I have a weird relationship with gardening: I really want to love it, but I also really want to smack it in the face and make it cry. I think our Chris Brown/Rihanna relationship stems from my rather overblown romantic notion of what gardening is. I prefer to think of gardening as a bright, fresh morning, the night's dew sparkling on my tomatoes and zucchini before it melts away under the hot summer sun. Before the sun is out in full force to wreak havoc upon the friendly dewdrops, I emerge from my house, my hair loosely braided, and clad in all-natural fibers--you know, something appropriately bohemian but also consciously fashionable, like a J. Crew sheer cotton button-down. I have some sort of fair-trade wicker basket in my hand (organically sourced and hand-woven, natch) and an exceptionally cute, sustainable straw hat on my head, maybe with a bow. I mean, hey! This gardening stuff? It's hard work, people! I need the right gear.
As I wander from my house, completely one with nature and in full communion with Mother Earth, who is coming over later for tea and gossip, I stop at the various plots of fertile soil in my garden, from which have emerged a veritable Thanksgiving cornucopia: shiny tomatoes about to burst, fat blackberries practically jumping off the vine, and cucumbers bigger than Jon Gosselin's ego (EGO. I said EGO, perverts!). I pick anything and everything I desire, filling my lovely, sustainable basket to the brim, and then meander back into the house, where I make blackberry teacakes for my date with Mother Earth.
Yeah.
You know what gardening is REALLY about? Gardening is DIRT. And BUGS. And digging up the long-dead housepets of the prior owner of your eighty-year-old house, and wondering if that discovery falls into the category of "grave robbery" or "clinical exhumation." Ultimately, I realized that, unfortunately, bugs are inherent to any outdoor adventure, and that any exploits that involve Lawyer Boy and I debating whether the subject was once named Fluffy or Pookiss is not in any way a "clinical" exercise.
We have spent the better part of the last six months trying to wrestle our front and back yards free from the terrifying grip of ivy, kudzu, and what I have been told is grass, but what I patently refuse to believe is grass. Frankly, it is too friendly and loving to be grass. It grows quickly, and so long and free that we sit in the sun together, the "grass" and I, braiding each others' locks and giggling about boys we want to talk to us. I've never met grass so eager to please, but LB burst my love bubble by telling me that it's not the grass, it's me. The love that it gives as freely as a middle-schooler with a crush is not because it really wants me; it's because I refuse to break up with it. Put simply, the grass wouldn't be all up in my biznass if I would remember to cut it more frequently than once a month.
So instead of a Garden of Eden of delectable, desirable vegetables, I am faced with acres of ivy and slutty grass that wants only to wind itself provocatively around my ankles. Anything that is supposed to grow, anything that is planted on purpose, dies as soon as I glance at it, killing my dreams of sustainable baskets and beribboned straw hats. I possess the mythical kiss of death. I only wish I'd known that when I was dating; I could really have used that power to weed out the losers earlier in the game.
However, Lawyer Boy is quite the Prince of the Pea Pod over here, raking and hoeing Fluffy's graveyard into producing some serious farmer's market goods. He has grown whole plants from seeds, which I find beyond impressive, since I cannot grow plants from plants. In just a few months, the kudzu has been bitchslapped, the ivy sent to boot camp, and the overgrown grass taught to shape up and keep its pants on. He is a true Green Giant to my Blackbeard.
Not that I, you know, have a beard. But if I did, I would totally braid a ribbon into it before wandering out into the garden, so that it coordinated with my sustainable straw hat.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
I Know I'm A Twit...What Of It?
After many months and much confused cocking of my head, I finally gave in to peer pressure and the allure of broadcasting every bizarre idea that cruises through my cranium to the Whole Wide Intarwebz, and signed up on Twitter. Or, as Lawyer Boy calls it, Tweeter. You can find me on Tweeter as @gracethoreau, or $gracethoreau, or #$%!gracethoreau, or whatever you use to Tweeter on me. At me. Upon me. All up in my Tweetness.
Regardless of whatever verb you would like to use in the phrase "____ @gracethoreau" (kick, hug, flying elbow) you should follow me on Tweeter. I just (like, right this hot second) discovered that I have to know someone's Tweetername to Tweetertalk to them, which really throws a wrench in my plan to get on Tweeter just to e-yell "stop being a dumb ho!" to Lindsey Lohan, Mary-Kate Olsen, Ashley Olsen, Heidi Montag-Breast, Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton, and the chick at my office whose skirt was so tight today, I could see her soul through it.
There should be a button on the right-hand side of this illustrious bit of the Intarwebz directing you to my Tweeterage, but since I all but have a stroke and collapse anytime I have to do anything other than throw word bitlets at the Intarwebz, I make no promises.
That said, Tweet away!
Regardless of whatever verb you would like to use in the phrase "____ @gracethoreau" (kick, hug, flying elbow) you should follow me on Tweeter. I just (like, right this hot second) discovered that I have to know someone's Tweetername to Tweetertalk to them, which really throws a wrench in my plan to get on Tweeter just to e-yell "stop being a dumb ho!" to Lindsey Lohan, Mary-Kate Olsen, Ashley Olsen, Heidi Montag-Breast, Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton, and the chick at my office whose skirt was so tight today, I could see her soul through it.
There should be a button on the right-hand side of this illustrious bit of the Intarwebz directing you to my Tweeterage, but since I all but have a stroke and collapse anytime I have to do anything other than throw word bitlets at the Intarwebz, I make no promises.
That said, Tweet away!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 7: The Grand Finale!
Well, we made it. We went seven days and seven dinners without hitting the grocery store, and to give you the Cliff's Notes: No one starved, died, or vomited profusely while screaming my name and obscenities, alternately cursing my cooking and begging God for mercy.
In a way it got easier to cook later in the week, because I was no longer paranoid about using up the useful ingredients and not having them later in the week, because obvi, it was already later in the week. Tonight I had two packs of frozen chopped spinach and a package of fresh carrots that I needed to use before they went to the bad, as my dad says, and as usual, I had enough bakery supplies to force-feed both of us pound cake all the way to a diabeetus coma.
I decided to make a crustless spinach quiche, which is one of my favorite quick dinners, the recipe for which I can share with you in three easy-to-read sentences: Buy a box of Bisquik. Find the recipe on the side for "Impossible Cheeseburger Pie." Omit the ground beef, onion, and cheddar cheese, using in their place anything you want (meat and mushrooms have to be cooked first, but that's the only limitation I've found). I like to make this with frozen spinach, cooked and drained, and whatever cheese I have in the house, which is usually around a dozen different varieties. Tonight it was either Parmesan or Gruyere, since that was all we had left.
To go with the quiche, I sliced the carrots lengthwise, tossed them with a little butter, sugar, and spices, and roasted them. I threw together a batch of baking powder biscuits, adding Parmesan and black pepper, and voila! For the last night of the Food Doof Challenge, we had the most nutritionally-balanced meal yet. And it was actually good, which is always a bonus.
Last night I mentioned that I had one last project that I was holding out to try tonight, and it's in the oven right now. I made a cake with the cranberry sauce, and I think it might have actually baked into something other than a big pan of barf. I have a great recipe for pound cake that I make all the time, and I've added jam to it before for random flavor, so I thought, hey, cranberry sauce is like jam! I could add it to the pound cake, and maybe no one would die!
In case the cranberry pound cake turned into a kitchen disaster equal to Rachael Ray, I cut the recipe in half. As usual, halfway through putting the cake together, I forgot that I had halved the recipe, so I used the full amount of baking soda and salt. If I had any sense at all, I would take the advice that cookbooks always give, and I would write out the measurements for a reduced recipe separately, and follow THAT instead of the original recipe. But if I had any sense at all, we probably wouldn't be here.
Before I put the cake in the oven, I tasted the batter, and--yes, I tasted the raw batter. Yes, I know I could get salmonella. Yes, I know how gross raw egg is. But seriously? Cake batter, brownie batter, and cookie dough are too delicious for a little threat like a bacterial hurricane to stop me. Also, it's important to know if your baked good sucks rocks before you bake it, so that you have time to drown your sorrows and disappointment in a quart of ice cream before the terrible finished product comes out of the oven. Or, you can taste it so you can tinker with the seasonings one last time before it's too late. Whatever.
ANYWAY.
I tasted the batter, and the first thing I thought was, "*gasp*! This tastes like Christmas!" I had added the cranberry sauce (all professionally mooshed up), cinnamon, vanilla, and Chinese five-spice to the batter, and in its raw, deliciously contaminated state, it tasted like Yule-y goodness and holiday cheer. Because it takes longer to bake a pound cake than it does to grow a real human baby, I'm still waiting for my pan of Christmas cheer to come out of the oven. Stay tuned!
***ONE HOUR LATER***
CAKEWIN!!! The cranberry sauce cake is delicious. It's a Christmas miracle! It has a nice tart undertone, like Granny Smith apples, which plays nicely against the warm, holiday spiciness of the seasonings. Additionally, it does not suck. I would totally make this cake, blanket it with cream cheese frosting (which, honestly, I would put on anything, including cheesecake, cheese crackers, and actual cream cheese), and take it to a holiday meal. If anyone would like the recipe, just shoot me an email and I'll send it over.
Well, on that happy Christmas note, I declare this week of the Food Doof Challenge closed. I also declare it a success, and I invite you all to try it out, naturally requiring you to email me photos of any particularly disastrous culinary catastrophes immediately. Captions involving four-letter charmers are also welcome.
And if I've learned anything from this week, looking at the goblins that continue to haunt my pantry despite my best efforts, it is that diamonds are not forever. Excess barbecue sauce and brown rice are forever.
In a way it got easier to cook later in the week, because I was no longer paranoid about using up the useful ingredients and not having them later in the week, because obvi, it was already later in the week. Tonight I had two packs of frozen chopped spinach and a package of fresh carrots that I needed to use before they went to the bad, as my dad says, and as usual, I had enough bakery supplies to force-feed both of us pound cake all the way to a diabeetus coma.
I decided to make a crustless spinach quiche, which is one of my favorite quick dinners, the recipe for which I can share with you in three easy-to-read sentences: Buy a box of Bisquik. Find the recipe on the side for "Impossible Cheeseburger Pie." Omit the ground beef, onion, and cheddar cheese, using in their place anything you want (meat and mushrooms have to be cooked first, but that's the only limitation I've found). I like to make this with frozen spinach, cooked and drained, and whatever cheese I have in the house, which is usually around a dozen different varieties. Tonight it was either Parmesan or Gruyere, since that was all we had left.
To go with the quiche, I sliced the carrots lengthwise, tossed them with a little butter, sugar, and spices, and roasted them. I threw together a batch of baking powder biscuits, adding Parmesan and black pepper, and voila! For the last night of the Food Doof Challenge, we had the most nutritionally-balanced meal yet. And it was actually good, which is always a bonus.
Last night I mentioned that I had one last project that I was holding out to try tonight, and it's in the oven right now. I made a cake with the cranberry sauce, and I think it might have actually baked into something other than a big pan of barf. I have a great recipe for pound cake that I make all the time, and I've added jam to it before for random flavor, so I thought, hey, cranberry sauce is like jam! I could add it to the pound cake, and maybe no one would die!
In case the cranberry pound cake turned into a kitchen disaster equal to Rachael Ray, I cut the recipe in half. As usual, halfway through putting the cake together, I forgot that I had halved the recipe, so I used the full amount of baking soda and salt. If I had any sense at all, I would take the advice that cookbooks always give, and I would write out the measurements for a reduced recipe separately, and follow THAT instead of the original recipe. But if I had any sense at all, we probably wouldn't be here.
Before I put the cake in the oven, I tasted the batter, and--yes, I tasted the raw batter. Yes, I know I could get salmonella. Yes, I know how gross raw egg is. But seriously? Cake batter, brownie batter, and cookie dough are too delicious for a little threat like a bacterial hurricane to stop me. Also, it's important to know if your baked good sucks rocks before you bake it, so that you have time to drown your sorrows and disappointment in a quart of ice cream before the terrible finished product comes out of the oven. Or, you can taste it so you can tinker with the seasonings one last time before it's too late. Whatever.
