Operation Pink Herring

How to ruin Christmas dinner in three easy steps

STEP ONE.

December 23: Resolve to figure out how to cook the giant pork roast you bought at the farmer's market, because at five pounds for twenty damn dollars it was the least expensive piece of humane pastured hippie meat there.

STEP TWO.

December 24: Feel quite smug when after minimal searching you happen upon a recipe that is not only for the exact cut of gigantic hippie meat you have defrosting in the fridge, but also looks simple and requires a perfectly reasonable hour and forty five minutes to cook.

STEP THREE.

December 25, 4:30pm: God. DAMNIT.

 

 

I Can Teach You: How to Make Your Own Coffee...Without Waking Up Early

I wrote today's post as part of the lovely Janet's Pink University series. 

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I really love coffee. I really, REALLY hate mornings. I think these two are probably connected.

One of the small luxuries I afford myself is a daily mug of coffee from the coffee shop in my office building. It doesn't taste as good as my coffee at home (I love the local Bluebird coffee here in Baltimore, but if you live near San Francisco or ever visit, Blue Bottle is my all-time favorite) and it pains me to spend $1.50 a day on something I could easily make at home, but I just can't wake up early enough to brew my own coffee in the morning. I know, it only takes, what, ten minutes total? And only one of those minutes actually involves work? Well, I routinely wake up ten minutes before I have to leave the house. If I have to choose between brushing my teeth and saving a buck-fifty by making my own coffee, I'm going to choose the teeth. It's better for everyone that way.

But recently I discovered a summer trick that allows me to make my own coffee the night before.

On the weekends I usually make myself an entire pot of coffee (note: I use a french press that only makes the equivalent of eight cups, so it's not quite as bad as it sounds). I drink one mug-full right away, and then sometimes come back for my second mug later in the morning. But often, by the time I remember I have another cup of coffee waiting downstairs, it's either too cold and I'm too lazy to microwave it, or it's already too hot to think about having hot coffee. I then just throw that extra coffee away.

A few weeks ago, I had the idea to put the leftover coffee in the fridge so I could have an iced coffee later. Now, here's the thing about iced coffee: if you've ever tried making it yourself from hot coffee, you know it doesn't work out very well. You need so much ice to sufficiently cool the coffee that you just end up with a watery, not-cold-enough mess. And I hate buying iced coffee from coffee shops because they use too much ice and hardly any coffee. And have you ever tried getting sugar to mix into ice-cold coffee? It doesn't work.

But if you put your french press in the fridge and then forget about it, the next morning you'll open the door to get some milk and discover perfectly chilled, super-strong iced coffee waiting for you. After this happy accident, I started making my own coffee the night before work on purpose. I've brought my own delicious iced coffee to work every morning this week. For reference, the longest stretch I ever achieved in past attempts to make my own coffee at home is one day.

Here's what you do. Remember, I use a french press (and if you don't have one, may I strongly recommend getting one? Once you try it, you'll never go back.), but I have no reason to suspect this wouldn't work just as well with a traditional coffee pot.

1. Before going to bed, boil some water.

2. While the water boils, add your coffee grinds and sugar to the beaker.

2a: Trust me, add the sugar at this point. It seems like a bad idea, I know, but it works. If you try to add it when the coffee is already nice and cold, it won't dissolve well and you'll end up with unsweetened coffee and a layer of sugar at the bottom of your cup.

2b: You'll want to add slightly fewer grinds than you usually do, since the coffee will continue to steep overnight. I use about 2/3 my usual amount.

3. When the water boils, pour in it in with the grinds and sugar. Stir very well to dissolve all the sugar.

4. Allow the coffee to steep for at least five minutes before pushing the plunger down.

5. Put the entire press in the fridge.

6. Go to bed.

7. In the morning, take the press out of the fridge, pour coffee into a mug, add an ice cube and milk (or whatever you like in your coffee) and go.

8. Put the press with any leftover coffee back in the fridge for the next day. I make a full pot at a time, and that lasts me two days. It tastes just fine on the second day - just keep the plunger in to cover it.

If you're using a traditional coffee pot, you'd just:

1. Brew your coffee.

2. Stir some sugar into the pot.

3. Put the whole pot in the fridge to chill overnight.

4. Follow steps 6-7 above. I'd suggest covering the opening in the pot's lid with cellophane to prevent evaporation.

Happy coffee drinking, lovely Slice of Pink readers!

With silver bells and cockle shells and a healthy dose of competive spirit

I was just joking about winning an imaginary gardening competition, but it turns out you actually CAN win at gardening, and guess what, internet?  You are looking at the recipient of the Most Improved Garden Plot prize, a very official and prestigious prize awarded via a confusingly worded mass email from the Head Gardener.  I'm waiting to hear if we get get a blue ribbon to hang on our plot marker or what, but I'm sure there will, at the very least, be a solid gold trophy and some serious bragging rights involved. 

I was afraid this entire hobby going to burn hot and fast and end in heartbreak when I failed to coax a single green leaf from our clumpy, neglected soil, but so far it's still fun. (Joel is not quite as delighted as I am, since the novelty of gardening wore off for him around the time he learned to walk.) My first crop of cucumbers failed and there are some sort of bugs nibbling away at my broccoli plants, but still!  Things are growing!  And I'm 90% positive that most of them are not weeds!

 

These, for instance, I'm positive are carrots.  Finally.  At first carrots sort of look like grass and you might be tempted to accidentally weed them. Just, you know, FYI.

The one trick that's been invaluable is starting seeds indoors.  The hippie magazine that gave me the idea and instructions was suggesting you should do it in order to start when it was still too cold to plant outside.  I, however, find the trick very useful because if it's growing in your pot inside, you can be pretty damn sure it's lettuce, and not a lettucy-looking weed impostor.  Everything looks pretty similar when it's a millimeter tall.

So I've been doing that, making little pots of out newspaper and keeping them in an old litterbox for easy transportation.  When it's going to be cold out overnight, I can bring my preshus baby plants inside for safekeeping.  And when they get big enough to go out in the soil, I can just plant the entire little pot.  Genius, these hippie magazines!  Joel bought me a subscription.

Of course, the magazine didn't give any instructions about how to deal with the separation anxiety.  I told these tiny cucumbers to call me if it got too cold and I'd come and pick them up, no questions asked.  And I reminded them that if that stupid rabbit comes sniffing around they're not to talk to him, under any circumstances.  No plant of mine is going to go hanging around with rabbits.  Do you think they're OK?  Maybe I should go and check on them.  

I find it fascinating to watch my plants grow and I'm repeatedly amazed that a tiny seed can become a plant and produce edible substances. Here's my broccoli at two weeks, four weeks and six weeks.  Aren't they the best little growers you've ever seen?  (Man, when I have a baby you had all better run for cover, because let me tell you: I honestly do think this little broccoli is the smartest, biggest, most handsome broccoli on the whole block.)

Yesterday was a big day in Gardenland, as it saw the first ever harvest in our award-winning garden.  That's our award-winning lettuce, which I used to make some award-winning salads and put on some award-winning burgers last night. 

And that one colander full of lettuce makes the entire week I spent pulling weeds and wishing I had a pet Clydesdale totally worth it. 

April 1:

May 23: 

Being sick is lame

I used to boast that I never got sick, and it used to be true.  I never, ever got sick.  Joel would come down with a cold or two every year and I'd try to be sympathetic, but really I just didn't get it.  How did people get themselves sick all the time?  I figured I must have a killer immune system.  Probably why I've never had a cavity or broken a bone, right?   I have my fair share of ailments, I just didn't get sick.

That immune system, it seems, has retired to a sunny beach in Key West.  For the past two or three winters I've been getting colds and stomach bugs and you know what, I don't like it. At all. 

For example, take last week: for the first time in my life, I went home from work sick.  I've called in sick before.  Once, I started to walk to work, almost got hit by a truck crossing the street, and turned around and went back to bed.  But I've never gotten to work, survived a few hours in the office and then had to throw in the towel. I made a bargain with myself: If I went from feeling like I might throw up to actually doing it, then I could go home.  Otherwise, I'd stick it out. 

An hour later, I was home.  I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, feeling utterly miserable.  Normally an afternoon to myself at home would be glorious; I'd either have a list of things I could accomplish (laundry! organizing!) or I'd revel in some Law and Order reruns and thoroughly enjoy being lazy.  But when I'm sick, all I can manage to do is roil in my illness, and even that is no fun.  What a miserable waste of time.  I vote we do away with it altogether.

***************

I was doing the dishes before going to bed the other night when I smelled the unmistakable odor of something on fire. Not the smell of something getting too hot or being overcooked, the smell of FIRE. Amusingly enough, my very first reaction was to look in the sink.  Then looked to the stove to see if I'd somehow dropped a dish towel or other flammable object into the open flame, but all the burners were off so I whipped around, sure that one of the cats had pushed a grocery list or scrap of paper into the candle we had burning on the counter behind me, but... no.  There was the candle, burning away, seemingly with nothing wrong.  Except it smelled like FIRE. 

Then I noticed Madison sauntering away with a billow of smoke rising from his tail.  He often knocks things over with his tail and is generally a clumsy, uncoordinated oaf, but this is a new one.  He set his tail on fire.  And even better, I don't think he noticed.  At least he pretended quite convincingly that he had no idea why I was holding him by the scruff of the neck while Joel wiped him down with a wet towel. 

Never fear, he seems to be fine.  In fact, thanks to his fluffy fox tail, once we wiped away all the singed fur and cinders, the chunk of missing tail was hardly noticeable.  The burnt hair smell took a while to clear the kitchen, but I guess vacuuming will be a little lighter this week. 

Have some more pie, dear

Because of travel and surgery and general busy-ness on the weekends the past few months, we realized last weekend that we’d very nearly missed our chance to go apple picking for the season. Because I am four years old, I like to go to the pick-your-own farm every year. We pick apples off the tree, dig our own spinach and broccoli out of the dirt, take a ton of pictures and before leaving I elbow some small children out of the way so I can pet the resident goats and llamas. So last Saturday we went off along Route 70 -- despite the fact that I swore I’d never again travel that cursed stretch of highway after the wedding was over -- to pick us some apples.

It was the very last weekend they were open for the season and there were hardly any apples on the trees at all, but no matter, we’re not too proud to pick apples off the ground. In fact, we managed to find twenty-two pounds of suitable Granny Smiths to take home with us (the price goes down when you get over twenty pounds and we like bargains). We passed on the spinach and beets because we’re overloaded with spinach from our CSA farm share and I don’t know what beets are – uh, I mean, I don’t care for the taste of beets, how dare you suggest otherwise -- but stopped by the sad, deserted pumpkin patch, filled with poor Jack O’ Lantern rejects. We like pumpkins, right? We could get one or two of those and… do something with them. How much are the pumpkins, we asked. Free, the girl said. FREE. We bought twenty-two pounds of apples to save a few cents per pound, so certainly we were not going to pass up the chance to give these poor, dejected (FREE) pumpkins a home.

We took home eight orange adoptees. I had no idea how many pies a single pumpkin would make, but eight seemed like enough to have fully taken advantage of their free-ness, without quite crossing into hoarding territory. Happily, my first foray into making pumpkin pie out of actual pumpkin went quite splendidly. I found directions on how to cook a pumpkin online, followed them to the letter (!) and turned the first two pumpkins into two pies, a cookie sheet full of toasted seeds, a loaf of pumpkin bread and a gallon-sized Ziploc bag of frozen pumpkin puree. 

So now I just have six more pumpkins sitting in the kitchen. Since I don’t really like pumpkin pie (a fact that I should probably have taken into account before we started heaving free pumpkins into our trunk) and I refuse to throw any food away, I’ve obviously got to clear out some room in our crowded freezer for another bag or six of pumpkin puree.

And that, internet, is how I came to eat four vegetarian sausages whose best-by date was December 2008, two Eggo waffles and a vodka-lemonade cocktail for dinner last night. Lunch today was half a box of Morningstar Veggie Bites. I only have another box and a half of the sausages left, two boxes of the Veggie Bites (they’re not good, in case you were wondering, and the fact that we’ve had them longer than the sausages isn’t helping), a Sam’s Club bag of boneless barbeque chicken wings that I purchased for last year’s Superbowl (also not good), a box of Trader Joe’s eggplant cutlets (these are actually very good) and 1/3 a bottle of vodka to go. Yes, I suppose that I could take the vodka out of the freezer, but truthfully, we don’t have any space in the cabinets either.

Times a-changing

I don't know about you guys, but when I was a whiny little brat who refused to eat the nutritious dinner my hard-working mother had lovingly prepared, I got to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes instead.  Maybe some graham crackers with a little sugar sprinkled on top or some cinnamon pop tarts if I was feeling really crazy. What I did NOT get was a pizza delivered because I refused to eat real food.

This commercial crams everything that is wrong with America into a 30-second spot. OK, well that may be a slight exaggeration, but do you know how hard paella is to make? Actually, I have no idea how hard it is to make, but I DO know that paella is delicious. And therefore probably hard to make. And I am pretty sure saffron is expensive. And also reasonably sure that saffron is an ingredient in paella. VERIZON: Consider yourself ADDED to my official list of terrible commercials that are ruining the world.

Survey

If you were to receive, say, a wedding invitation… and on the RSVP card one of the entrée choices was “Chicken Jean Marie”, would you know what that was?

 

You see, I have this friend.   And she knows, since she has the caterer's entire menu memorized, that Chicken Jean Marie indicates a "tender breast of chicken sauteed with a garlic, tomato and age parmesan millege finished with extra virgin olive oil and fresh basil, tossed with penne pasta."  Unfortunately, that's a little much to fit on a three by five response card.   

 

So, tell me, internet: if you saw Chicken Jean Marie on a menu, would you know what that was?   My friend's better judgement says "no", but then again... my friend doesn't know what a "millege" is. 

Mission... accomplished?

It's now 11 days into November, so Mission: Put Together is, um, over.   Or something.

I'm pretty disappointed in myself.  I had the best of intentions for this installment of M:PT, but I honestly just don't know where they went.  I woke up most mornings late, as usual, and with zero motivation to put together a cute outfit.  And then!  Then, when I did have something post-worth on, I'd forget to take a picture of it.  I think I posted a total of about five or six photos during the entire month -- I'm not going to look because I'm afraid I'll find out it was even less than that -- and I was similarly negligent in checking the pool.  I can't even bring myself to make a wrap-up mosaic right now.  Sorry, M:PT.   It surely wasn't you; it was all me.  Let's blame it on the tragic end of yet another year of Daylight Savings, OK?

Speaking of photo pools that I shamefully neglected, it's really too bad that Whip It Up! is over because last night I invented a new recipe.  Oh, it's nothing fancy: just a simple dish I like to call Macaroni Reduction.  All you need to do is accidentally add five times the amount of milk called for by the recipe on the box (dude, 1/4 cup and 1 1/4 cup look pretty damn similar), and then you boil the whole thing down until the extra milk has burned off.  You can also dump some in the sink if you're impatient.  It's just a little something I whipped up last night on the fly.  Enjoy!

(It takes real talent to ruin boxed Mac 'N Cheese.  Shouldn't I win some sort of award or something?)

Whip It Up: Week 1, or Week 6, depending on how you want to look at it

One thing that I hate to do is to commit myself something that I can't fulfill.  Most of the time, I'd rather follow through on something that I despise (see: three years of swim team) rather than man up and quit.

When I signed up for the Whip it Up challenge, I was truly enthusiastic.  However, all those out-of-town weekends resulted in me not cooking much at all, let alone trying out anything new after the first week.  And to make matters worse, I never got around to posting about that first recipe.  Or even downloading the pictures I took off my camera.

Fortunately, the kind and benevolent RA has granted me a pardon for this transgression, and so I proudly present to you my Whip It Up creation for Week 1  Week 6, which fits into exactly none of the suggested categories for any of the weeks!  Because when I decide to screw something up, I like to go all the way (hey, remember that post about the books I read in 2007 that I said I was going to write, once upon a time?  Me neither.  Exactly my point.)

So, may I present... Whip It Up:  Blade Steaks

Approximately one million years ago, my baby brother and two of his friends rode their bikes to our house.  From New Jersey.  On their way to the Pacific Ocean.   You see, I inherited nearly all the worrywart, plan-ahead genes in the family, leaving only a small portion over for Middle Brother.  Baby Brother, therefore, enjoys a carefree lifestyle and does things like spending the summer working at a gas station in Glacier National Park, driving cross country alone to work at a ski resort for six months, and riding his bike across the country. 

My job, as his older sister, is to worry needlessly on his behalf.  Do they have directions?  Is anyone in the group allergic to cats?  Anyone vegetarian?  Food allergies?   Yes, no, no and no.  I'm telling you, this kid gives me nothing to work with.

But never fear!  I found something to worry about.  It was actually kind of easy. I just found a recipe that was way too hard for me, printed it out and decided THAT'S what I'd make these hungry cyclists for dinner. 

First of all, I have no idea what a blade steak is.   So I just defrosted the three steaks that were in our freezer, assuming that steak is steak is steak. 

Next, I made a trip to Whole Foods to pick up the necessary ingredients.  I scored a few points by actually remembering to bring the recipe with me.  I lost those points when I realized that I didn't know what a shallot was.  Luckily, the Whole Foods employee stocking the veggie section was happy to point me in the right direction.

Back at home, I started chopping and sauteing away.

First, I seasoned and sauteed the steaks as instructed and then put them aside to rest.   If you look closely, you can see that I have two separate pans going here, because I decided to triple the recipe, since I was already in over my head.  

While the steaks were a-cookin', I chopped up my shallot and mushrooms.  Once the steaks were done, I washed the big pan and started sauteing the mushrooms.   Did I  mention that we only have two pans? 

I was a little worried about this, since I have never cooked mushrooms before, but it was very easy. 

So far, so good!

Now, this is where things got tricky for me.  The next steps in the recipe called for me to:

Add vinegar and soy sauce to skillet and simmer, stirring and scraping up any brown bits, 2 minutes. Add 1/2 cup broth and simmer 2 minutes.

While sauce simmers, stir cornstarch into remaining 2 teaspoons broth in a cup. Stir cornstarch mixture into sauce and simmer, stirring, 1 minute. Return steaks and mushrooms, along with any juices accumulated on platter, to skillet and simmer, turning steaks over in sauce, until just heated through, about 1 minute.

Although I'd swear that I followed the instructions perfectly, the soy sauce/vinegar/cornstarch concoction just did not look right.  At all.  I was afraid that I'd used up all my luck with the steaks and the mushrooms, both of which looked and smelled delicious, and I didn't want to ruin them with the extremely salty-smelling sauce.  So.. I trashed the sauce, poured the mushrooms over the steaks and moved on.

Because I like to overdo things, I had decided to accompany these steaks with corn on the cob, grilled portobella mushrooms, mashed red potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes and a salad.  And to make homemade cookies for dessert.   I also made homemade iced tea.  And lemonade.  I have problems.

I used a recipe that I can no longer find online, but it basically went like this:

Take four portobella mushrooms, put them in a plastic bag, throw in some olive oil and a little bit of sea salt.  Let it all marinate in the refrigerator for several hours [I left them overnight] [because I cannot follow directions], then grill.  You can't really overdo them [that's what the recipe said. I swear.]

The recipe turned out to be just as easy as it sounds, and they were right about it being impossible to overdo the mushrooms.  I sort of accidentally forgot about them while i was fretting over my soy sauce and corn starch disaster, and they still turned out perfectly.

The result was quite a success, if I do say so myself.

Was the recipe easy to follow?

Blade steaks:  Um, not really.  I think I may have been the problem, but that sauce was seriously funky-looking. 

Portobella Mushrooms: Yes.

Did it taste good?

Blade steaks:  Yes, without the strange sauce, they were great.

Portobella Mushrooms: Yes.

Would I make it again?

Blade steaks:  Yes, although I'd just omit the sauce altogether.

Portobella Mushrooms: Yes, if only Joel liked mushrooms.

Whip THIS

I have officially hit The Breaking Point.  I knew this was coming, but it still sucks.  A lot. 

I feel like our house is falling apart at the seams.  Somehow we have no food (again), even though we got up extra-early on Saturday and went to the Farmer's Market.  There is cat litter everywhere and a layer of dust an inch thick on every surface.  I put in a load of laundry last night, and when I went to put it in the dryer I discovered it was full.  So that's where all my underwear has been.

Nothing major has happened, but we're leaving for our trip to Vermont on Saturday and I just feel like I don't have time to breathe.  I have to get the house cleaned, get a haircut, decide how I want my hair cut,  do the laundry, book my work trip to Chicago later this month, get ready for my BFF's bridal shower, and book a trip to Scotland.  Yes, Scotland.  As in, land of kilts and bagpipes and the Loch Ness Monster.  And Ewan McGregor. 

So, I'm a little bit stressed out.  And I also feel like a hugely hypocritical asshole, because the reason I "haven't had time to breathe"?  Is because I was at Penn State all weekend with my friends, drinking $1 Long Island Iced Teas and getting milkshakes at the Creamery and doing things like this:

Because I need something fun to focus on (and I'm still too busy feeling like I"m going to puke about Scotland, does anyone else get queasy when they click "book ticket"?), let me tell you what I am going to make for this week's Whip It Up challenge.  My little brother (remember the one who drove cross country by himself?) is off on his latest adventure: biking across the country with two of his friends. 

They left northern New Jersey on Monday morning, and if all goes to plan, they will arrive at my house in Baltimore sometime on Thursday.   I will then provide them with showers, a place to sleep that has four walls and a roof, and cram them as full of vegetables and protein as I can before they get back on the road and return to eating pasta at a campsite every night.

My menu, so far:

• Salad crammed full of veggies
• Blade Steaks with Mushrooms
• Roasted Red Potatoes with Rosemary
• Grilled Portobello Mushrooms (I was going to make grilled corn on the cob, with fresh corn from the Farmer's Market, but Joel very wisely pointed out that corn on the cob + riding a bike all day with very limited bathroom access = an uncomfortable situation)
• Homemade Iced Tea
• Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies

I think that should hold them over for four thousand miles or so, don't you?  At the very  least, it will keep me occupied with something other than having a nervous breakdown until we board our plane to Vermont on Saturday.

Two down, four to go

I've got two weekends in my six-weekends-out-of-town marathon down, and so far... so good!  I was a hot, cranky, tired mess when I rolled into Baltimore around 6pm on Sunday evening, but since then I've done some vacuuming and some laundry and caught up with some emails, and I feel fairly recovered.  

In terms of a quick weekend recap:

• My three side dishes for the fancy bridal shower came out wonderfully (if I do say so myself)

• I FINALLY went to see Sex and the City (loved it... totally cried during the Brooklyn Bridge scene)

• I had two servings of ice cream cake at the Fancy Shower to combat the brutal heat and GOD WAS IT GOOD.  How come no one reminded me how good ice cream cake is?

• I went to a swanky clubin NYC for the bachelorette party, where I did not pay for one thing.  It is good to have friends with connections, it seems.  Also, bottle service is the best thing ever.  Especially when it is free.

The one real snag of the weekend occurred when we arrived at the apartment we'd graciously been given access to for the bachelorette party.  As I walked in with my suitcase, dragging a cooler of leftover food and drinks from the shower, I saw a very large fish tank in the middle of the room.  Please tell me there is a fish in that tank, I said to my bride-friend.  Please, please tell me there is a special fish who doesn't need any water in that tank.  A fish who looks a lot like a snake.  Because that cannot be a snake in that tank.  NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS GOING TO BE A FUCKING SNAKE.

In case I have not mentioned it lately, I HATE SNAKES.   "Hate" isn't a strong enough word.  I fear them, loathe them, wish they did not exist on this planet.   And the snakes I fear most are those of the constricting variety.  I do NOT DO nine-foot, 50-lb boa constrictors.  Absolutely, positively, no way in hell.  I don't love anyone enough to sleep in the same room as a boa constrictor, sorry but THOSE THINGS CAN KILL PEOPLE YOU KNOW. 

And then the funniest thing happened!  I had about nine drinks, and all of a sudden the snake didn't seem so scary anymore.  I made a tentative peace with the snake, and I even tried to get the bride (who happens to be a professional snake handler) (seriously, that's not some kind of bachelorette party humor... she handles snakes and other reptiles for a living) to feed the poor snake a sandwich when I learned that he only eats once a month. 

I slept not more than an arm's length away from him and he didn't strangle me in the middle of the night.  I guess that's what you would call "progress".  Or, "passing out".  Whatever.

I made you a cookie. But I eated it.

In honor of my dear internet friend, Lindsey's, upcoming nuptuals, I thought I'd share with you all my most recent adventures in domesticity.  I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but I have the honored position of Bridesmaid Extraoridnaire for not one, but TWO, friends who are getting married this year.  Both of their showers are coming up (like, SOON), and for shower #1, I'm a co-host.  My co-hosting duties involve cooking for a fancy-pants shower.

