It has been raining for what seems like weeks. This cold grey weather feels more late September than early June, which perhaps explains my lack of judgment in preparing last night's dinner. Smart gals plan June menus with an eye toward fitting into a bathing suit at the beach rather than having to wrap yourself in two garbage bags tied together with duct tape. But I kind of don't care because what I made was so freaking good. Real good. I had almost an entire loaf of garlic bread left over from the night before, and maybe I've been watching too many episodes of Chopped, but my mind immediately went to bread pudding. Holy cow.
Totally Forgot About Swim Suit Season Garlic Bread Pudding
I had some mushrooms, so I sauteed them in my skillet with a little butter.
I also had some soy sausage, so I fried that up as well.
I put these things in a dish with my torn up garlic bread. Everything was looking a little brownish, so I threw in some sliced sun-dried tomatoes because I don't care if it's not 1994 anymore, I still love the damn things. I mixed three eggs and three egg yolks with two cups of milk, salt and pepper, and poured it over the whole mess. Then I waited about 45 minutes. I didn't really just wait for 45 minutes. I was doing other things during that time. That would be pretty sad if I just sat and watched the bread sopping up the custard for 45 whole minutes while I cried deep down on the inside that I had nothing better to do. What I should have done is filled up on carrot sticks or broccoli to avoid the coming feeding frenzy. I sprinkled on a generous handful of grated parmesan and baked at 350 for about 40 minutes.
I know, it doesn't look like I ate much, but this was the plate I served to my son, who almost gagged literally to death on the sun-dried tomatoes, but otherwise thoroughly enjoyed this dish.
To make up for this decadence, I offer this musical sampling, perfectly distracting for the long slog on the treadmill. And this dude kind of looks like a musical theater version of my husband. Enjoy.
I know I have been silent for a while, but with good reason. I moved! Goodbye NYC, hello rabid raccoon chewing on my garage door! There are many ways in which a move can enrich one's life, lessons to learn, new friends to make, but the most important lesson of all is this: moving sucks. First there were the heart wrenching goodbye ceremonies for my children in their classes. My kids were crying, other kids were crying, it was an emotional Hunger Games. Then the stress of hoping that the people who are buying your house won't suddenly change their minds so that the kids have to go back to school on Monday after all the farewells. The worry that there might be poltergeists or radon (God, the radon!) lurking in your new basement, and then, once you move in, what the hell is that noise coming from under the living room floor every night at three in the morning? It sounds like squirrels are bowling under there. But to every cloud there is a silver lining, and today it arrived in the form of a mouse stuck to a glue trap just outside a previously undetected gap from the garage into the floor of the living room. Gotcha. It's amazing how blood thirsty you can become after a few nights lost sleep.
I thought I would miss NYC more than I do. Of course I miss friends, but in this day and age, people are never really very far away. For instance, I knew the moment my friend Sophia was egged in the head by neighborhood hooligans, and she lives in London. I do miss bumping into people that I know walking down the street. Hell, I miss walking down the street. But I love my car and it costs less than we used to pay for our parking space in NYC. Nobody ever tells you that life in the suburbs is a paradise for parents. In New York mornings began with a 7 AM leap out of bed, hurrying the kids into their clothes, force feeding them freezer waffles and then everybody hustling out the door to wait for the elevator, because you can't take the stairs, not when your neighbor leaves used condoms between the second and third floor landings. Then rushing down the street for a cab, or to the subway, then rushing down another street to the school, avoiding traffic, then being swept up into a sea of parents and children all funneling into a mouse-infested, lice-ridden old building, kissing goodbye while avoiding eye contact with other parents who might try and lure you into volunteering for mouse turd clean up duty.
This morning, we woke to the sound of birds singing. The kids got dressed and came downstairs for egg sandwiches and french toast, and I'm not making that up. Then we all walked to the end of the driveway where we said hello to the neighbor, then to the friendly bus driver, who whisked my kids off to their idyllic school which is surrounded by forsythia and has two gyms and two music rooms and where the lunch room has windows! I then went back to my house and ate a bowl of cereal. Then stared at the wall until The View came on, which I listened to just for the sound of their voices. No. I'm kidding about that. Except the cereal. Newman's Own Vanilla Almond with a banana. Then I found the dead mouse, jabbed my finger at it and said, "Fuck you, you noisy little fucker." You can take the girl out of the city...
