My husband loves the old fashioned American diners that you can still find on the East coast. Nothing like the hamburger joint in Pulp Fiction, way too upscale, but he likes the ones with meat loaf, roast beef specials and enormous breakfasts that include pancakes with eggs, bacon, home fries, buttered (margarine) toast and jam. He’s not obese and no more than middle age overweight, but it’s a good thing he got that new valve.
Anyway. Our house is a mess. Our things from Germany haven’t arrived yet but we already had a house full of thousands of pounds of boxed household effects that have been stored for decades. In those boxes, somewhere, is a ridiculous amount of cooking pots, pans, cooking utensils (mine and my mother-in-law’s), etc. This, plus the stuff coming from Germany, is more than anyone would need in a lifetime, so I must unpack the boxes in order to cook anything worth while instead of going out and buying more things. I’ve been unpacking unenthusiastically and slowly.
We’ve had breakfast in a diner at least 5 times since I arrived on August 5th and on August 17th, my husband’s birthday, he wanted another early morning blow out. There are several diner-like places in the small town of Honesdale, Pennsylvania where you can get breakfast and my husband has tried them all. On the outside of one of his favorites, and the one he chose for his birthday breakfast feast, is a sign that says “Baby beef liver.” I was curious.
We ordered our meals and I asked the very friendly, very efficient waitress if the sign was a cute way of saying veal. No, she said and explained to us very carefully and patiently that, like the pork cuts of ham and bacon, beef also has a cut called veal and that it is located somewhere near the shank of the cow. Baby beef, she said a bit sadly, comes from cow babies.
I nodded, kept my head down and refused to look at my husband because even though he looks like a really nice, sweet, leprechaun kind of a guy, he’s bad to the bone and would have made me laugh out loud, embarrassing the nice lady and probably getting me barred from the diner for life.
There are two things that are puzzling if not appalling about this: 1) Honesdale is a farming community and livestock is common. 2) What in the world does the Wayne County education system require for a child to graduate from high school?! We discussed this for hours, giggling over several glasses of Prosecco in the privacy of our own home, while wondering if we should home school Jade.
I haven’t figured out the light in the kitchen yet and my tripod doesn’t arrive until Tuesday but I really wanted to start posting from Honesdale. The light situation could be caused by the glare from the enormous stainless steel refrigerator. I’ll try covering it with a sheet. The out of focus pictures are caused by the trembling hands of the aged. Tripod.
The Farmer’s Market here in Honesdale is somewhat of a disappointment. It’s like they moved those roadside vegetable and fruit stands to a parking lot. Not a big selection but I did find those beets and some lovely wax beans. I made a salad with the beans. The plate is hand painted from Austria and was the first set of dishes I owned before my marriage 38 years ago.
The butcher didn’t have baby beef flanken ribs but did have some from mature adults. I rubbed the ribs with my Bavarian Essence, refrigerated them for about 6 hours and then grilled. The salad was a mixture of steamed wax beans, drained and rinsed canned pinto beans, sliced scallion, roasted red pepper, sugar, vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper.