Cooking No. 15: Jose Andres for the Garden Café Catalonia

I can’t take credit for either one of these beauties - or even the photographs, for that matter! My friend T. took these shots of our Jose Andres lunch at the National Gallery this past Sunday. For our entrée, we ordered the empedrat de mongetes amb bacallà, aka the white bean salad with vegetables and Catalan salt cod. We split it between the two of us–they were out of Drew’s first choice–and, minus the inevitable fish/garlic bad breath, it was perfect: fresh and pleasantly pungent.

For dessert, we split the peres al vi amb gelat de vainilla, pears poached in red wine with vanilla ice cream. I usually don’t care for pears, but these had a nice sangria-esque vibe going on. Top that with ice cream and–needless to say–they didn’t last long!

The restaurant also has a Catalonian buffet set up for the exhibition. It was a bit pricey for the two of us, but I would have loved to try the cold cherry and tomato soup. The recipe is online here and looks simple enough. Maybe I’ll give it a try!

Cooking No. 13: Aretha Frankenstein's

My mom and Drew’s mom both do this cute thing where they pack us a bag or two of groceries whenever we leave after a visit. My mom gets it from her mom, who did the same thing whenever we visited Connecticut back in the day, and I can only assume it runs in Drew’s family as well. When we left Chattanooga last Thanksgiving, Mama D. threw in a box of Aretha Frankenstein’s pancake mix – aka “the best pancake mix ever created” – and assured us the pancakes were as delicious as the box humorously states. (One reviewer, for instance, says that they are “Abbey road era Beatles,” while other pancakes are “Ringo solo stuff!”) I can’t use Bisquick to save my life, so it sounded good to me!

Unfortunately, the box demands you use buttermilk and canola oil lest the “Pancake Gods…strike down upon thee with great vengeance,” so the “Box of Magnificence” went into the cupboard and sat around for awhile. Like, until March. Whoops. My bad. Secretly, I just didn’t know where to find buttermilk. (Can you tell I’m a Yankee?) But happily, once I actually looked, it turned out to be right next to the regular milk! Who knew?! (Related Question: Who knows WHY the grocery stores in Virginia stock breakfast sausage and Italian sausage on opposite ends of the store? OMG. I’ll walk it off after I eat it, thanks.)

The box suggested making a “Jug-Of-Love” for a weekend of pancake fun, so when Sister V. came to visit all those weeks ago – like the pancake mix, this post has sat around for awhile – I decided it was time to put the cockiest box on the shelf to the test! I hunted down the elusive buttermilk, bought an enormous jar of canola oil that should last through at least two presidential administrations, and set to work.

Shhh! I didn't buy enough buttermilk and had to sub in some 2%. Don't tell the Pancake Gods!

I rescued an empty milk jug from our recycling bin and gave it a little make-over, both for its benefit and ours. No pancake batter on the cereal in this house! (Pre-coffee, anything’s possible. ;) We don’t have any funnels, so getting the mix into the jug was a bit of a challenge, but on the flip side, I finally learned what a batter bowl is for! Despite that, the Jug-of-Love was actually a great idea. It was easy to make ahead, easy to store, and easy to shake up in a jiffy! (Obviously, this post is not sponsored by Jiffy, but I’m more than willing to plug their Not-Real-Blueberry Blueberry Muffins. After 20+ years of eating them, I still think they're amazing!)

Demonstrating the proper shake!

And yes, the pancakes were as good as the box claims. The batter cooked even, thick, and flipped well, even for a pancake klutz like me! The pancakes were a bit sweeter than I was expecting, but not in a bad way. Just in a “use less maple syrup” way. ;) And with a few strawberries sprinkled on top? Mmm...perfect!

We probably have enough mix left in the box for a Saturday morning, but not a Jug-of-Love. Looks like we’ll be rationing until our next trip South!

Can you cook and take photos and keep the cat off the counter at the same time? Me neither... ;)

Cooking No. 12: BRABO Tasting Room/The Butcher's Block

("Cooking" as in "other people who cook for me." So maybe this post should really be filed under "Eating." ;)

It feels like real winter here today - Wind, flurries, and everything! - so after spending a cold morning touring Mt. Vernon with my sister, I've tried to spend the afternoon as close to a cup of hot coffee and/or tea as possible. Sister V. (who has informed me she appreciates my thinly-veiled attempts to protect her identity ;) came down on the train Saturday night and left this afternoon, taking the warm weather with her back to New England. (A first, I know.)

