Fix-It and Forget-It Slow Cooker Diabetic Cookbook by Phyllis Good [online pdf books]


  • Full Title : Fix-It and Forget-It Slow Cooker Diabetic Cookbook: 550 Slow Cooker Favorites-to Include Everyone!
  • Autor: Phyllis Good
  • Print Length: 288 pages
  • Publisher: Good Books; Revised edition
  • Publication Date: August 4, 2015
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1680990764
  • ISBN-13: 978-1680990768
  • Download File Format: epub

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The classic slow cooker cookbook for diabetics–with nearly 600,000 copies sold–now available in a larger format!

Millions of home cooks have fallen in love with the Fix-It and Forget-It cookbooks since the first title was released more than a dozen years ago. Now, these same beloved cookbooks are available in a larger format, making the recipes easier than ever to follow!

With diabetes threatening so many of us, a cookbook with reliable recipes is a must-have slow cooker resource. Fix-It and Forget-It cookbook maven, Phyllis Good, has teamed with the American Diabetes Association to provide complete Exchange Values and Basic Nutritional Values for each recipe. You can use these tasty and trusted recipes to plan your meals safely.

In addition to the Cookbook’s scrumptious recipes from home cooks, the ADA has brought these new and helpful features to the book:

A Week of Menus, using recipes from the Cookbook. These show how to use a daily meal plan and stay within your calorie limit.
Clear Tips for planning meals and menus for those with diabetes.
Visual Clues for learning Portion Control. Plus information about how many servings of the various food groups to eat each day.
Answers to Frequently Asked Questions that are easy to understand, absorb—and live by!

Skyhorse Publishing, along with our Good Books and Arcade imprints, is proud to publish a broad range of cookbooks, including books on juicing, grilling, baking, frying, home brewing and winemaking, slow cookers, and cast iron cooking. We’ve been successful with books on gluten-free cooking, vegetarian and vegan cooking, paleo, raw foods, and more. Our list includes French cooking, Swedish cooking, Austrian and German cooking, Cajun cooking, as well as books on jerky, canning and preserving, peanut butter, meatballs, oil and vinegar, bone broth, and more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.

 

About the Author

Phyllis Good is a New York Times bestselling author whose books have sold more than 11 million copies. She received her B.A. and M.A. in English from New York University. She and her husband Merle live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

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stove was electric and that deep mustard yellow color that was popular at the time—also popular, ironically, as a color for Mercedes.

Although my family was at the nascence of our true journey into the depths of food obsession, food was already important. My folks had already run a catering business. We hadn’t fallen off the deep end yet, but dinner was not a thing that was taken lightly in the Watman house. And now it was mine to make.

It was a gas. I loved the bulb baster and the way the heady aromas filled the air. I loved the blast of heat on my face when I opened the oven door. For all our cultural, mythopoetical baggage about the warmth of the hearth, the truth is that the hearth isn’t warm—it’s hot. It’s warm later, when all the bellies are full and everyone is satiated. While you are cooking, the hearth is still torrid and the oven is hot. As a cook, you confront a radiant warning that you will be burned if you proceed, and you disregard it. And, of course, you do get burned. Right now, as I type, I can look down at my hands and see a raw arc of flesh across the top of my wrist where I brushed up against the mouth of my oven while reaching into it.* It’s a primal poetry as real as any: I saw the fire, felt its heat, and reached inside.

The timer was whirring along, and I was jabbing a skewer into the thigh, probably every forty-five seconds or so. By the time the crisped skin snapped in just the right way and the luscious fat spurted clear from the thigh, I was forever changed. I had turned a corner. I was proud as hell. My folks loved the meal, and so did I.

I’d learned something, and I’d made something. I had been, just the day before, a choosy consumer, a passive participant. Now I was a producer. I felt it. It was as if I’d gone off into the woods to find my spirit animal and returned to the tribe a man.

Doing things counts. Getting your hands dirty is real.

We have invested a lot, culturally, in smarter shopping. The comedian David Cross has a joke in which he goes to Whole Foods where he is buying some plastic wrap. Next to the house brand of plastic wrap there is another brand: If You Care. “Oh, come on!” he cries. “I care. I’m already in Whole Foods! Leave me alone!” But what has he done?

Let’s use, as an example, the closing symbol of Casablanca. After Ingrid Bergman flies away and the cops haul off the murdered Nazi with the instructions to round up the usual suspects, Claude Rains, playing the chief of police, throws away a bottle of Vichy water in a symbolic rejection of the occupying forces. Pretend, for a moment, that Vichy water was more than a symbol—that the purchasing of Vichy water actually funded the occupation. Let us also pretend, perhaps, that there was another competing bottle of mineral water and that this second brand siphoned money into the coffers of the resistance. Certainly one’s refusal to buy Vichy water is a step in the right direction. It is still, however, a negative value.* It is value gained by not doing something. More value would be gained by purchasing the competing resistance water. By eschewing one and embracing the other, one would have taken a pretty big step in support of the resistance. None of it, however, gets anywhere near the value of actually fighting in the resistance. No amount of shopping can substitute for the grind of the dirt under the soles of your boots.