ANYWAY.
I tasted the batter, and the first thing I thought was, "*gasp*! This tastes like Christmas!" I had added the cranberry sauce (all professionally mooshed up), cinnamon, vanilla, and Chinese five-spice to the batter, and in its raw, deliciously contaminated state, it tasted like Yule-y goodness and holiday cheer. Because it takes longer to bake a pound cake than it does to grow a real human baby, I'm still waiting for my pan of Christmas cheer to come out of the oven. Stay tuned!
***ONE HOUR LATER***
CAKEWIN!!! The cranberry sauce cake is delicious. It's a Christmas miracle! It has a nice tart undertone, like Granny Smith apples, which plays nicely against the warm, holiday spiciness of the seasonings. Additionally, it does not suck. I would totally make this cake, blanket it with cream cheese frosting (which, honestly, I would put on anything, including cheesecake, cheese crackers, and actual cream cheese), and take it to a holiday meal. If anyone would like the recipe, just shoot me an email and I'll send it over.
Well, on that happy Christmas note, I declare this week of the Food Doof Challenge closed. I also declare it a success, and I invite you all to try it out, naturally requiring you to email me photos of any particularly disastrous culinary catastrophes immediately. Captions involving four-letter charmers are also welcome.
And if I've learned anything from this week, looking at the goblins that continue to haunt my pantry despite my best efforts, it is that diamonds are not forever. Excess barbecue sauce and brown rice are forever.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 6: Pasta alla Partial Puttanesca
Last night's wedding was absolutely beautiful, and the food delicious, even beyond the fact that it was not frozen spinach sauteed in Memphis barbecue sauce that I rustled up from the back of the fridge. I'll write about the wedding more tomorrow, after the final episode of the Food Doof, but for now, I will let you know that the part where Lawyer Boy dropped me in the middle of the dance floor was less delicious than the almond wedding cake with Irish Cream filling.
Tonight I had planned to make pasta (fettucine, from a box in the cabinet) with puttanesca sauce, which is one of our perennial favorites. For the uninitiated, puttanesca roughly translates from Italian as "whore," so obviously, we at The Fumbling could not care less what it tastes like, but we are all about making Whore Sauce. Puttanesca is named after Ye Olde Italiane Whores because it's quick and easy (I am not making this up), but beyond that, it's a tomato-based sauce containing garlic, onions, artichokes, anchovies, green olives, and my lovechild, capers. Our favorite restaurant, Avenue 805, does a fantastic puttanesca, and even though LB spares no love for anchovies or green olives, he sucks that stuff down like, well, an Italian whore.
After my little affairette with the tomato saucentrate the other night, I had lots of tomato sauce left over, since one pizza doesn't take a whole lot. I decided to marry that "sauce" with the artichoke hearts and capers in the cabinet, along with a chopped onion and the end of the fresh garlic, for a partial puttanesca. We didn't have anchovies or green olives, but you can't taste them and LB picks them out, respectively, so I didn't feel like we were creating "Jeopardy!" without Alex Trebek over here. I sauteed the onion and minced garlic in olive oil and went to add the tomato sauce, turning the Tupperware upside down to pour the sauce in...and the sauce did not move.
Personal note to tomato sauce: Hi, my name's Grace. We played this game Friday night. Remember? I almost threw you away because you were a dry, pasty whore, but then I added to you the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean and we were good to go for saucy delight. And now? When did you get so thirsty? Now, when I want you to be a whore of a sauce, when I am begging you to be a whore of a sauce, you have transformed back into a mealy brick of seasoned tomato glue? Please. A little justice for the Food Doof, you...whore.
Once I had pried the tomato block out of the Tupperware and nestled it into the sizzling onions, garlic, capers, and artichokes, I poured in some chicken broth, and added in a liberal glug of white wine. I added kosher salt and cayenne pepper, and a dash of white wine vinegar, and covered the sauce to simmer and think about what it did. About forty-five minutes later, when we were ready for dinner, I boiled the fettucine. Upon stirring the thick, tangy sauce into the finished pasta, I threw in a bunch of basil from our garden, because what is life without a chiffonade of basil? And because LB grows mad crazy plants.
Seriously. No holds barred. This was THE BEST DISH so far in Food Doof Challenge Week; so delicious, in fact, that I wrote the recipe down to recreate it at a time when I'm not culinarily unstable. Everything really came together perfectly. The sauce thickened up just right, and when I tossed it with the starch-laden freshly-cooked pasta, it clung to the noodles in just the right way to prevent the noodles from floating in a watery mess of sodden sauce and vegetable bitlets. Put simply, it was absolutely delicious, which leaves me concerned that tomorrow's dinner, the final hurrah in Food Doof Week, will just not be able to measure up.
For tomorrow night, I do have one grand finale planned, not so much in the meal, but in the form of a dessert that I've been throwing around in my head all week. It will either be spectacularly delicious, or spectacularly, mind-blowingly horrendous. Either way, it will be the perfect finish to the Food Doof Challenge!
Tonight I had planned to make pasta (fettucine, from a box in the cabinet) with puttanesca sauce, which is one of our perennial favorites. For the uninitiated, puttanesca roughly translates from Italian as "whore," so obviously, we at The Fumbling could not care less what it tastes like, but we are all about making Whore Sauce. Puttanesca is named after Ye Olde Italiane Whores because it's quick and easy (I am not making this up), but beyond that, it's a tomato-based sauce containing garlic, onions, artichokes, anchovies, green olives, and my lovechild, capers. Our favorite restaurant, Avenue 805, does a fantastic puttanesca, and even though LB spares no love for anchovies or green olives, he sucks that stuff down like, well, an Italian whore.