In honor of my new life here in the country, I offer you a salad on account of I've gained about ten thousand pounds because it's too damn hilly here to run very far. Enjoy.
Suburban Salad
You will need
Glue Traps
Watercress
Butter Lettuce
Vidalia Onion
Blue Cheese
Cherry Tomatoes
Carpenter
Avocado
Mulch
Hard Boiled Egg
Professional Window Cleaner
White balsamic vinegar
Olive Oil
Dry mustard
Salt
Pepper
When woken in the night by animals scampering in the attic, the garage, the nearby woods, or gnawing on your apparently tasty garage door, do not freak out! Go to refrigerator, remove watercress and butter lettuce, tear into a bowl. Slice Vidalia onion as thin as the deed for your new home. Sprinkle on blue cheese, which is the most prevalent cheese in WASP country. You might find some growing right outside on your blue cheese tree. Halve cherry tomatoes. While looking out the window, notice that the lawn guy didn't finish mulching the flower bed. Realize that you have spent more on mulch, a product which you heretofore did not even know existed, than you spent on three years of nursery school for your firstborn. Notice the warp on the window sill. Slice and chop an avocado and add "fix old window sill" to the ten page list of jobs for the carpenter, while resolving to learn how to fix things for yourself. Surely it can't be too hard to replace a faucet? Right? Chop a hard boiled egg and place in the salad bowl. While staring in the direction of the noise coming from the attic, notice that the absurdly tall window in the foyer is filthy. Realize that whoever installed this window must have been in cahoots with a professional window cleaning company because only they would be in possession of the tools required to clean it. Wonder if you could call the volunteer fire department and pretend there is a fire around that window so they might squirt it with the high powered hose. In a small bowl mix together white balsamic vinegar, dry mustard, salt and pepper. Toss together and enjoy before setting glue traps. When finished, empty remaining contents into sink and listen to the sweet sweet sound of the garbage disposal as it grinds up all your scraps along with your worries.
Another day, another email. This one comes from someone who calls herself, "Fat Breanna," which is a big part of her problem in and of itself.
Heather- About a year ago I was coming home after a night out with the girls. I had drunk about six tequila shooters, cause it was a girls night, and then had lost my keys. So I climbed in what I thought was my window, but was really the window of my next door neighbor, and I climbed right into his bed and woke him up. I always thought he was hot, and I wasn't shy on account of all the shooters (it was a Mexican restaurant where we were hanging out) so I had sex with the neighbor. Now I have sex with him all the time when I'm drunk, or when he's loaded, which is almost as often as I am! LOL! I love to party! Anyways, he won't even ever look at me when he's straight. Like he don't know me from a hole in the wall, and I really like him. Can you help? -Fat Breanna
Breanna,
You say he "don't know you from a hole in the wall" which is exactly what you are to him. A glory hole. You know, one where he can stick his- you get the idea. I'm not going to tell you that it is impossible to move your relationship from glory hole to girlfriend, because supposedly a man walked on the actual moon, so clearly a lot is possible in this world that may seem, at first glance, entirely impossible. So. How about talking to him? Next time you see him, just say hello? Start there. Because you never know, he might be totally dull and not worth your time anyway. Lord knows there are many many people that you might enjoy fooling around with, but with whom conversation would be no more desirable than a hot poker in the eye. And find a place to hide a spare set of keys. Meanwhile, enjoy some Queso Dip.
Fat Breanna's Girls Night Sex Fest Queso Dip
You will need:
Condoms
1 chipotle chile in adobo sauce
1/4 cup cream
1 scallion, chopped
1/2 tsp salt
1 Tbs. cilantro, chopped
1 cup shredded Monterrey Jack cheese
1/4 cup chorizo
First, have condom at the ready, don't count on him having one, because most people don't have one in their pajamas pocket. Saute chorizo until reddish and glistening, like your nipples when you peel off the pasties. Heat cream in a sauce pan, add in the shredded cheese, grabbing great handfuls of cheese like you do his hair while he's sleeping, stirring until melted. When the cheese is melted, add in the scallion, cilantro, salt and chorizo. Finely dice the chili, being careful to thoroughly was your hands after or else you will leave him with a burning that will never end. Mix all together and enjoy with chips. Serves 2.