When she got here on Saturday, the weather was beautiful. After Mr. C and I picked her up at Union Station, we walked around Old Town for hours without our coats, even after the sun went down. We hit up a new cupcakery (My review is forthcoming!), a great consignment shop, and Anthro (of course), before heading back down King Street to BRABO Tasting Room for dinner.

We picked this particular restaurant because Mr. C and I had an anniversary gift card from Mama and Papa V. for any place in the entire Kimpton chain. It seemed like a balanced mix of good food in an unpretentious atmosphere. (I find fancy restaurants a little overwhelming sometimes, you know? Gourmet food tastes better when I'm wearing jeans.) They don't take reservations, so when we arrived there was a 45 minute wait. No problem. They have a little grocer next door called The Butcher's Block where you can take a seat and order a glass of wine or a cheese plate. Of which we did all three. ;)

Sister V. and I both ordered a glass of Ponga Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, New Zealand, which has the distinction of being the first Sauv I've ever liked. (I lived in Marlborough for a year, so I always try to keep my dislike of Sauv on the DL. Got to stay loyal, no matter what. ;) Sister V. even got a bottle to go!

Our cheese plate was a trio of cheddar, goat cheese, and a hard, local cheese, and was served with jam, dried fruit, and a bowl of do-you-want-a-refill (Yes!!!) baguette slices. Delish! None of it lasted very long, which was a shame because the tables in the restaurant stopped turning over and our 45 minute wait quickly turned into two hours. The host was wicked annoyed (and had a few choice words for people who stay at their tables after paying the bill ;) and gave us all a free glass of sparkling wine to keep us occupied. (I was kind of hoping for more cheese, but you know... Free is free! No complaints here!)

A table opened up just in time - we were seriously discussing jetting over to Five Guys before they closed - and we settled in for dinner around 10 p.m. We ordered a House Made Italian Sausage Tart (aka a mini sausage pizza) as an appetizer and a round of sandwiches for our entrees: Hot Roasted Beef, Veal Meatball, and a Croque Monsieur. I thought the sausage was a little bland - although it was Mr. C's fav - and the Croque Monsieur a little salty, but overall everything was fresh, hot, and tastefully put together. Yum!

My only real complaint? After having The Butcher's Block pretty much to ourselves, the restaurant seemed too loud and a little cramped. Next time I'm thinking we'll just go earlier and order sammies (and that amazing cheese!) on the grocer side. My own private restaurant? Yes, please! Thanks for the awesome gift, Mom and Dad!

Cooking No. 11: Dinner Partay

We christened the new homestead last night with our first ever dinner party. It was quite the occasion: I left my coupons at home and shelled out seven bucks for a cup of pine nuts. (Oh yes, you know it's going to be a crazy night when. ;)

Cousin Emily came over early to help get things ready. We started off with a Spinach and Strawberry Salad (accented with what is apparently an endangered nut, judging by how much they charge for them) and an amazing Bacon, Apple, Bleu Cheese, and Onion Galette that my friend Elise made. (I had no idea what a galette was. She had to educate me. But it was so delicious, I don't think I'll forget!)

The apps were followed up with two, vegetarian-friendly pasta entrees: Pasta with Squash, Brown Butter, and Rosemary and Spinach and Artichoke Baked Pasta. The former is already one of my favorites, although I usually substitute a different pasta for the lasagna noodles - I can never stop the lasagna from sticking together - and leave out the pine nuts, and the latter will definitely be added to the rotation. So yummy!

I tried to make chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert, but I seized the chocolate and it ended up in the trash. (This happens to me all the time, even when I use a double boiler. Any advice?) I didn't have any more chocolate, so I ended up making a batch of Chocolate Bottom Banana Bars instead, substituting Peanut Butter M&Ms for the chocolate chips. The M&Ms sunk into the batter and melted, the way M&Ms always do when you add them too soon, but the bars were delicious, nonetheless. :)

Good good, good people, and good times. Makes a party anytime. :-*

Cooking No. 10: Boo Cups

In college, my good friend E. introduced me to the best Halloween dessert ever: Boo Cups. I’d never had one of these amazing little creations until my sophomore year, but now the season just doesn’t seem right without them! Boo Cups are to Halloween what Peeps are to Easter – a delicious sweet you can only eat once a year for fear your teeth will rot out. Oh yes, they are that good.