After my little affairette with the tomato saucentrate the other night, I had lots of tomato sauce left over, since one pizza doesn't take a whole lot. I decided to marry that "sauce" with the artichoke hearts and capers in the cabinet, along with a chopped onion and the end of the fresh garlic, for a partial puttanesca. We didn't have anchovies or green olives, but you can't taste them and LB picks them out, respectively, so I didn't feel like we were creating "Jeopardy!" without Alex Trebek over here. I sauteed the onion and minced garlic in olive oil and went to add the tomato sauce, turning the Tupperware upside down to pour the sauce in...and the sauce did not move.
Personal note to tomato sauce: Hi, my name's Grace. We played this game Friday night. Remember? I almost threw you away because you were a dry, pasty whore, but then I added to you the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean and we were good to go for saucy delight. And now? When did you get so thirsty? Now, when I want you to be a whore of a sauce, when I am begging you to be a whore of a sauce, you have transformed back into a mealy brick of seasoned tomato glue? Please. A little justice for the Food Doof, you...whore.
Once I had pried the tomato block out of the Tupperware and nestled it into the sizzling onions, garlic, capers, and artichokes, I poured in some chicken broth, and added in a liberal glug of white wine. I added kosher salt and cayenne pepper, and a dash of white wine vinegar, and covered the sauce to simmer and think about what it did. About forty-five minutes later, when we were ready for dinner, I boiled the fettucine. Upon stirring the thick, tangy sauce into the finished pasta, I threw in a bunch of basil from our garden, because what is life without a chiffonade of basil? And because LB grows mad crazy plants.
Seriously. No holds barred. This was THE BEST DISH so far in Food Doof Challenge Week; so delicious, in fact, that I wrote the recipe down to recreate it at a time when I'm not culinarily unstable. Everything really came together perfectly. The sauce thickened up just right, and when I tossed it with the starch-laden freshly-cooked pasta, it clung to the noodles in just the right way to prevent the noodles from floating in a watery mess of sodden sauce and vegetable bitlets. Put simply, it was absolutely delicious, which leaves me concerned that tomorrow's dinner, the final hurrah in Food Doof Week, will just not be able to measure up.
For tomorrow night, I do have one grand finale planned, not so much in the meal, but in the form of a dessert that I've been throwing around in my head all week. It will either be spectacularly delicious, or spectacularly, mind-blowingly horrendous. Either way, it will be the perfect finish to the Food Doof Challenge!
Friday, September 4, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 5: Victory, Italian-Style
Well, here we are at Day 5, with only two more "meals" left to brew in this week's cauldron of calamity. I don't know who's more relieved that we're nearing the finish line: Me, for no longer having to stress over what to cook with a collection of ingredients more random than Lindsey Lohan's sexual partners, or Lawyer Boy, for no longer having to stress that I'm going to ask him, at long last, to unhinge his jaw and suck down the vacuum pack of teriyaki tuna in the cupboard.
Last night's lemon chess cheaterfest was definitely a success, as was Molly's arugula pesto dinner, which was far beyond anything my kitchen is capable of spawning at this point in the week. The Italian dinner, complete with prosciutto-wrapped melon and homemade limoncello, got my Giada juices flowing, and I decided to (try to) follow suit with my own Italian masterpiece: Pizza made with absolutely no mozzarella to be found.
In between rolling out pie crusts for everyone I have ever met, and rolling out pie crusts for everyone I might hope to ever meet, last Saturday I happened to finally find a great recipe for pizza crust, while at the same time discovering that my oven will heat to a summery five hundred and fifty degrees. I made two really fantastic pizzas in three days and fortunately, as a totally unhinged baker, I still had tons of flour and yeast in the house. What sealed the deal was the small jar of tomato paste that I found in the back of the dwindling cabinet last night. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is for. I, frankly, question humanity's need for the existence of tomato paste, since it seems to be nothing more than what happens if I leave tomato sauce on the stove for too long. If I had known I could bottle that crap and that people would pay real dollars for it, full-time employment would no longer be de rigueur in these parts.
My mom, however, recently told me that tomato paste is just tomato sauce concentrate, to which you can add liquid to turn it back into tomato sauce. Okay, seriously, why. do. they. not. say. that. on. the. can??? Or call it tomato sauce concentrate? Or even better, tomato saucentrate? Or just share with the world at large that THIS PRODUCT HAS A PURPOSE???
I'll write my Congressman about that later. Tonight, while my dough rose, I added liquid to turn the erstwhile tomato sauce back into tomato sauce, throwing in salt, herbs, and spices so it didn't taste like licking a tomato on Ecstasy. With the dough rolled out and spread with my reconstituted saucentrate, the only hurdle left to overcome was the fact that we had zero mozzarella cheese in the house. I pillaged the fridge for melty dairy products, coming away with two slices of havarti, a half-cup of Pecorino-Romano, and eight ounces of Gruyere.
Every time I cook with an unusual combination of ingredients, I think to myself, "this is such a cool idea! Why hasn't this become really popular yet?" Most of the time, the reason is, "because it tastes like ass." So when I mixed my three cheeses and spread them over the pizza, it occurred to me that there is probably a reason no one uses those three in harmony. But since it was either the cheese stooges or apple butter, I decided to take my chances with the cheese.
All in all, the pizza was good. The crust was outstanding, but I hadn't been forced to compromise anything in making that. The sauce, on the other hand, was HOLY SHIT TOMATO. I added lots of liquid, but it was still extremely tomato-y, although the garlic and spices fought hard to assert themselves against the crimson tide. The cheeses were a mixed bag. The havarti completely disappeared, leaving the Pecorino and Gruyere to duke it out for the title of Dairy Queen. Ultimately, the Gruyere won, beating out the Pecorino in a most unexpected way.
Does anyone else think Gruyere tastes like pineapple? I always have, but I was hoping that once it was onstage performing with the rest of the cast, the pineapple would take a backseat to, oh, I dunno, the actual taste of cheese. In fact, not so much. Either that, or a gnome snuck into my oven and spritzed my pizza with a pina colada.
With all the weirdness I've seen come out of my oven this week, my money's on the gnome.
