and was brought back to the hoards of cinnamon toast I consumed as an adolescent. I unwrapped the present to reveal a plump gallon-size
ziploc bag of ground cinnamon. See, here in the
Galland family, we don't give tacky sweaters, ugly socks or
amateurly-crafted figurines. We give bags of spice, or so we
began. Little did my Aunt know what havoc that foreigner would reap to my already-non-vacant spice rack.
It started with the jumps. Cinnamon was a big boy and he wanted to play.
I'd open the cabinet,
he'd jump out. Every time. It's hard to keep him at bay. I'd attempt to weigh him down with the
Mortons or the sugar, but that only made things worse. So, I had an idea.
I'd use him. I craved some toast with cinnamon and sugar, so I broke the seal and sprinkled out the powder, and it was good.
Cinnamon's taste of freedom changed him. He wanted more. I
would be cooking, he would
conveniently jump out out of the rack and all over my kitchen and dish. At one point I remember my whole kitchen smelling of cinnamon. I finally was fed up and did the unthinkable. I put him in a
ziplock and stored him at the back of the cabinet. Peace and quiet at last!
Well, several cinnamon-less
months went by until one day I was minding my own
business, plundering through the cabinet when the scent struck me clear in the face. There he was, my long-lost friend cinnamon. The love-hate relationship returned and I
began to feel guilty at the lack of cinnamon my recipes and dishes called for. I made a vow to that spice that day that I would make something out of him. I would make him MY SPICE.
My first attempt was spaghetti sauce. I prepared it in manners similar to the norm, but added a little pinch of my ole' buddy. Well, that meal was short-lived, followed closely by a
experiment in masonry with my new-found brick mortar.
My second
attempt, was less
inedible, at least to me. I was craving cookies. I should have stopped when the list of
ingredients I did not have, far exceeded the list that I did. But hey, I told myself, I have cinnamon! For future reference, egg, flour and cinnamon does not make a good cookie.
Gretsky's calling, he
wants his cinnamon-flavored puck back.
By my third attempt I was determined to fulfill my promise. I made a massive pot of chili. Spent all day slaving over that dutch oven, and after adding a little bit more chili powder, heard the call of cinnamon and thought, what the hell, it's the same color. I pinched a little out. I
began to put him away, when I saw the frown on his face, and I understood. It's a big pot of chili, and he
didn't' feel very well represented. I pinched out a little more. I served it that night in crock-pots to all my friends and felt good. It was being eaten up. So what if the keg was floated already and it was only 10 p.m.? Drunk people will eat anything and they were eating my chili! The next morning I woke to find a good friend of mine, who in her
inebriated state, wound up back at our house sometime in the middle of the night and was now plundering through my refrigerator looking for that perfect after-late-night-party-it's-early-and-
i'm-
extremely-hungover snack. I quickly rushed to the occasion, pulled out the pot, put it on the stove and put my old friend back to work. Chili's perfect for the occasion.
Well, she took one bite and remembered my friend too. It seems drinking did not lead to chili, but chili lead to drinking. It seems cinnamon had struck again, this time causing several casualties of both taste buds and moral.
It's been several weeks since I dare speak to cinnamon. Mabe Kelly's right. Maybe there isn't a place for cinnamon in every meal. Maybe cinnamon doesn't "taste like fall" and should therefore accompany every Fall Saturday baking session. I can't try to convince her any longer, cinnamon does not belong in marinara. It's tough, but I find help in that bible verse that refers to all season's having there turn. It won't be long before the guilt builds up again and my artistic side comes out. What should I make this time? I might try something that actually calls for cinnamon.... nah, that would be tasteless.
Beginning of table, dismantling original fence design
Diligent sander!
Making legs. Each leg weighs approximately 30lbs!
Finished sanding.
First coat of polyurethane.