(GULP.)

I am determined to wow everyone at this fancy-pants shower with my three delicious side dishes.  It's not going to be at all like last month, when I showed up to the joint Mother's Day/Future SIL's birthday BBQ with the cookies I'd promised to bake for the occasion.  I was psyched about these cookies, let me tell you.  I sorted out green (my mom's favorite color) M&Ms for my mother's day batch and kept them in a bowl right next to the blue and brown (Future SIL's possible wedding colors) M&M's I'd sorted out for the birthday cookies.  Cute idea, right?  I sure thought so.  

I carefully measured all the ingredients, and put them in little containers next to the sorted M&Ms, I even remembered to take the butter out of the fridge to soften!  I did everything right.  And yet, the cookies turned out like cow patties.  Melted, crumbly cow patties. I guess I should have just stuck to the boring old chocolate chips that the recipe called for. 

(But all those leftover M&Ms sure were delicious.)

So, yeah.  This shower is going to be NOTHING LIKE THAT.  You see, I've gone and recruited myself a coach.  And like any good student, I've been practicing.  

The first recipe my coach suggested was this Spinach and Artichoke Salad from the Food Network.  I printed it out dutifully and made it that weekend.  I learned quite a bit.  For instance, did you know that you can buy roasted red peppers in a jar?  And sun-dried tomatoes?  And baby artichoke hearts?  I did not know these things.  But now I do!  This is what I like to call progress.

Also, did you know that Rachel Ray is a damned dirty liar? 

EIGHT MINUTES, MY ASS.  It took me more than eight minutes just to peel and chop the garlic.  (Of course, it turned out that it took so long partially because I didn't realize there was a difference between a head and a clove of garlic.  But, whatever.  There is no such thing as too much garlic.)

Also, note to other aspiring chefs with no natural cooking instincts:  When a recipe calls for fresh thyme, you're supposed to pick the leaves off of the stem.  Ahhhhh.  That makes sense.  Oops!

The first batch still came out surprisingly well, despite the thyme stems and the entire head of garlic.  It was a little spicy, sure.  But still, very good.  And I learned several things. Like, when it says you can use dried thyme?  Use the dried thyme.  Don't get fancy.  Also, when Rachel Ray says a recipe should take 15 minutes from start to finish, you'd better go ahead and budget an hour.

I made this recipe a second time when Jenny came over a few weeks ago, and I got the amount of garlic right AND I picked the thyme leaves off of the stem before tossing them in.  I forgot to buy the artichoke hearts.  And the red peppers.  But still!  It was very good.  Lessons learned from trial numero dos: make a damned shopping list, woman.

Next, I plan to perfect RA's Pasta Primavera Salad.  Um, before I start, can someone tell me what the difference between a coarse julienne and a fine julienne is?  Actually, I can figure out the difference myself if you can just tell me what the hell "julienne" means.  And also... prosciutto: it's ham, right?

So, dear Lindsey, my gift to you for this Virtual Bridal Shower is this did NOT cook you anything.  You're welcome.  

"I am just ONE stomach bug away from my goal weight!"

I'm alive, but food poisoning is still kicking my ass.  Nothing sounds appetizing.  This is like me saying "No thanks, I have enough money.  Just give my lotto winnings to someone else."  I have food cravings that scare the life out of me, because if and when I am ever pregnant, LOOK OUT WORLD.  Last week I was cruising the local food market near work with two coworkers for something suitable to eat.  We circled the market twice and finally settled on giant pretzels, which was pretty much the only edible offering in the entire place.  I was starving, but the pretzel still wasn't what I really wanted.  It would do, but it wasn't going to be great.   Shut up, you know exactly what I mean.

And then it hit me: Diet Coke.  That was what I needed to take this meal from "OK" to "delicious".  I had a can of Diet Pepsi in the fridge back at our office, but that's not the same.  I wanted Diet Coke.  Yes, there is a difference and I can taste it.  Moreover, I wanted Diet Coke from a bottle. 

This is the level of insanity that we are usually dealing with.  And it is nothing new.

But since that fateful order of General Tsao's, I just have no interest in food.  Joel had to remind me to have some soup for lunch yesterday and for the first time in....ever?  I didn't finish my dinner.   I've said many times that I would kill to be one of those people who just doesn't care about food, who only eats when they're hungry and stops when they're full, who isn't thinking about what they're going to make for dinner at 10 o'clock in the morning.  But honestly, it's sort of sad.  I miss food.  I miss liking it. 

I am fairly sure that once my stomach has fully recovered I'll be back to normal, so don't shed any tears for the death of my love affair yet.  And the upshot is, according to the somewhat dubious scale in our bathroom, I've lost six pounds thanks to this little Adventure in Vomit. 

You might not want to read this if you're eating.

If you ever find yourself standing in the Atlanta airport, wondering should you get a nice thick slice of Sbarro pizza or a a hearty order of General Tsao's chicken with fried rice, I STRONGLY urge you to go for the pizza.  Honestly, I don't know what is wrong with me.   Pizza is my favorite food.  Why would I not choose the pizza?   I was actually in the Sbarro line when I decided, nah, let's change things up a bit.  You know, since I just had (delicious) Chinese last night.

I will never stray from pizza again.  I am pretty sure that I will also never eat Chinese food again.  Just the though of it right now is making me reach for the barf bucket next to the bed.  Yes, there is a barf bucket next to the bed.  Luckily I haven't had to use it yet, since it's the same bucket we mop the floor with.  But that is only because I have spent most of the past 24 hours in the bathroom. Who am I kidding anyway, I never mop the floor.  Then again, I never throw up.  Sure, from time to time I will pull the old trigger when it becomes apparent that it's the only way to get all of the alcohol out of my body, but I cannot remember the last time I spontaneously threw up.   I think it was probably some time in middle school.  I have this vivid memory of driving in the car with my mom near Dell's Village, and all of a sudden I know I'm going to barf.  I threw up into some sort of vessel (possibly we had brought the barf bucket with us, since I did have a designated barf bucket when I was a kid) and then proceeded to freak out because the puke was green.   I thought  I was going to die.