Bert’s coworker invited us over for a Pumpkin Party last weekend (where Bert carved his first pumpkin ever), so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to introduce Boo Cups to the NEPA crowd. (Interested? You can find the recipe here on the Kraft website.)

They are super easy to make. First, mix the instant pudding. The official recipe calls for only chocolate, but I always split it up into half chocolate, half vanilla. Trust me: Boo Cups are not lacking in the sugar department. I’ve found the vanilla makes them a bit more palatable for the “older than 5” crowd and adds a nice color contrast, as well.

Next, mix in half a tub of Cool-Whip (or “whipped topping,” if you go the Brand X route like me. ;) and 3/4 cup of crushed Oreos. (No Brand X on the Oreos. No one can match the yumminess of the real thing.) If you use both chocolate and vanilla pudding, make sure you split the Cool-Whip between the two, (i.e. a quarter tub in each bowl). I usually only put Oreos into the chocolate pudding, but again – up to you. ;)

Set the pudding aside and lay out twelve small cups. Sprinkle more crushed Oreos into each one. Divide the pudding between the cups - layering, if you're using multiple flavors - and top with more Oreos. (Can you ever have enough Oreos? No, I don’t think so. ;)

Finally, divide your remaining Cool-Whip into twelve “ghosts” on the cup of each pudding cup. This part always makes me laugh because the ghosts on the Kraft website look so perfect while mine always come out…well, blobby, for lack of a better word. (I'm sure they'd look neater if you piped them on.) Each ghost gets a pair of chocolate chip eyes and you’re done! The recipe says to use miniature chocolate chips, which I never have because they never go on sale, so I just substitute the regular ones for a more “googly-eyed” look. But they are yummy either way.

Unfortunately, transporting Boo Cups is not nearly as easy as making them. Eek! I have this issue every year and every year I forget about it until it’s time to leave the house. You’d think I’d learn.

The party was about 45 minutes away, so I threw the Boo Cups in the freezer to stiffen them for the drive. I tried a bunch of different pans and covered dishes, but the only thing big enough was a metal crate that Bert uses to hold office supplies. Out with the pens! In with the Boo Cups!

I covered the bottom with foil, lined up the cups, and then threw in a roll of saran wrap to wedge them in. (The crate was a wee bit too big. Or maybe I just didn’t make enough cups. ;) And it worked! The Boo Cups were a little melty by the time we arrived, but we put them straight in the fridge and they were perfect by the time dessert rolled around. Success!

Mmmm… Make sure you give them a try! And Happy Halloween!

Cooking No. 9: French Press Coffee

Let me make a statement that has absolutely no bearing on my current physical condition: You know you are rockin’ the latent mommy skills when – at a terrible hour of the morning – you find yourself saying: “If you use the last one of something, you need to tell me, otherwise I won’t know to buy more.”

Welcome to the Carlton’s, circa 8 a.m. this morning, when Mr. C informed me that he used the last coffee filter yesterday morning. 10-4, Romeo. That is probably one of the last things I want to hear prior to my shower. (Another thing: “Nora barfed.” I heard that about three times this morning, when the resident feline decided to christen each room in her own special way.)

Fortunately, there’s more than one way to skin a cat in this household. (Pun utterly and completely intended. Nora has been an absolute brat this weekend.) I’m speaking, of course, of our French press. We almost had to whip it out for the first time last weekend during Irene, but the power came back on by the time we made it out of bed. (Don’t be a hater. I opened up the house for New England evacuees and no one came. You had options, just saying…) But in this story’s grand, ironic twist, having power for the coffee pot is irrelevant if you don’t have filters, so one of the shower presents we’d yet to open – believe it or not, there are still a few others – finally got its chance to shine.

Bert started off by coarsely grinding a fresh cup of beans. I was all for using the finer coffee I’d ground for the coffee pot, but Bert deemed me unqualified in the ways of the сafetière à piston and promptly went his own way. Granted, my one experience with a French press was an unfortunate episode in an English B&B that ended up with the grounds on the wrong side of the plunger and me wondering what all the ‘French press fuss’ was about, what with all the grounds floating around in your coffee. (This was the same trip I mistook a woman’s saltcellar for the sugar bowl and salted my coffee. Lesson Learned: When across the pond, drink tea.) So maybe he was playing it smart.