I don't think it is accurate to say that most, if not all people experience some sort of mid-life crisis. Rather we experience three or four in close succession. I have made no secret that I turned 40 a few months ago, though you'd never know it to look at me. Just kidding. Along with turning 40 I ran a half-marathon, lost fifteen pounds and cleaned out my closet in the most major way imaginable. It is not possible, or at least not reasonable to wear t-shirts with stupid sayings on them after a certain age. That age should be sixteen, but for me it came a little later. Nor is there a place in my life for a t-shirt with a rainbow cheetah head on it. Not anymore. It's time to take stock and think about what I'm doing with my life. I would like to contribute something to the world other than snarky recipes, however delicious they might be. I'm not sure how I might do that, but I do know that I've always wanted to open a sandwich shop. I know exactly the sandwiches I would serve, and I would offer two salads and one soup each day, I know how the shop would look, and what the kids working behind the counter would wear. I would call my shop, "Sammy's" or maybe "Sammies." Perhaps someday I will own that sandwich shop, but today I've got to get a mammogram.
SPAMMOGRAM SAMMY
You will need:
Appointment
Gown
Bread
Spam
Honey mustard
Pineapple juice
Watercress
Mayo
Good magazines
First, shower. For some reason you can't wear any perfume, deodorant or lotions to the mamogram, and it's gross to try and wipe it off with some depressing paper-wrapped moist towelette. Open Spam and slice into thin strips. If the thought of Spam fills you with as much disgust as it does me, opt instead for pork loin. Fry in skillet until no longer dangerous to eat. Mid-way through cooking, pour pineapple juice over Spam, letting it reduce to a nice syrup. Slice bread and rub one side with honey mustard, and the other with mayonnaise. Place Spam on bread and top with watercress. Pack into a lunch bag, and grab your magazines. I recommend Lucky and Allure because they feature stuff normal people can afford. If I so much as flip through Vogue I am left with a deep feeling of inadequacy and failure, not at all what is needed for a mammogram. Go to your appointment. You will, inevitably be forced to wait for at least forty-five minutes. Enjoy sandwich while trying not to think about your breasts being squeezed until they are as thin as loose leaf paper in a vise that was most likely devised by a sadistic seventh grade metal shop student. Remove top and adorn paper gown. Even though the nurse won't ask you if you have mayo on your body, know that it is entirely possible, so use moist towelette anyway.
I have a friend, let's just call her Sally, who is going through a period of terrific angst at the moment. There is angst in her career, anxiety at home, and she's basically tied up in knots of gordian proportion all around. She was coming for dinner the other night and had specifically requested something cheesy and warming, to calm her frayed nerves. Problem was, she invited herself, and I didn't have time to go to the store. But no matter! I am the MacGyver of comfort foods. I quickly checked my cupboards and saw that I had rice and broccoli, as well as a pack of Quorn tenders. It is no secret that I am a fan of the mysterious Quorn. Anyhow, you could make this same thing with chicken, if you wish. My mind went instantly to a casserole, but I had no cheese, and only skim milk, which would amount to a pretty weak casserole, not at all what Sally required. Then I found, tucked behind my thousands of vinegars, exactly what I needed. Sally wasn't going to get some nasty broccoli mushroom soup casserole. No ma'am. For Sally, only the pseudo-French would do. Thus was born this conciliatory dish. Enjoy.
Panic Attack Casserole
Here I sauteed shallots and some of an onion in some butter.
And here's the part where I lightly steamed some broccoli.
Did you hear the one about when I threw this bag of something chicken-ish into the pan with the shallots and onions? No? Well, I also added a splash of vegetable stock!
I boiled 1 3/4 cup water and added 1 cup basmati, lowered heat, covered, and simmered for fifteen minutes which is a pretty standard way to deal with a cup of basmati.
Voila my secret ingredient! I made the "Bearnaise" according to
the packet directions, and slopped the whole thing together because
nobody was looking. If someone had been present for the event, I would
have gingerly mixed all the ingredients, and used a nice wooden spoon to
spread out the casserole in the dish, while wearing my adorable apron
and listening to Edith Piaf.