But of course, I can’t put a cow in my yard.

So I called my friend Nathan Carter. His yard is a farm. Could I put a cow in his yard? I worry, sometimes, that my friends are all sitting around grinning knowingly, sending text messages to one another: “Max thinks we should all buy a boat.” (Didn’t do it.) “Max wants me to come help cut down a vine he found out in the woods and put it in the truck so he can make an archway out of it.” (It was beautiful until a particularly strong gust of wind snapped the weakening bough, and the arch flopped over in the grass.) “Max just fed us a bunch of meat he cured himself; waiting to see how sick we’ll get.” (They didn’t get sick.)

Nathan seemed singularly prepared for the project at the time. He is the farm manager for Graves Mill Farm—664 acres of hilly, rolling country, the best Virginia has to offer. He didn’t even flinch.

On the face of it, Nathan Carter would fall into the much-reported-on category of the “hipster farmer.” This coterie has been presented as new, but it is not. An early urban farmer, Bolton Hall was cultivating city plots and inspiring people to go back to the land in the first decade of the twentieth century. It was 1972 when memoirist Joyce Maynard, then an eighteen-year-old freshman at Yale, wrote an article for the New York Times Magazine about the boys she’d known at Exeter who had begun wearing overalls and listening to country music and telling the college placement counselors that they were “going to study weaving in Norway, to be shepherds in the Alps, deckhands on a fishing boat or—most often—farmers.” People have been “returning” to farming for ages—ever since there was anything else to do, ever since the first kid walked off the farm. It’s in the New Testament, after all, for what is the prodigal son but a hipster kid who fled the farm to hit the big city and dance in the bright lights only to return? He’s the original gangster.

The popularity of farming, at least among those not born to it, seems to be cyclical. Nathan was an early adopter on this latest wave. It caught us all by surprise, but the surprise didn’t last. It was one of those pronouncements like when a friend comes out of the closet or a writer turns out one of those lovely passages where by the end of the arc you feel you’ve known his conclusion forever.

That doesn’t mean that when Nathan called to tell me the news I wasn’t surprised. I was standing in the kitchen (where the telephone was), looking out my window over the leaves of the top edge of Riverside Park, just north of Grant’s Tomb. He was calling from Brooklyn. He was moving upstate, he announced, to work on a dairy farm. I (predictably) suggested a party. He said there was no time. He was going tomorrow.

When I met Nathan, we were maybe twenty-two years old, and Rachael and I lived in Richmond. Nathan was there when I cooked my first bouillabaisse at what counts as the first dinner party I ever threw. Obviously, we’d eaten with friends—stir-fries and big pots of spaghetti—but there is a sea change when you say to yourself that you are going to throw a party, and you work hard on it. We hosted a dozen people in our little one-bedroom apartment. It was a crumbling thing, plaster falling out of the ceiling and a back porch we called California because it was only a matter of time until it fell off. Rachael and I ate at a rickety little porcelain enamel table in the kitchen. We set up the tables in our middle room and covered them with cloth. It’s hard to imagine how poor we were at the time and how reckless we were with our money for that party. We were young and making nothing. We spent $400 on a dinner party. We needed it. We wanted candles but had nothing to set them in. So we bought little candle bases of colored glass. I hit up the fish dealer that delivered to the restaurant where I worked at the time and got some fish frames to make the base of the stock from which we’d make the bouillabaisse. We bought a dozen loaves of excellent bread and put out a couple of infused oils, a salmon pâté, a scallop mousse, and a tapenade—things we could all just smear on bread and eat. We bought magnums of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

None of us had had a dinner party like this before. None of us had been at one of our homes eating fine, orchestrated food. We were mesmerized.

“I had never eaten like that at all,” Nathan told me recently when I asked him if he remembered it. “Nobody I’d ever known had cooked like that. I grew up eating burgers at my aunt’s house. I’d never eaten in restaurants. Pâté? What’s that? Food was sustenance, and it became something pleasurable. That party laid the groundwork for me to understand what food is.”

The bouillabaisse. When the intoxicating hit of saffron and rouille came around, everyone was already rolling on crazy flavors and the best wine—or at least the best wine we could buy. It was one of those dinner parties that takes off, like a good rock-and-roll show or good drugs when everyone loses sight of their anxiety and everyone is laughing and totally together. Sometimes I think of dinner parties as that plane that NASA uses to practice weightlessness. There’s the ascent, which can be a struggle, engines whining and screaming, people tense and unsure of what is going to come next, and if the engines don’t stall and the weather plays along, you reach the apex, you tip the plane, and everyone rises out of their seat and floats. We’d started something.

