The Taxman Cometh, with Recipe

Last night I found myself again staring at TurboTax, watching it rack up how much money we owe. Which is ludicrous as we live modestly, make a relatively modest income, claim no deductions, and have two kids. I was tempted to put off the task for yet another night, but Phil had taken the boys to dinner specifically to give me time to finish them, so I felt it would be in bad form to be reading a novel, eating risotto, and drinking a martini when he got home. I buckled down, tried to ignore the mounting debt in the upper left corner of the screen, and got through another April. I only learned later that night that the due date this year isn't Saturday, April 14, as I'd thought, but was moved to the next Tuesday. Had I known there was extra cushion, Phil likely would have come home to me with a martini.

For comfort, I made a super-simple, low-calorie, low-fat, low-fuss cauliflower recipe my friend Kim made up. Cooking cauliflower down to the consistency of mashed potatoes got trendy, I believe, with the emergence of The South Beach Diet. The cool thing is that cauliflower really does taste like mashed potatoes, on some level, when cooked down. So this recipe is comforting, lets you get in one of the purported superfoods, and can get you through tax time without alcohol. We both make it (of course) in a pressure cooker, but I'm sure you could also just boil the cauliflower on the stove for about 30 minutes or so.

Faux Mashed Potatoes Cauliflower

1 head cauliflower, preferably organic
2 cups water or vegetable, chicken, or beef broth
A couple sprinklings of paprika
A little butter or buttery spray (like Earth's Balance spray), if you're so inclined

Break the cauliflower, by hand, into big chunks and place those in the pressure cooker. Pour in the water or broth. Sprinkle with a couple shakes of paprika. Cook on high pressure for 5 minutes. When the timer goes off, use a slotted spoon to get out the cauliflower, and, if you want, add a bit of butter or spray on some buttery spray. Enjoy while deciding if you have a receipt for the sweaters you gave to Goodwill last summer.

In meatier news, Phil is heading to a local parking lot tonight to pick up our meat order from Nicki Royer at Royer Farm; I imagine there will be Sopranos-like looking around and talking on pay phones. Nicki and her husband are local farmers who are regular fixtures are our local farmer's market in the summer. During the off-farmer's market months, they make monthly or so appearances around town to sell meat from a vehicle. I called her around dinner time to reserve some stew beef and thick-cut bacon, and asked her if it was a bad time to call; they have twin boys around two years old who I figured might be eating or needing some attention. She said it was a great time to call -- the boys were out feeding the animals with their daddy. That almost made me misty; farms have become such huge, industrial organizations viewing animals as simply commodity, it's nice to think of some ruddy-cheeked toddlers helping their dad feed the pigs their corn.