***
As a reminder, LB and I are off to a wedding tomorrow night, to nibble on delicious cuisine that wasn't fished out of the back of the bottom shelf of someone's fridge, sprinkled with coconut and brown rice, and deep-fried. See you on Sunday!
Last night's lemon chess cheaterfest was definitely a success, as was Molly's arugula pesto dinner, which was far beyond anything my kitchen is capable of spawning at this point in the week. The Italian dinner, complete with prosciutto-wrapped melon and homemade limoncello, got my Giada juices flowing, and I decided to (try to) follow suit with my own Italian masterpiece: Pizza made with absolutely no mozzarella to be found.
In between rolling out pie crusts for everyone I have ever met, and rolling out pie crusts for everyone I might hope to ever meet, last Saturday I happened to finally find a great recipe for pizza crust, while at the same time discovering that my oven will heat to a summery five hundred and fifty degrees. I made two really fantastic pizzas in three days and fortunately, as a totally unhinged baker, I still had tons of flour and yeast in the house. What sealed the deal was the small jar of tomato paste that I found in the back of the dwindling cabinet last night. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is for. I, frankly, question humanity's need for the existence of tomato paste, since it seems to be nothing more than what happens if I leave tomato sauce on the stove for too long. If I had known I could bottle that crap and that people would pay real dollars for it, full-time employment would no longer be de rigueur in these parts.
My mom, however, recently told me that tomato paste is just tomato sauce concentrate, to which you can add liquid to turn it back into tomato sauce. Okay, seriously, why. do. they. not. say. that. on. the. can??? Or call it tomato sauce concentrate? Or even better, tomato saucentrate? Or just share with the world at large that THIS PRODUCT HAS A PURPOSE???
I'll write my Congressman about that later. Tonight, while my dough rose, I added liquid to turn the erstwhile tomato sauce back into tomato sauce, throwing in salt, herbs, and spices so it didn't taste like licking a tomato on Ecstasy. With the dough rolled out and spread with my reconstituted saucentrate, the only hurdle left to overcome was the fact that we had zero mozzarella cheese in the house. I pillaged the fridge for melty dairy products, coming away with two slices of havarti, a half-cup of Pecorino-Romano, and eight ounces of Gruyere.
Every time I cook with an unusual combination of ingredients, I think to myself, "this is such a cool idea! Why hasn't this become really popular yet?" Most of the time, the reason is, "because it tastes like ass." So when I mixed my three cheeses and spread them over the pizza, it occurred to me that there is probably a reason no one uses those three in harmony. But since it was either the cheese stooges or apple butter, I decided to take my chances with the cheese.
All in all, the pizza was good. The crust was outstanding, but I hadn't been forced to compromise anything in making that. The sauce, on the other hand, was HOLY SHIT TOMATO. I added lots of liquid, but it was still extremely tomato-y, although the garlic and spices fought hard to assert themselves against the crimson tide. The cheeses were a mixed bag. The havarti completely disappeared, leaving the Pecorino and Gruyere to duke it out for the title of Dairy Queen. Ultimately, the Gruyere won, beating out the Pecorino in a most unexpected way.
Does anyone else think Gruyere tastes like pineapple? I always have, but I was hoping that once it was onstage performing with the rest of the cast, the pineapple would take a backseat to, oh, I dunno, the actual taste of cheese. In fact, not so much. Either that, or a gnome snuck into my oven and spritzed my pizza with a pina colada.
With all the weirdness I've seen come out of my oven this week, my money's on the gnome.
***
As a reminder, LB and I are off to a wedding tomorrow night, to nibble on delicious cuisine that wasn't fished out of the back of the bottom shelf of someone's fridge, sprinkled with coconut and brown rice, and deep-fried. See you on Sunday!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 4: Cheater, Cheater, Lemon Pie Eater?
Dearly beloved, I have a confession. LB and I are not eating dinner at home tonight, which appears on the surface to be a grievous breach of the solemn promise I made to y'all Monday night to eat all the bizarre and atrocious things lurking in my kitchen, for a week straight.
But seriously, I'm only human, and more importantly, I tend toward the flakier side of humanity, particularly when it comes to managing my own busy and demanding schedule of cocktail hours and hair appointments. Put simply and abjectly apologetically, I'm terrible about double-booking myself, and since the technology that would allow me to annoy people at two events at the same time hasn't beleaguered humanity yet, this causes problems. When I committed to a week of Doofery on Monday, I had forgotten that our friends Molly and Lee had invited us for dinner tonight, so natch, I said yes. I also volunteered to bring dessert, before I volunteered to not buy groceries for a week.
Upon realizing my fumble, I decided that I could make amends by bringing a dessert created only with foods already in my kitchen.
Time out. Did you think I was going to say that I decided we would reschedule with Molly and Lee for next week? Please. How lame would that be? "I'm sorry, I can't come over to enjoy your meticulously prepared haute cuisine, because I have a date with canned asparagus and crunchy taco shells. LYLAS!" Also, Molly is making homemade limoncello from her grandmother's recipe, and no one has ever made me hootch from scratch* before, so there was no way I was walking away from that. I pledged to destroy the excess in my kitchen, not the lifeblood of my social life!
I justified it withan intense case of denial the rationalization that if I were to cook a whole, fancy dessert from things in my kitchen, it was equivalent, at least in number of ingredients, to making dinner from the same kitchen contents. I had a pie crust in the fridge that I made last weekend that I needed to use, and I found a recipe for lemon chess pie composed entirely of random crap in my fridge. Making it helped me deplete the five-pound bag of lemons that I bought last week, for a reason that has since wandered out of my head, to get lost in the woods and never return.
The pie is baking right now, and it smells so much better than any of the oddities to come out of my kitchen this week. It actually smells so good that it has inspired in me a new idea for how to go to dinner with friends, and still stick to my challenge. We go to Molly and Lee's, take the pie with us, and while everyone else eats Molly's cooking, I take a fork to the pie and call it dinner.
What? You totally know that lots of people would eat half a pie and call it dinner. I mean, I'm just saying, I know people who have eaten a hunk of pie and called it dinner. Like people who live in my house. Who are named Grace.