Our big group ate together religiously, at least once a week, with a rotating cast of extras. There would be whole fish, crab cakes, handmade tortillas. We would play croquet in Chimborazo Park and drink beer, and then retire to someone’s house to eat orecchiette with Gorgonzola and peas, or huge piles of steamed mussels.

We got very lucky, because when it came time to move away, we managed to continue the party. Our friend David Clark had been accepted at Pratt, I was going to Columbia University, and Nathan was talking about film school and had been accepted at the New School for Social Research. Our lazy, hot afternoons of croquet were replaced with long subway rides and gritty East Village dive bars, but we kept on eating together.

Nathan had his hipster cred squared away, but of course there was misery that came along with it. While attending classes, he worked in the kitchen of a bar in Williamsburg where the bathrooms regularly smelled of crack smoke due to the proclivities of the dishwashers, and where the owner had whipped him through a death march in search of the perfect brownie. He’d cooked dozens of different brownie recipes, scouring cookbooks and working from scratch, only to have them dismissed. Finally, disgusted, he bought a box of brownie mix; the owner declared it perfect.

He stole a weekend away with his girlfriend, Shannon, who would become his wife, and while they were upstate, they saw a bucolic dairy farm in a hollow in the Catskills. I’ve been there, and the morning sun slanting into that little valley and burning off the mist to reveal a grazing herd of Holsteins is among the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s bewitching, even if you haven’t been mixing brownies from a box and working with crackheads. If you had, it would sing like a chorus of choir boys, beckoning you to greater beauty.

They put the farm in the rearview mirror and drove the narrow mountain roads to Windham, where they settled into their rented cottage. Nathan bought a local paper and looked through the want ads without purpose, curious about what people in the Catskills did. One listing read “Dairy Farm, Labor” and gave a phone number.

He showed the ad to Shannon, and they joked about how funny it would be if it were the very farm they’d just looked at. I can see the scene: coffee and fried eggs and good country light and the two of them smiling and glowing. She said to call and see—maybe it was. When he did, a man with a thick Dutch accent (“Which I’d never heard before in my life,” Nathan said) told him to come around at seven in the morning to talk.

Nathan’s farming experience was slight. He’d spent a chunk of his Texas childhood living in one of the old houses on a beef farm. His father worked in Austin during the week, and on the weekends, he’d earn the rent by taking care of the farm—the typical routine of mending fences and mowing grass. At harvest time, he’d drive a combine.

Nathan’s grandfather owned a hundred acres outside of Rockdale, Texas, and kept a small beef operation going there. “We used to go out there and hang out on that farm and play and look at the cattle.”

Still larking, Nathan went to meet the dairy farmer. “I showed up at 6:45, of course, and he said, ‘I like you already. I’ve never had anyone be on time—for anything.’ We walked through the dairy, where they were milking. We went and saw the heifer calves. He drove me up to the tenant house.”

They were leaning on the sides of the pickup truck bed—the best country moments happen leaning against trucks—and the farmer asked Nathan what he thought. Nathan wasn’t exactly happy working and going to school in the city, but he did like the music scene and had lots of friends. He certainly hadn’t planned on leaving.

“I think it’s great!” he said.

“Well, what do you think about three hundred bucks a week, and this house?” asked the farmer.

“I think it sounds great.”

“When can you start?”

“I’ll drive to Brooklyn right now and get my stuff; I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Oh no you’re not. You have a job in the city, right? You give those people some notice.”

And so Nathan became a farmer. Of course it was the same farm they’d seen. This is one of those stories, after all, where fate seems like a line of dominoes waiting to be tipped. He was up there at the dairy for two and a half years.

He and Shannon got married, migrated south to Virginia, and had three kids. He held a couple of jobs at bigger industrial farms, where he gradually grew interested in moving away from the standard grain-fed process. He steered a cattle operation into farming more responsibly, not because he’d brought idealism into the scenario but because it made sense. Nathan came to see it as a choice: care for pastures and infrastructure, or shovel corn and care for sick animals. He went on to manage the feed program at a large dairy, which won Virginia Dairy of the Year in 2007 because of his efforts.

I asked if as he had grown into that sort of farming he’d come to relate to the wave of socially/enviro-conscious young people that are taking up farming.

“Not really,” he said, laughing. “They’re trying to save the world. . . . They’re very involved in making the world a better place, and I’m not into that. I just want to be fair to the customers and to the chefs and to the animals. I just want to enjoy myself.”