Well, when I puked up the one slice of toast that I've eaten since I consumed that fateful General Tsao's, it was green.  And I am pretty sure that I am going to die.  I have been in bed all day and thankfully I have tomorrow off, because despite giving the cats a run for their money in the Most Time Spent Sleeping Today category, I still think I've got some barfing left in me.

Luckily I have my work laptop at home and apparently the illegal wireless signal is pretty strong in the bedroom, so I can still blog from my deathbed. You're welcome.

A belated Thanksgiving post

Thanksgiving kicks ass.  Thanksgiving means two extra days off from work, spending time with your family and friends, and, of course, great food.  It's that last part that used to kick my anxiety into overdrive when anorexia ruled  my life.  I am incredibly thankful that I am able to enjoy Thanksgiving for what it is, instead of dreading it and spending all my time trying to figure out how I can make it through the weekend without anyone noticing that I'm not eating.

The holidays are a stressful time for many people.  There's the gift-buying, the travel, the company, and the relatives.  For people with an eating disorder, this is all compounded by the abundance of food and the pressure to eat.   Food messages are everywhere during the holidays.  Starbucks is selling pumpkin pie in a cup.  Stores windows are graced by gingerbread house displays.  People everywhere are talking about what they're going to cook and eat.  And on January 2nd, the weight loss industry will spring into overdrive.  It's hard for everyone, but it's murder for someone with an eating disorder.   

I am so very thankful to have left that behind me.   My heart goes out to the many, many people who are suffering with anorexia, bulimia, compulsive overeating, or any combination of that trifecta this year.

I am also thankful that my family shares my views on the holidays: they should be fun, not stressful.

I am thankful that there was virtually no traffic on I-95 this weekend.

I am thankful that after perusing all the Black Friday ads, Joel decreed that we did not need to go Black Friday shopping this year.

I am thankful that at least Joel's apple pie turned out well.  (Mine was a little... crispy.   I cannot read instructions.   "Wrap crust in foil halfway through baking time" does not equal "wrap crust in foil after pie is baked", apparently.)

I am thankful that the pie with blackened edges still tastes fine.

I am thankful that I am able to enjoy it.

And I am thankful to you, dear internet friends, for indulging my Thanksgiving post four full days after Turkey Day.   I hope you all had a wonderful holiday (and for the non-Americans out there, I hope you had a lovely weekend)!

New to Me

Pardon me while I just plagiarize from the lovely New To Us blog, because I have a new thing that I simply must tell you about.

I baked cookies.  From scratch.  And they were edible!

This is big news.  I've come a long way in my quest to be a better chef, but baking is still my downfall.  It's just so precise.  It's so easy to ruin things.  And I still don't know what a jelly roll pan is.  However, since one of the simple pleasures in my neurotic life is using things up to make more space for new things (to be subsequently used up), I declared that I was going to bake some cookies.  We have a whole cabinet filled up with vanilla extract and sugar and spices that were bequeathed to us when all of our friends made the exodus out of Baltimore.  I've been using the sugar in my coffee on weekends (in lieu of Splenda packets covertly lifted from Starbucks), but that was just taking too long.   So I decided to bake. 

I found a pretty simple-looking recipe on the internet, and I made my first attempt a few weeks ago.   

(I actually had to go out and purchase flour because it turned out what I thought was flour was actually corn starch, and luckily I noticed this slight difference before I made Joel eat two dozen corn starch chocolate chip cookies.  I suppose that purchasing a bag of flour to use up a bag of sugar is really quite counterproductive, but you try telling that to the voices in my head.)

I burnt the bottoms of the first batch horribly (note to self: put on a damn oven mitt and move the rack up.  It's not that hard, really), but the second and third batch came out OK.  Not great, but not awful either.  I tried to get all fancy by purchasing a bag of chocolate AND peanut butter chips, and that just made the cookies taste salty.  Also, I thought it would be OK to use the Country Crock margarine stuff that we buy by the tub, but that made the cookies strangely fluffy.   Joel still ate every last one (or else he took them to work and threw them away, I'll never know), but I was not satisfied.  I went out to the store and bought a bag of plain chocolate chips and some real  butter. I even spent the extra $60 cents for brand name butter.  That's determination.

(And just in case you're keeping track, I've now purchased two bags of chocolate/peanut butter chips, one bag of flour, and butter in the interest of using up some sugar.  I realize this.  The voices, they're so stubborn sometimes.)

(I also had to buy more eggs.)

Behold the result:

Deliciously golden brown, perfectly sweet and not at all salty, chocolate chip cookies.

Maybe there is hope for me after all.  Let's all just cross our fingers that I can replicate this success in the future, because I now I have all this flour and butter sitting around, just begging to be used up.  But at least I've made a good dent in the sugar. 

Getting all riled up

A few days ago, Frema announced to the internet that she'd announced to her HR department that she'd be taking 12 weeks of maternity leave in December.  This has nothing to do with me whatsoever, but the whole issue of FMLA/maternity leave, for some reason, gets me all fired up.

The company that I work for has what is considered a fairly good maternity leave policy.  You can take up to 12 weeks at 40% of your salary and be guaranteed that your job will be there for you when you come back.  I guess that's not a bad deal, right? 

Except for two things:  First, you have to use up all of your vacation and sick days (for which you're paid full salary) before your "maternity" leave can start (at 40% of salary).  The total still can't be more than 12 weeks.  This completely violates the spirit of the FLMA Act.  Vacation is for vacations.  Sick time is for when you're sick.  Forcing a new mother into a situation where she's coming back from maternity leave with 0 time off accrued is just asking for trouble.  Babies get sick.  Babies have doctor appointments.  Mothers get sick.  Mothers have doctors appointments.  How are they expected to deal with that when all their sick and vacation time has been spirited away?

Secondly, in order to qualify for paid maternity leave, you have to have Short Term Disability insurance, which costs $166 a year.   I find this to be nothing short of discrimination.   Men aren't required to have a separate insurance that covers them for prostate cancer, so why should women need to shell out extra money for "pregnancy insurance"?  And while we're at it, since when did pregnancy become a short-term disability?   Since when is having a baby a disease? 

Of course, I should count my blessings, since some companies don't offer any pay while you're on maternity leave.  40% is pretty decent. But I still think the whole situation is completely unfair an discrimination against women. 