So am I a terrible, unforgivable cheater who deserves punishment of a criminal nature?
*I would call it "scratch-hootch," but doesn't that sound like an STD? I know.
But seriously, I'm only human, and more importantly, I tend toward the flakier side of humanity, particularly when it comes to managing my own busy and demanding schedule of cocktail hours and hair appointments. Put simply and abjectly apologetically, I'm terrible about double-booking myself, and since the technology that would allow me to annoy people at two events at the same time hasn't beleaguered humanity yet, this causes problems. When I committed to a week of Doofery on Monday, I had forgotten that our friends Molly and Lee had invited us for dinner tonight, so natch, I said yes. I also volunteered to bring dessert, before I volunteered to not buy groceries for a week.
Upon realizing my fumble, I decided that I could make amends by bringing a dessert created only with foods already in my kitchen.
Time out. Did you think I was going to say that I decided we would reschedule with Molly and Lee for next week? Please. How lame would that be? "I'm sorry, I can't come over to enjoy your meticulously prepared haute cuisine, because I have a date with canned asparagus and crunchy taco shells. LYLAS!" Also, Molly is making homemade limoncello from her grandmother's recipe, and no one has ever made me hootch from scratch* before, so there was no way I was walking away from that. I pledged to destroy the excess in my kitchen, not the lifeblood of my social life!
I justified it with
The pie is baking right now, and it smells so much better than any of the oddities to come out of my kitchen this week. It actually smells so good that it has inspired in me a new idea for how to go to dinner with friends, and still stick to my challenge. We go to Molly and Lee's, take the pie with us, and while everyone else eats Molly's cooking, I take a fork to the pie and call it dinner.
What? You totally know that lots of people would eat half a pie and call it dinner. I mean, I'm just saying, I know people who have eaten a hunk of pie and called it dinner. Like people who live in my house. Who are named Grace.
So am I a terrible, unforgivable cheater who deserves punishment of a criminal nature?
*I would call it "scratch-hootch," but doesn't that sound like an STD? I know.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 3: Tacos Con Bizzarros
Lawyer Boy and I love tacos. I can't sugarcoat that and try to make it sound classy or sophisticated, nor can I deny the fact that if one of us pulls out the Old El Paso Taco Shells box, the other is bound to start hopping up and down, dancing with glee like the Labradozer at the sight of a Pupperoni, possibly with similar accompanying drool. We usually have Taco Night once a week, and my only complaint is that it's always over too fast, leaving me to content myself with a plate full of salsa and happy, crunchy memories.
So of course, delving into Doofery this week, we had a box of taco shells, but no ground beef, and no envelope of taco sodium with a hint of seasoning. LB and I are purists in our Taco Night ritual, and the cast is always crunchy tacos with seasoned beef, cheddar cheese, and salsa. I don't know why I decided that the taco shells should become innocent victims to my Doofery, though I suspect it has something to do with my borderline-homicidal desire to deep-six the can of refried beans that set up camp in my cabinet. What else could I do with them? Stir them into oatmeal for a dash of savory protein? Toss them with penne pasta and artichoke hearts for a cross-cultural carbo load?
Well, it's official. No one will ever come eat at my house again, after that last suggestion.
Following the plan I concocted last night, I saved half the baked chicken tenderloins to season for tacos. I pulled out the refried beans and allowed myself to be moderately appalled as they slid from the can in one solid piece, laying themselves to rest in the pan like some little-known internal organ. I added garlic powder, sauteed onion, salt, cayenne, and paprika to try to disguise the fact that it was a massive hunk of smearable fiber, and tried to break up the chunks to destroy the ridges of the can imprinted in its loins. The beans were in business.
I cut the chicken into little itty bits, hoping that the tinier the pieces, the tinier the utterly disgusting leftover-chicken taste would be. I don't know why, but leftover poultry tastes awful to me, so my least favorite day of the year is the day after Thanksgiving. When all there is to eat is turkey soup, turkey stew, turkey burgers, and turkey tetrazzini, I consider it the perfect day to go out for Indian. But since my friends in curry weren't available to help out this week, I had to figure out some way to cover up the chicken-y taste of the chicken, and Mexican spices seemed like the best bet. Into the skillet with the chicken went the same spices as the beans, a little water, and then a chunk of cream cheese. I've done that before and in my humble opinion, it's faboo. The cream cheese melts and mixed with the water and spices to make a really thick sauce, and a thick cream sauce can cover up a variety of shortcomings, including tough meat, flavorless meat, and bad first dates.
With the chicken cooked and the beans as gussied-up as I could make them, we were ready for taco assemblage. (Yes, I cooked the taco shells too, but throwing a baking sheet in the oven didn't seem to merit a narrative.) I smeared some beans into the bottoms of the shells and was moderately disconcerted at the beans' uncanny resemblance to peanut butter. A little cheddar cheese, the end of another glorious cheese product, went between the bean layer and the chicken with sauce. Taco Night was ON!
Well, on-ish. The tacos weren't bad, but seriously, anyone who tells you beans are a worthy substitute for beef needs to head for the halls of Congress, because he or she is obviously an accomplished career liar. The chicken was delish, mostly because it tasted like spicy cream sauce and not foul leftover fowl. On the downside, we didn't have enough cheddar for me to turn my tacos into a dairy bomb as I love to do, and the beans softened the crunchy shells more than I liked.
But on the upside, it was dinner that was not disgusting, and contained enough protein to actually call it a meal. Furthermore, it confirmed my suspicions that I am a meatatarian for a reason. Beef over beans at all costs!
And henceforth, we have no more meat for the rest of the week. Anyone know how to catch a squirrel?
So of course, delving into Doofery this week, we had a box of taco shells, but no ground beef, and no envelope of taco sodium with a hint of seasoning. LB and I are purists in our Taco Night ritual, and the cast is always crunchy tacos with seasoned beef, cheddar cheese, and salsa. I don't know why I decided that the taco shells should become innocent victims to my Doofery, though I suspect it has something to do with my borderline-homicidal desire to deep-six the can of refried beans that set up camp in my cabinet. What else could I do with them? Stir them into oatmeal for a dash of savory protein? Toss them with penne pasta and artichoke hearts for a cross-cultural carbo load?
