Lazy Day Casserole

It’s St Andrews Day! Actually that was yesterday, or the day before? I forget. Its November something or December something. 

Where is the Picture? Ok to be honest, I am just getting used to my new camera and I am a bit of a dork and might have accidentally erased it. Check back at the begining of next week and the picture will be uploaded. I swear on a stack of Tri-Met schedules. I just didn't want to wait to launch this post. 

Back to the happy post!
St Andrew Patron Saint of Scotland, whose “X” form cross graces the Scottish flag and my old Scout uniform. A white “X” on a blue background. This is also the blue part of the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Without it there would be no blue in the Union Jack. Therefore no blue on my scout uniform.

I believe there was only one thing I really liked about the Scouts and that was that before going to a meeting I was treated to a gourmet meal of “Heinz Haunted House” pasta shapes in tomato sauce, and a slice of buttered white bread (Ok, it was margarine, it was the age of margarine. Europe had a butter mountain because no one in their right mind would use butter when you could have molecularly adulterated oil, it was the modern age! Judge us if you will but margarine was going to save the world…or something) in the kitchen instead of having to sit down to a family supper of multiple forks. Although I did not care for the Scouts, it was an escape from a world of formality, of duty, of linen serviettes, of silent malicious stares and fish knives (Do you know how to use a fish knife? Do you? If you do, let me know. I grew up around them and I have no idea. A friend of mine horrified me and taught me that Shrimp Forks have a new purpose. You can use them to pick up olives. I was terrified. I learned however it is true. No flames struck us down. A Shrimp Fork is a perfect tool for olives. It can be done, though I died a little inside  I will get over it. Luckily she had no oyster forks. Oyster? That reminds me. Have you ever heard the phrase: “The world is your oyster” ? Does this mean that you are a grain of sand that can irritate the Oyster to create a magnificent and beautiful pearl? Or does it mean that when you eat an Oyster, they are alive and die as you are consuming them or at worst inside you? I haven’t eaten a raw Oyster in well more than twenty years. It came under the heading of “lies you tell children, because it makes it OK”. Perfect examples would be the Easter Bunny, Father Christmas or Oxtail Soup. It comes in a can in Britain, and much more popular than the American Chicken Noodle Soup. I loved Oxtail Soup, and then one day I was told that Oxtail Soup is made out of Ox Tails. You can understand my confusion, in a place where Toad in the Hole is served with Spotted Dick, neither of which contain parts of what they are named after, that I might have thought that Oxtail Soup was made out of something other than the manure coated furry tails of the Aberdeen Angus that surrounded us in any pasture within walking distance that was not adulterated with sheep.

I looked towards every weekly Scout meeting with extreme trepidation, yet at the same time the heavenly promise of a can of salty, saucy artificially dyed red floury shapes. Shapes I could eat with a spoon at the counter in the kitchen without getting jabbed with a fork for being improper. 

Each Scout meeting was a private little hell. Every torturous week sitting around on the floor of a collapsing 19th century school making plaster of Paris molds of leaves, feet and hands and singing really dopey folk songs.

I know, I know I mentioned folk songs earlier. Well before Thanksgiving anyway. I just can’t escape the horror. 

Even now, a quarter century later, I still get the chills when I hear even just the opening bars of what sounds like it could be a…(Pause for dramatic effect)….FOLK SONG! Truly, I go all queasy and weak at the knees or rather weak at the knees with a side of queasy, not queasy knees, which would be very odd. 

You could always tell when a folk song was attacking. They rose out of the air and usually began with the lyrics: “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh when I was a…” or “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh there once was...” and then a lot of claptrap about “Lads” and “Maidens Fair” with fat cheeks like rosy apples (I thought that was roseca?) and I’ll tell you another thing; there were no maidens in that village, there were a d@mn sight too many hayrides and harvest dances. Which in turn led to a d@mn sight too many babies born in June and July. 

Folk songs still seem to assault the ears, or least mine. Lyrics such as “Step ye gaily” (Yes, yes indeed very gaily, completely gay, I should know) and tra-la-la-tiddle-pom-do-ra-lally-o! Show up invariably somewhere in the chorus and are apt to turn your brain into warm pudding and cause it to slowly dribble out your ears in a most inconvenient manner.

Take this for example, perhaps I just made it up on the spot, but sing it at one May day festival and “Boom!” instant folk song, peasants will wander around telling you how their grandmother sang it even though they only heard it yesterday: 

(to the tune of “Portobello Road”, sorry just watched bed knobs and broomsticks the other day.) 

Ooooooooooooooh my lady be waiting at the old fish food farm,
A bucket of peat and a babe on her arm,
We’ll feed the babe sweet limpets and cockles and beer.
For we are both drunk and the cesspool be near.

(Now everybody sing the chorus): 

A do-la-tiddle-O-pom-tu-tu
A-diddle-a-doddle doodle-twaddle-dee-dee
A- parp-parp-poo-bucket-a-waffle to chew
A do-la-tiddle-O-pom-pom-tu-tu
(Slower) A do-la-tiddle-O-pom-pom-tu-tu

Now besides the horror of the folk songs our scout master, Mr. Wolfgott (Wolfgott? Scotland? Ok then moving on…) wore a kilt all the time and was totally bald. Shiny bald, looked like a Scottish Mr. Clean, which is disturbing on so many levels the elevator has run out of buttons. 