He followed up by boiling water in the kettle and letting the whole contraption seep for four minutes. Bert loves gizmos and gadgets – especially of the Bodum variety – so the whole process was really exciting for him. I was just excited when he handed me a cup of passable, ground-free coffee. It was a little cool – he was short on the boiled water and had to supplement it with some from the tap – but not too bad. Nothing the microwave couldn’t fix. Bert said he wouldn’t mind using the press more, but probably not during the week since it took awhile to clean up afterwards.

I wouldn’t mind using the press more either, but probably not before I’ve already had a cup of coffee. (I know, I know. My logic is terrible.) There’s something very romantic about a French press, but it’s a bit finicky, a bit too refined for a pre-caffeine activity. I have to time it? The grounds have to be on a certain side of the plunger? I can't just press a button? Sometimes in the morning, I put the cereal in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. There’s really no room for complicated rituals here.

So needless to say, I picked up a pack of filters on the way home from church. But if and when we run out again, it’s nice to know we have backup. Good, solid, ground-free backup.

Cooking No. 7

Mama V. came down for a visit this past week and brought us the cutest round watermelon and two bottles of Avery's soda - root beer for Bert and black cherry for moi. We usually don't drink much soda, but regardless, neither bottle lasted very long. So good! Apparently, if you visit Avery's bottling 'barn' in New Britian, you can make your own soda. How cool would that be?

Cooking No. 6

I haven’t written any cooking posts lately because, in the epic words of Mama V., “It is just too hot to cook.” I never really understood that statement until now, but can I just say (and you can quote me on this): my mother is absolutely right! Apparently (at least in my case), the correlation between a 350-degree oven and a hot, sticky, summertime kitchen does not make sense until you are actually the one preparing the food. Thankfully, Bert is quite happy subsisting on a diet of burgers, hot dogs, and pizza – basically, anything I don’t have to stand around and actually cook – but this week the Trophy Wife gene kicked in and I felt obliged to throw the poor guy a culinary bone.

A few months ago, when I was hanging out with my fellow almost-Trophy Wife Martha, I found this recipe in her magazine. (CT girlz got to stick together, ya know?) Due to the fact that I know absolutely nothing about chard other than it is green (which was more than Bert, who still recovering from his introduction to artichokes the night before), I wasn’t quite sure what a Sausage, Chard, and Lemon Lasagna would taste like, but the photo looked like a work of art and suckered me right in. Swiss chard, you've met your match!

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that epic. Chard seems to be some sort of glorified spinach. Compared to the trouble I had with leeks a few weeks back (Question: How do you cut a leek?), it was an absolute breeze. My real, unforeseen problem? Cooking the lasagna noodles.

I thought maybe I just needed a larger pot, but then I realized our largest pot still wouldn’t be big enough. Eventually they all just melted down on top of each other. That works too.

The rest of the recipe went fairly smoothly and my final product even came out looking somewhat like Martha’s, minus the pretty hand towel, luxury stone countertop, and browned cheese. (30 seconds into broiling the top, I remembered you can't broil Pyrex. So we made do with slightly-warm cheese.) The lasagna tasted great (Bert had seconds. That’s how I tell.) and I'd definitely make it again. The lemon gave it a nice tang and the sausage was a lot cheaper than more conventional ground beef.

Note to Future Cooking Self: When Martha tells you to use a "nonreactive baking dish," she is not trying to get you to run out to Macy's and pick up one of hers. What she really means is, "don't use a Pyrex dish, because it will shatter into a thousand pieces as soon as you stick it under the broiler."

Learned that one the hard way...

However, I’d like to argue with the stated prep time of “20 minutes.” Maybe if you’re working in a commercial kitchen with a crew of professional chefs and one of those fancy stoves that boil water in 30 seconds. If you’re more like me, working in a PA-fabulous kitchen with two feet of countertop and a stove that boils water in 15 minutes, the prep time stretches out closer an hour. (In Martha’s defense, I am also really challenged when it comes to lasagna noodle-wrangling. And I couldn’t find no-boil noodles, so I had to cook those too.) Also, I am always up for more cheese, but I am not a big fan of the Pepto. You heard me correctly: this recipe is not kind in the dairy department. I used 1% milk instead of the required whole and it was still way too creamy for me. Next time, I think I’ll cut the Parmesan down to ½ cup.