Nathan finally found a spot in which he could do just that when he hired on at Graves Mill and started raising lambs. Richmond—a mere ninety miles away and largely untouched from a marketing standpoint—seemed like the perfect place to peddle the meat. He met with some success and with some friction. He was surprised to learn how dearly chefs there clung to the bottom line, telling him that they could get lamb from Sysco for a buck or two cheaper than his.

“They didn’t seem to get it a lot of the time. They didn’t understand that they could just pass that cost right along to the customer and the customer might be happy to hear that they had this lamb that was walking around on a pasture a couple of days ago, ninety miles away.” He’d hear, “This just isn’t that kind of place; our customers don’t care.”

“Maybe that’s true,” he said. “Maybe customers don’t know what that big silver Sysco truck means. You and I do, because we worked in restaurants, but do people get it? Do people understand that the lamb was sitting, frozen, in a container on a ship all the way from New Zealand?”

He was laughing and shaking his head, but it had been a real hurdle for him. He sold his lamb at the farmers’ market in Madison, where he had stalwart customers, and worked to educate Richmond’s chefs. He sold little pieces at deep discounts to demonstrate how much better lamb could be. He had some success. His old boss at Mamma Zu, a raucously fun Italian restaurant in the Oregon Hill neighborhood of Richmond, would joyfully buy whole animals, ranting about how all the lamb off of the Sysco truck tasted like cardboard.

Nathan had eighteen good months before the whole thing went to pot. The owners of Graves Mill decided they wanted to move back out West. They put the farm up for sale and halted the business.

Nathan sold most of the stock into auction and got good money for it: “Fifteen cents above the going rate, per pound. People knew I had good stuff, that I’d raised those sheep right.”

He was given a handful of sheep as a Christmas bonus. The staff was let go. With no herd to run, he was operationally demoted to caretaker.

Graves Mill leased some pasture to Wolf Creek Farm for grazing, so buying a Wolf Creek steer felt natural, especially since Nathan thought it’d be fun to raise one up to finishing weight.

I drove to Virginia and met John Whiteside, the owner of Wolf Creek Farm. We rode out into the fields in his old Ford. He gave me a good tour, showed me a steer I could have—“I’ll weigh him, and I’ll mail you an invoice”—and we shook on it.

Back at home, when I told folks that I’d bought a steer, most of them were amused. The question that came up over and over, to my surprise, was whether or not I’d named him. For a while, I explained that naming livestock was a horrible idea. You don’t name dinner.

This answer didn’t get many laughs.

I was surprised at my cohorts. I’d thought that surely all these grass-fed-beef-eating farmers’ market friends of mine understood the way of the farm. This is the Hudson Valley, right? This is farm-to-table land. But over and over I got, “Did you name him?”

So I said I had. I said I called my steer Bubbles.

* * *

* It’s worth noting that ducks and geese are, at least, natural eaters of grain. Cattle are not.

* I cannot calculate the real cost of corporate farming, and I haven’t been able to find anyone who has done it. It looms as one of the real issues we’ll need to figure out as a society. It starts with farm subsidies that keep the cost of large-scale corn production in check, and it tentacles out in many ways. The environmental costs are staggering, and they are all externalized. Big Ag is not responsible for costs incurred by algae blooms in water, or by fish kills, or by the hypoxic dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico (to which the largest contributor is agricultural runoff). Nor are corporate farms responsible for the infections and deaths caused by antibiotic-resistant bacteria, despite the fact that 80 percent of the antibiotics that are dispensed in America are given to livestock, usually at a trickle, which seems designed to strengthen bacteria. The costs of hospitalizations, doctor visits, and drug research all add up. According to a CDC report, “S. Aureus and MRSA Surveillance Summary: MRSA Infections,” there were an estimated 278,000 hospitalizations in the United States to treat drug-resistant MRSA infections in 2005. We haven’t even gotten into the production of greenhouse gases, or the simple through costs of maintaining highways—with taxpayer money—so that Big Ag can drive trucks full of products around the country. When you start folding all these costs into the price of a steak, it seems that it really costs $900 a pound. When you think about cost in terms of damage, in terms of what it might really cost us to continue this way, it starts to look as if it might simply cost us everything.

* Many readers will, at this moment, wonder why I don’t stop eating meat. There are some compelling arguments for vegetarianism, but none of them quite make it for me. I believe that the world is divided into prey animals and predators, and that I am a predator. I know that cattle convert marginal land—that is, land that can’t be farmed for vegetables—into usable calories and that they do this with remarkable efficiency. I also like cows and know that were we to remove the value from the cow by not eating them, they would soon disappear.

* When I started cooking professionally, I cut and burned myself a lot. Gradually, I came to understand that if you were focused and careful, it didn’t happen. But then, of course, you are n

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