I've never been a good cook. A good cook always seems to A.) have interesting, even edible leftovers in the refrig, and B.) says things like "Cooking relaxes me." Cooking make me nervous, blindingly nervous; I am always out of some herb, which leads to needing a substitute herb, which leads to looking stuff up about herbs online. A tuna casserole could take me an hour and a half to put together. And the only thing semi-interesting I have in my refrig is Portuguese white wine. (Thank God for that.) There's also some 1% milk, and some tired, pathetic asparagus I bought a week ago when I saw a recipe in a magazine, then forgot both the magazine it was in and the asparagus. I also have a couple of Paul Newman's salad dressings from 2010.
Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...
Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)
Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?
As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
"Need a hand, Hon?"
Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.
Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?
No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.
Take that, Ina.
Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Fourth
A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
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