Well, it's official. No one will ever come eat at my house again, after that last suggestion.
Following the plan I concocted last night, I saved half the baked chicken tenderloins to season for tacos. I pulled out the refried beans and allowed myself to be moderately appalled as they slid from the can in one solid piece, laying themselves to rest in the pan like some little-known internal organ. I added garlic powder, sauteed onion, salt, cayenne, and paprika to try to disguise the fact that it was a massive hunk of smearable fiber, and tried to break up the chunks to destroy the ridges of the can imprinted in its loins. The beans were in business.
I cut the chicken into little itty bits, hoping that the tinier the pieces, the tinier the utterly disgusting leftover-chicken taste would be. I don't know why, but leftover poultry tastes awful to me, so my least favorite day of the year is the day after Thanksgiving. When all there is to eat is turkey soup, turkey stew, turkey burgers, and turkey tetrazzini, I consider it the perfect day to go out for Indian. But since my friends in curry weren't available to help out this week, I had to figure out some way to cover up the chicken-y taste of the chicken, and Mexican spices seemed like the best bet. Into the skillet with the chicken went the same spices as the beans, a little water, and then a chunk of cream cheese. I've done that before and in my humble opinion, it's faboo. The cream cheese melts and mixed with the water and spices to make a really thick sauce, and a thick cream sauce can cover up a variety of shortcomings, including tough meat, flavorless meat, and bad first dates.
With the chicken cooked and the beans as gussied-up as I could make them, we were ready for taco assemblage. (Yes, I cooked the taco shells too, but throwing a baking sheet in the oven didn't seem to merit a narrative.) I smeared some beans into the bottoms of the shells and was moderately disconcerted at the beans' uncanny resemblance to peanut butter. A little cheddar cheese, the end of another glorious cheese product, went between the bean layer and the chicken with sauce. Taco Night was ON!
Well, on-ish. The tacos weren't bad, but seriously, anyone who tells you beans are a worthy substitute for beef needs to head for the halls of Congress, because he or she is obviously an accomplished career liar. The chicken was delish, mostly because it tasted like spicy cream sauce and not foul leftover fowl. On the downside, we didn't have enough cheddar for me to turn my tacos into a dairy bomb as I love to do, and the beans softened the crunchy shells more than I liked.
But on the upside, it was dinner that was not disgusting, and contained enough protein to actually call it a meal. Furthermore, it confirmed my suspicions that I am a meatatarian for a reason. Beef over beans at all costs!
And henceforth, we have no more meat for the rest of the week. Anyone know how to catch a squirrel?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Food Doof Challenge, Day 2: ChickiParm
In case you missed the beginning of The Food Doof Challenge, you can read about its humble start here.
Because I am not Harry Potter and thus cannot magic bizarre culinary oddities into unexpected deliciousness, I did not spend all day slaving away in the kitchen, waving a wand in an attempt to piece together a nutritious and delicious dinner from cranberry sauce and refried beans. However, I did spend all day obsessing over it. My biggest concern at this stage of Food Doofery* is that I will use up all my useful ingredients, the ones that I could actually build a meal around, in the first three days. By Thursday, if this were to happen, dinner would be brown rice pilaf with a Cheerio crust, glazed with an orange marmalade-chili bean sauce.
Fear of Doof disaster has led me to ration my ingredients that don't actively suck, breaking them into portions that are proportionally different from what I'd normally serve. For example, I had a 1.25 pound package of chicken tenderloins in the fridge that needed to be cooked sooner rather than later (read: immediately), and in my regularly scheduled programming, I'd dedicate them all to one dish. But as a committed Food Doof, and with the specter of orange marmalade chili beans lurking behind me, I decided to stretch the chicken by making it more of a splashy accent to the dish for two nights, as opposed to the main dish just once. The Watson to the plate's Sherlock Holmes, if you will.
What, would you not call Watson "splashy"? Clearly you missed the "Watson Gone Wild" Vegas special. Might I suggest Tivo?
I knew I wanted to bread the chicken and serve it over pasta, so I breaded half of it using some long-neglected Italian breadcrumbs I found in the cabinet. The other half I sprinkled with a little salt and pepper, so that I could bake it tonight, then shred it, season it, and mix it with the refried beans to serve as taco filling tomorrow night. It's like killing two birds with one stone...except for it's one bird...with one stone...hm.
For the main attraction, I had bowtie pasta and the remains of what used to be tomato bruschetta. A couple weeks ago I had served tomato bruschetta over goat cheese as an appetizer, and to keep the bruschetta from oozing everywhere, I had scooped it out with a slotted spoon, leaving several cups of bruschetta juice in the jar. Then, it seemed completely reasonable and economical to save the bruschetta juice for a later use, because I was apparently high at that time. Had I not stepped up to the Doof Challenge this week, I would have done like any normal person and poured the bruschetta juice out when I came to my senses, but staring into my fridge and receiving the cold stare of a tub of Cool Whip and three dill pickles in return, bowtie pasta in bruschetta juice sounded simply divine.
So while the chicken baked, I cooked the pasta, scalding myself on the cooking water, then put it back in the cooking pot with the bruschetta juice. I added some reserved demonic pasta cooking water, and stirred in a bunch of grated Pecorino Romano cheese (just about the end of my stash of that gem, by the way). After just a couple of minutes of bubbling, stirring, and intense praying, I had bowtie pasta in a thick, creamy tomato cheese sauce, to top with strips of breaded chicken. I hesitate to call it chicken Parmesan, since 1) it wasn't, and 2) no Parmesan was harmed in the making of this dish, but since it was so similar, I've named it ChickiParm.
And here I am, two nights into this potential foodie fiasco. Tomorrow I'm trying to magic up some tacos with the shredded chicken, but I have no idea what to serve as a side dish. Suggestions would be super!