Oh and what is with the patches? Is that supposed to be some sort of motivation or reward system? Look at me I am totally better than all you tossers because I have some patches! 

You can get patches too, and sew them on to your horrible itchy forest green wool jumper (sweater in the USA Hand wash only!). Yay! A little badly embroidered fabric Patch! This gives my life meaning! I am now a fulfilled individual! Oh Joy! Oh Rapture unconfined! Oh wait, you mean that none of this has any bearing on real life? That when I am forty years old, I will not have to save the world by making a macaroni picture of Robert the Bruce talking to the spider that led him to victory over the English? (Yes, this is what the Scots believe, a spider led Robert the Bruce to victory...right...sure...a spider...yeah...that works...this I believe was about the same time they discovered the method for making Scotch Whiskey) I can make a plaster cast of my foot? Will that cure cancer? No? Well then B#gger it.

Perhaps I am just jealous of those whose fetid green jumpers were alive with patches and badges of honor (Now there I had honor, copper, bronze, silver and gold badges, I was honorable...no one ever caught me I suppose.).  In those four or five miserable years of Wednesday afternoons and weekend jamborees I earned three sad patches; The World Wildlife Fund Badge (No idea why, maybe I ate a Panda?) a Hobby Badge (No clue, I think I made up something, probably something to do with plastacine or Legos) and a Drama Badge, (I was in some really awful play at school (Not by choice) I played “Castle Guard number 2” I remember stabbing someone with my cardboard lead painted spear and making vomiting noises. We were allowed to take the sets home after the play (Drawn by lots as to who could take what home). My friends and I drew the lot that allowed us to take home the cardboard house made out of old boxes and smothered in paper mache. It was cute we wanted to stick it by our clubhouse (an old abandoned gardeners shed on my parents property that was converted into a clubhouse) until the rain came, when of course it would return to Mother Earth as a pile of wet sludge we would have to clean up. It took six of us to carry the cardboard house, and it was a near a mile back to my house. I don’t know how we thought we would manage it. We took it anyway and about halfway there we were waylaid by bandits (the kids who lost the lottery). They attacked us and well we dropped the house, it fell over and into the burn (Brook in American vernacular). It fell apart immediately, and there was a battle on. One of the kids said that we threw it into the burn on purpose and then decided to attack physically. Unfortunately when the leader of the “Other kids” came towards me I punched him and sadly broke his nose. I got in trouble for that, not for the first time or the last time. I have a mean right hook.

Ok, so off the random path: Beavers, Cub Scouts, and Boy Scouts, yup, hated it. 

Oh wait! I almost forgot! We played dodgeball. The scout masters would stand in the center of the room and throw soccer balls at us as we ran around the edge of the room. I think they got some sick twisted pleasure at hitting us in the head with a soccer ball so hard it would bounce off the wall. Causing flakes of lead paint, dead termites and asbestos to shower down upon us like some toxic chunky rain. Then again, we were pretty awful kids, personally I would have brought out the cricket bat. 

Every Wednesday I looked forward to my supper in the kitchen. I loved that canned pasta shapes in tomato sauce. Still do, however these days I tend to kick it up a notch. 

Here is my lazy night supper of pasta shapes in sauce: 

Ingredients: 

1 Package of pasta shapes (I prefer the tiny wagon wheels by Barilla, because they are cute and hold lots of sauce. Anything will work though. It looks great with tri color rotini, penne, rigatoni, small shells or even plain old elbow macaroni. )
1 Bottle (About 3 cups) of tomato based pasta sauce (Not that it cannot be made with Alfredo if you have three cups laying around)
2 Cups of shredded mozzarella
½ Cup of grated Parmesan cheese
1 Can of black olives, drained
1 Cup of sliced mushrooms or 1 can of mushrooms drained
8oz of pepperoni sliced or cubed or two cups of sliced zucchini (Or both its up to you)
Olive oil for lubing the pan
Italian seasoning

How you do this? I tell you now: 

Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Using the olive oil, grease up a casserole or lasagna pan, set aside. Cook the pasta according to the package directions making sure that it is still al dente. Soft pasta is like a soft…economic policy, useless under the heat of baking. Mix the drained pasta with the sauce, 1 ½ cups of the mozzarella, ¼ cup of the Parmesan, the olives, the mushrooms and the pepperoni or zucchini. Dump this unceremoniously into the pre-lubed pan. Top with the remaining cheeses. Bake for about 30 minutes. When it is bubbly and lightly browned remove and dust with some Italian seasoning (This is strictly for effect) let sit for about 5 minutes before serving and cut into squares. 

This is a little heavy and delightful on its own, however, served with a salad (Caesar or green with an Italian vinaigrette) it makes a full meal with all the veggies the ba$tard food pyramid demands.