I toasted a couple of slices of whole wheat bread, whizzed them in the processor, mixed with a little parmesan, olive oil, salt, and pepper, and sprinkled on top. Then I baked at 350 for about 20 minutes. Actually I don't know how long I baked it for because Sally arrived. I opened some wine and listened to her rant, cry, and hyperventilate simultaneously, which only made me drink more wine, and I totally lost track of time. Also I forgot to take a photo of the finished casserole, so the one above, taken after we ate, will have to do. Let me tell you one thing. That mofo was delicious. Sally left in good spirits, which may have been due to the wine, but I like to think my casserole helped.
Living in New York City provides myriad
opportunities for someone who likes to cook. Specialty grocers, farmers
markets, exotic spice bazaars, and whole buildings devoted to nothing but cheese
abound. I tend to decide what I'm going to make for dinner sometime
just after lunch, and then go pick up whatever I will need for that
night's meal. I don't need to tell you how expensive this can be. In
effort to be more thrifty, and clean out some of my cupboards which are
in danger of falling off the wall, my husband and I decided to try something. In one afternoon we would pick up all
the produce we would need for the entire week's worth of meals. I know
that a lot of people do this as a matter of course, but we're a bit new
at it, and as a result, one of us thought that we would definitely need at least six eggplants. We never eat eggplant, although I like it very
much, and found myself at the end of the week having to make a meal for
my family that used six eggplants.
EGGPLANT EXTRAVAGANZA
I was inspired by Jaime Oliver's Eggplant Parmigiana, so began with his sauce which you see in the picture above. Doesn't it look delish? It was. Olive oil, onion, garlic, oregano, tomatoes, wine vinegar. I didn't use the suggested basil, as I didn't have any, and this was a strictly use-what-I-have kind of affair.
I sliced and grilled the eggplant in my grill pan. I should have cut the eggplant more thinly to minimize the slime factor.
I made breadcrumbs with the ends of whole wheat sandwich bread, toasted and tossed with a bit of olive oil.
I layered the sauce, the eggplant...
...and the cheese, until it reached the top of this lovely dish which was a wedding present ten years ago. I can't recall who gave it to me. If it was you, I thank you again, and you'll be happy to know that I use it frequently.
Ok, here's where I went a little crazy. I wanted something filling, but still easy on the old Weight Watchers points, so I topped the whole thing with a pint of fat free Ricotta, mixed with an egg. I added some salt and pepper, then topped with more sauce, the breadcrumbs and more cheese, then baked it in the oven for longer than I was expecting it to take.
I was a little excited when the dish was finally done, and forgot to take a picture before we ate it. It was delicious, and my kids enjoyed it, too - even if they said they didn't. The best part was all the room I had in the fridge after getting rid of those eggplants. I wonder what he'll bring home this week. Truckloads of turnips? Mountains of mustard greens? Or better yet, a bushel of beets. I like beets.
Now here is something to entertain you on this Monday. I forgot how weird this video is. That's probably because at the time it was made I thought it was the decade's greatest artistic achievement.
Can you imagine folding the laundry, putting away your husband's socks and finding a whole bunch of girlie magazines in his drawer? Yes? Well how about finding a whole bunch of Newt Gingrich paraphernalia? Horror! That is exactly what happened to Steffi in Jacksonville, Florida this week. Here you go, Steffi. I wish you luck.
Gingrich Spinach
You will need:
3 pounds spinach
1 cloves garlic
1/4 cup flour
1 cup cream
1 1/4 cups milk
One small onion, diced
1/4 cup butter
1/8 tsp grated nutmeg
handful breadcrumbs
gruyere
Steam or boil the spinach until just cooked (or unfrozen as the case may be), then drain and squeeze all the water out, like you'd like to squeeze the brains of your husband if he thinks he's going to have some sort of new fangled "open" relationship. Give. Me. A. Break. Heat the milk and cream in a saucepan while you saute the onion and garlic in the butter. Whisk in flour and cook for a few minutes to create a roux. Add the warmed milk in a thin stream, like the thin stream of consciousness that must exsist somewhere in the head of the man you married. Whisk constantly so that you don't get any lumps, you've already got one of those, no need to add more. Stir in spinach, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Top with breadcrumbs and enough grated gruyere to make you feel better, and bake at 350 until golden brown and bubbly. Go to www.newt.org and make sure your husband's name is first on the list to visit the moon base in 2019.
Now here is some music to help get you through these last six weeks of winter.
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