The problem I have already noticed is that, aside from some beans, two packs of frozen spinach (which cook down into approximately two tablespoons each), and cranberry sauce, we don't really have any vegetables, not counting potatoes, so I've been nagging LB to make sure he eats lots of roughage at lunch. Otherwise, he'd come home and try to call four servings of beans his daily quota, in which case I'd refuse to sleep in the same room with him.
Scratch that. I'd refuse to sleep in the same house with him.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment of The Food Doof Challenge! I assure you that this will become progressively more squirrelly as the week goes on...such that I am not entirely ruling out the possibility of eating squirrels. In orange marmalade chili beans, natch.
*One of my friends recently questioned my use of the word "doofier," which is not exactly recognized by Merriam-Webster, per se. Every time I spin "doof" or "doofus" into a new vocabulary bit, I see his eyebrows raising and hear his voice of reason scaling up, asking "doofier?" So of course I try to use it in casual conversation at least three times a day.
Because I am not Harry Potter and thus cannot magic bizarre culinary oddities into unexpected deliciousness, I did not spend all day slaving away in the kitchen, waving a wand in an attempt to piece together a nutritious and delicious dinner from cranberry sauce and refried beans. However, I did spend all day obsessing over it. My biggest concern at this stage of Food Doofery* is that I will use up all my useful ingredients, the ones that I could actually build a meal around, in the first three days. By Thursday, if this were to happen, dinner would be brown rice pilaf with a Cheerio crust, glazed with an orange marmalade-chili bean sauce.
Fear of Doof disaster has led me to ration my ingredients that don't actively suck, breaking them into portions that are proportionally different from what I'd normally serve. For example, I had a 1.25 pound package of chicken tenderloins in the fridge that needed to be cooked sooner rather than later (read: immediately), and in my regularly scheduled programming, I'd dedicate them all to one dish. But as a committed Food Doof, and with the specter of orange marmalade chili beans lurking behind me, I decided to stretch the chicken by making it more of a splashy accent to the dish for two nights, as opposed to the main dish just once. The Watson to the plate's Sherlock Holmes, if you will.
What, would you not call Watson "splashy"? Clearly you missed the "Watson Gone Wild" Vegas special. Might I suggest Tivo?
I knew I wanted to bread the chicken and serve it over pasta, so I breaded half of it using some long-neglected Italian breadcrumbs I found in the cabinet. The other half I sprinkled with a little salt and pepper, so that I could bake it tonight, then shred it, season it, and mix it with the refried beans to serve as taco filling tomorrow night. It's like killing two birds with one stone...except for it's one bird...with one stone...hm.
For the main attraction, I had bowtie pasta and the remains of what used to be tomato bruschetta. A couple weeks ago I had served tomato bruschetta over goat cheese as an appetizer, and to keep the bruschetta from oozing everywhere, I had scooped it out with a slotted spoon, leaving several cups of bruschetta juice in the jar. Then, it seemed completely reasonable and economical to save the bruschetta juice for a later use, because I was apparently high at that time. Had I not stepped up to the Doof Challenge this week, I would have done like any normal person and poured the bruschetta juice out when I came to my senses, but staring into my fridge and receiving the cold stare of a tub of Cool Whip and three dill pickles in return, bowtie pasta in bruschetta juice sounded simply divine.
So while the chicken baked, I cooked the pasta, scalding myself on the cooking water, then put it back in the cooking pot with the bruschetta juice. I added some reserved demonic pasta cooking water, and stirred in a bunch of grated Pecorino Romano cheese (just about the end of my stash of that gem, by the way). After just a couple of minutes of bubbling, stirring, and intense praying, I had bowtie pasta in a thick, creamy tomato cheese sauce, to top with strips of breaded chicken. I hesitate to call it chicken Parmesan, since 1) it wasn't, and 2) no Parmesan was harmed in the making of this dish, but since it was so similar, I've named it ChickiParm.
And here I am, two nights into this potential foodie fiasco. Tomorrow I'm trying to magic up some tacos with the shredded chicken, but I have no idea what to serve as a side dish. Suggestions would be super!
The problem I have already noticed is that, aside from some beans, two packs of frozen spinach (which cook down into approximately two tablespoons each), and cranberry sauce, we don't really have any vegetables, not counting potatoes, so I've been nagging LB to make sure he eats lots of roughage at lunch. Otherwise, he'd come home and try to call four servings of beans his daily quota, in which case I'd refuse to sleep in the same room with him.
Scratch that. I'd refuse to sleep in the same house with him.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment of The Food Doof Challenge! I assure you that this will become progressively more squirrelly as the week goes on...such that I am not entirely ruling out the possibility of eating squirrels. In orange marmalade chili beans, natch.
*One of my friends recently questioned my use of the word "doofier," which is not exactly recognized by Merriam-Webster, per se. Every time I spin "doof" or "doofus" into a new vocabulary bit, I see his eyebrows raising and hear his voice of reason scaling up, asking "doofier?" So of course I try to use it in casual conversation at least three times a day.
Letter To The Human Clown Car
Dear Michelle Duggar,
When you have spent an enormous amount of your life in stirrups, and yet you are not an award-winning equestrian, it is time to reconsider your hobbies and life goals. While I do understand that at this point, childbirth no longer involves actual labor, and that your babies just wander out into the light, blinking, might I suggest scrapbooking or knitting as hobbies that are both meaningful and less draining than childbirth?
Other great hobby choices include cross-stich, vasectomies, and identifying the 18 humans you've already dropped.
Yours in Huggies,
Grace
When you have spent an enormous amount of your life in stirrups, and yet you are not an award-winning equestrian, it is time to reconsider your hobbies and life goals. While I do understand that at this point, childbirth no longer involves actual labor, and that your babies just wander out into the light, blinking, might I suggest scrapbooking or knitting as hobbies that are both meaningful and less draining than childbirth?
Other great hobby choices include cross-stich, vasectomies, and identifying the 18 humans you've already dropped.
Yours in Huggies,
Grace
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