Also, I am not pregnant, nor am I planning on becoming pregnant.  Just to be clear.  I'm just ranting on about something that has nothing to do with me at all.  You want to hear what I think about the fact that gay marriage isn't legal in all 50 states?   No?  How about what I think of insurance companies, or the lack of emphasis on preventative medicine in our health system?  Maybe next time. 

In less controversial news, I made lasagna last night for dinner.  It was quite good, which is a bona-fide miracle, considering: I used a recipe for a mushroom, spinach and onion lasagna, which called for mushrooms, spinach and an onion (surprise!), as well as a package of "cholesterol free egg product" and a 14-oz jar of pasta sauce.  Since Joel doesn't like mushrooms or onions, I omitted those two ingredients.  Since I didn't have any spinach, I left that out too.  Instead, I substituted ground beef.  Fair trade, right?

I also just used regular egg.  I used 4 because that seemed like a good number.

Oh, and also, one time (like... 5 years ago?) my aunt told me that you could get away without boiling the lasagna noodles if you just added twice the amount of pasta sauce.  I thought that would be no problem, since I had a big Sam's Club sized jar of pasta sauce that was easily twice the size of a regular normal-person jar (we are not normal people, we have enough food in the house to survive a nuclear holocaust).  The problem?  The recipe said to add 1/2 cup of sauce to the bottom of the pan, and then "the remainder" on top of the last layer of (non-boiled) noodles.  It's very difficult to measure out (and then double) the "remainder" of a non-existent jar.  So I just estimated.  And then added a little extra for good luck.

Lastly, the pan I used was the wrong size, because our medium-sized baking dish died during the catfish disaster of last year.  And I didn't start cooking until 8:30pm. 

And after all that, it turned out to be delicious.  Or maybe I was just hungry, since after the 50 minutes of covered baking, 10 minutes of uncovered baking and 10 minutes of "resting", I was STARVING.

Perhaps my cooking karma is changing.  Maybe next I'll tackle baking!  Maybe not.

Happy weekend, internet.  They seem to be getting further apart, don't they?

All by myself, don't wanna be...*

*Do you have that song in your head now?  I do.  And it's accompanied by the mental image of Bridget Jones swigging directly out of a wine bottle while simultaneously smoking a cigarette and singing into a hairbrush in her pajamas. 

While Joel is away this week, I decided that I was actually going to cook for myself, instead of subsisting on frozen pizzas and Foreman Grilled sandwiches for 10 days. Not that there's anything wrong with that.  Not that I haven't done that before and been perfectly happy.  But I decided to use this week as a test in Living By Myself.

I have never lived by myself unless you count the 4 months I spent in Spain, where I lived in a single-person room in a dormitory of several hundred Spanish students.  I don't really consider that as having lived alone, because I really only went to my room (which was incredibly, unimaginably small) to sleep.  At all other times, I was in class or roving about Madrid with my friends.  Even while I was sleeping, the dorm was guarded by security guards and overseen by priests.  You know, so they could write up the kids coming home past curfew.  Yeah, I don't think any place that has an enforced curfew really counts as living by yourself.

I really have no desire to live by myself, except that I think it would be good Life Experience.  I feel like it should be one of those things that you can do and then say you've done.   Like "oh, I've climbed Mount Everest", or "I ran a marathon once".  What if I'm never able to say "One time, I lived by myself, and I didn't die or burn down the apartment."  WHAT THEN, INTERNET?  Will I have truly lived a successful life?

Sometimes I do fantasize about living alone.  Wouldn't it be great to not have anyone else's junk around?  Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to decorate any way I wanted without having to ask for anyone else's opinion or permission?  I could fill up the entire Tivo cache with Law and Order reruns and no one would make fun of me.  I could scrub the bathroom, and no one would mess it up.  I'd only have to do my own laundry and my own dishes.  I could re-organize my closet every day, and no one would be around to tell me that I was crazy with a capital COMPULSIVE.

But, ultimately, I think I would be horribly lonely.  And bored. And scared. I have these irrational fears about being murdered in my bed by a serial killer, and as stereotypical female as this is, I sleep better with a man in the house.  I also sleep better with my Fort Knox alarm system armed and a Lunesta and a few glasses of wine in my system, but that's neither here nor there.

I also think that my OCD tendencies would take over my body if I had total control over how the house was set up and organized, and I'd probably be spending my evenings cleaning out the seams in the kitchen countertop with a toothpick (whoops!  already did that!) and typing up color-coded, cross-referenced labels for the filing cabinet where I keep copies of my bills and credit card statements. 

Oh, and also, if I lived alone, I would officially be a Crazy Cat Lady.  So there's that.

Anyway, so I decided that this week I would cook real dinners for myself, because there is a chance that Joel will be going away for a longer period of time (actual length of time TBD, but I think it will be a minimum of 6 weeks) and I need to practice Living By Myself and Acting Like a Real Person. I decided it was a perfect opportunity to make all the things that Joel doesn't like.  Like eggplant.  And teriaki.   And... well, that's all I could think of.  Good thing he's only gone for a week this time.  Plus, it was one of my New Year's resolutions to practice cooking!  Oh, and it's probably healthier than eating Safeway 3-meat take-and-bake pizza every night, right?

But it sure is a whole lot of work to cook for only one person.  Good thing I like leftovers, because apparently the recipe I made last night, which called for an entire eggplant, a large chicken breast, a whole can of pasta sauce, and a whole bag of shredded mozzarella cheese is going to be lasting me quite awhile.   

(OK, fine, the recipe did not call for the entire bag of cheese.  It just tastes way better that way, and give me a freaking break!  It's mostly eggplant!  A girl can have some extra cheese with eggplant.)

I do have to say, my dinner last night was delicious.  And so was my lunch this afternoon.  And so will be my dinner tonight and my lunch tomorrow, although I don't think I'll want to see another eggplant for awhile at that point.

Would you like some fresh glass shards with your catfish?

I suck at cooking.  Much like my ability to kill any plant in my possession, I also have the innate knowledge of how to ruin any dish, no matter how simple. 

Would you like an example?  OK then.  This is a prime example, because out of all the types of cooking, baking is possibly the one I am worst at.  I have grilling down.  And I even usually remember to turn the gas off when I'm done!  Even when I have a nail penetrating through my foot!  But baking.  Baking and I do not get along.

So, once upon a time, I decided to bake Joel a cake for his birthday.  I spent the better part of a work day (old job, old job, would never do such a thing now) looking at recipes online and eating nothing but coffee and oatmeal, and all of a sudden my stomach started rumbling while I was reading the recipe for a Pumpkin Roll Cake.   I don't really like pumpkin pie, so I don't know why a pumpkin cake sounded so good, but IT DID.  I had to have it.  Because everyone knows when you bake a cake for your boyfriend's birthday, it's really all about you.

I went to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for this pumpkin cake, which were pretty basic, because we already have most of the rudimentary baking ingredients, thanks to all my friends who moved away after college and left me with all their flour and sugar and corn starch.  I love using things up, so that was one more reason why I was dead set on cooking this pumpkin cake, if it killed me.  And it almost did.

The first problem I encountered was that the recipe called for the use of  jelly roll pan.  To this day, I still do not know what a jelly roll pan is, but at least now I know that if a recipe calls for something, and you have no idea what that something is, you should probably not make that recipe.  It's a good rule.  Sort of a derivative of the right hand test for books that the school librarian taught us in first grade: if you're not sure if the book is too hard for you, open it up to a random page, and if there are more words you don't know than there are fingers on your right hand, you should probably not read that book.  I didn't listen to that rule, either.  In fact, I read all 1000+ pages of The Yearling in something insane like 4th grade.  Which is probably why deer are just about the only members of the great wide animal kingdom that I dislike.

Anyhoo, not knowing what a jelly roll pan was (and certainly not HAVING one) wasn't going to stop me, besides, I'd already bought a can of pumpkin.  However, I did know from past experience that you should not attempt to bake something in a different size pan than what the recipe suggests.  If you do, your brownies will turn out like pancakes, and your lasagna will be sad and thin-looking.  Unfortunately, none of our many, many pans, were even the same size of the jelly roll pan that I was supposed to be using, but did not have.  Things were starting to get tricky.

And here my memory also has blocked out some of the finer points of making a pumpkin roll cake.  I do remember that involved making a delicious cream cheese-based frosting to go inside the roll, and also using a kitchen towel to roll up the cake, let it cool, and then roll it up again.  A kitchen towel?  Put that on my pumpkin cake and then roll the whole thing up?  I'm all for cream cheese frosting, but I draw the line at putting towels in a cake. So I decided to scrap the whole rolling part and just make a layered pumpkin cake.   And then returned the nemesis of the incorrectly sized pan.

Now, from the past brownie and lasagna experiences, I know that you can neither use a too-small pan (which will cause your baking time to be significantly longer and burn the bottom) nor a too-large pan (which will cause your brownies to be thin and hard as rocks).  What do do?  Well, being the culinary genius that I am, I decided the best solution would be to barricade off the superfluous portion of the pan, to "create," if you will, THE PERFECT PAN.  I constructed my barricade of flatware wrapped in aluminum foil.  It worked about as elegantly as you're imagining it would.  Pretty, it was not. But nevertheless, it worked, and into the oven it all went.

There I was, pretending to be Susie Homemaker happily baking the afternoon away, when Joel came home from work and noticed, that in a frightening development, I appeared to be using the stove.  "No!  Don't look!  It's a surprise!" I shouted, but he looked anyway, because he is no fun at all.  He wondered why I might be baking a pan filled with orange goo and aluminum foil.  "Well, fine,  Now you've ruined the surprise," I told him.  "I'm baking your a birthday cake.  But we didn't have the right sized pan, so I blocked off some of this pan with silverware wrapped in aluminum foil.  Great idea, huh??" I was totally expecting some praise for my ingenuity, or at least a measly "thank you, you are the best girlfriend in the world for baking me this lovely cake", but instead Joel pushed me out of the way, opened up the oven, threw my carefully constructed barricade in the sink, and proceeded to berate me for putting our wood-handled knives in the oven.

To be honest, I can see his point, but I still think he was being a little bit melodramatic.  When's the last time you heard of someone's wood-handled knives catching fire in the oven?  Exactly.  And I"ll have you know, that I finished making that cake, AND we ate the entire thing.   It was not pretty.  It did not look anything like the picture they had online with the recipe.  It was certainly not rolled.   But it actually tasted pretty good.   

**************************************************************

Now that you have that bit of background fresh in your mind, let me fast forward our scene approximately 2.5 years, to last night.  After eating pizza for 5 meals in three days, I decided it was time to eat something with a little more... nutritional value.  That something was catfish.  Why catfish?  Because it was in the freezer.

I have made catfish several times before, because Sam's Club is good enough to sell it in a large bag of boneless fillets.  And if I do say so myself, it has come out quite well in the past.  I bread it with an egg and some breadcrumbs, bake it up, and then serve it with my personal favorite: spinach sauteed in olive oil, both also from Sam's Club.  Mmmm. 

Last night, the catfish was not wholly defrosted.  That did not stop me from cooking it.  I just decided that to compensate I would allow the oven to completely preheat before putting the fish in (normally, I consider preheating unnecessary and a waste of time).  I set the oven to 400 degrees, and went about sauteing my spinach and even cooking some rice, because I was feeling a little bit crazy and wanted to make a "well-balanced meal."  When the oven beeped, I put the fish in, and left it alone.  I did not even open the oven 20 times to see how it was doing.  I waited until my rice was done, and THEN I checked on it.  And to my surprise, it was not even close to being cooked.   I realized that the package directions said broil, but I hate broiling, because I don't really know what it means, and all I know for sure is that the broiling pan is really hard to clean.  I decided to compromise by turning the oven up as high as it could go (550 degrees, to be exact) and letting the fish cook for another 10 minutes. 

Ten minutes later, I put on my sturdy oven mitt, took the dish out of the oven, and set it down on the marble countertop.  Or, I should say, I was about to set it down, but as soon as the first corner of glass dish met the cold marble, it fell apart.  Crack!  And all the sides fell off.

If you ever get asked a trick question "is it possible to break a glass baking dish without even dropping it?" you will know the answer is an unequivocal YES YES YES it is possible, and in fact it is quite easy.  I'm willing to give lessons for a reasonable fee if anyone's interested.

In case you're wondering, yes we did still eat the fish.  Not eating the fish never even crossed my mind.  I checked it somewhat carefully for pieces of glass, and determined that they all shot outwards and onto the floor, to become embedded in the cats' paws, do doubt.  There was no glass in the fish.  At least I didn't taste any.