Cooking No. 5

It’s been kind of a slow week here in NEPA. Nora disappeared for twelve hours on Sunday and I ran myself into a four-hour nap yesterday (Note to Self: Righty the Lonely Thyroid is not up to that kind of exertion yet. Cool your jets and keep it down to the “walking to Dairy Queen” level.), but other than that, it’s been pretty quiet. So, in the interest of maintaining the dullness, I am going to write about – drum roll, please! – my stove.

Stove, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

Originally, I intended on writing this post in the form of a haiku. But then I remembered that I have not written a haiku since the second grade and even then it did not go so well. Seven year-old Sarah had trouble grasping the concept of syllables, but hid this fact by writing short, terse poems and trying to pass them off as art. (Was I a closet hipster even then? Perhaps.) Other elementary school concepts I had trouble grasping include: left and right, long and short vowels, and the correct pencil hold. Thankfully, all have been rectified except the latter, where I unfortunately still hold all my writing utensils with entirely way too many fingers and in a particularly cramped style. I can’t help it. I love the feeling of control.

Which may be, perhaps, why I love my new-to-me gas stove. The rest of my kitchen may be a disaster of 1970s proportion, but not my stove. (Okay, the fridge is also brand new, but it’s not exciting. It is your ordinary, everyday, “I will freezer burn your pirogis no matter how you cover them” fridge.) I’ve never cooked on gas before and, I’ll admit, I was a little nervous about it at first – the click-click-click always sounds vaguely bomb-like to me and my “safety switch” turned out to be the oven light – but now I’m hooked. There’s no turning back. I’ve gone to the Dark Side. If all my previous electric stoves were Geo Metros (Sorry, Dad.), than this bad boy has got to be somewhere on the “Designed for the Autobahn” level. It handles like a dream.

Granted, it has no timer, the stove top takes an eternity to boil water, and you need to disconnect the smoke alarm if you want the oven hotter than 400 degrees, but in every other facet of cooking that thing heats quickly, cools instantly, and increases my ability to cook by a factor of ten. (Or at least increases my coolness by a factor of ten. How can you not look awesome when you are cooking with fire?) How have I ever lived without a gas stove? Does everyone know about this? Perhaps I should have posted this under "New Thing of the Day" instead...

And in more exciting news, my mother and two of her sisters will be arriving tomorrow afternoon for a sleepover. If they can’t liven things up around here, no one can. Stay tuned!

Cooking No. 4

According to the 17^th century German mathematician and astronomer Johannes Kepler, the universe was created on this day in the year 4977 B.C. However (and much more importantly), according to the Social Security Administration, my maternal universe was created on this day in the year 195X A.D. That’s right, folks. Today is Mama V.’s birthday.

Mama V., showing off her mad trophy wife skills. She is the best pie baker in the entire Northeast.

As the designated “domestic” daughter, I volunteered to make her a birthday cake this past weekend. Last year, I made her a not-so-great Bundt cake, whose myriad of issues I tried to cover up with an entire bag of M&Ms, so this year I decided to kick it up a notch. Oh yes. You are correct. I went Martha on her.

If Martha Stewart were married, she would be the ultimate trophy wife. (As she is not, I will retain my title.) She is from Connecticut, obsessed with her pets, AND owns every cooking accoutrement ever known to womankind. (On a related sad note, my pizza cutter broke last night. I think this is the Lord’s way of telling me pizza was not meant to be served multiple times a week. Thankfully, now that it is getting warmer, I can switch over to hot dogs.) I am kind of obsessed with the magazine Martha Stewart Living, so when I received the May issue and saw the Sugar-and-Spice layer cake on page 125, I instantly knew Mama V.’s birthday warranted nothing less.

I woke up bright and early Saturday morning and set to work. Thankfully, Mama V. was gracious enough to let me make her birthday cake in her own kitchen, which was an absolutely luxury. Not only does she have more than two feet of linear counter space, but she is also stocked with baking exotics such as cake flour and unsalted butter. I think she is making a run for my title. She even has a sifter!

Mama V. buys the fancy eggs from happy chickens. <3 However, my hand mixer is better than hers. This gives me a certain amount of smug joy.

The spice cake batter was delicious and baked well for the most part. The recipe said to coat the pans, line them with parchment paper (Wonder of wonders – also something Mama V. had!), and then coat the paper. While this redundancy helped the cakes pop right out, it also made the edges uneven, so in hindsight I think I should have just gone overboard on the Crisco and flour.

I tackled the frosting Sunday morning before church, which was really not a great idea. Attempting your first four-layer cake ever on the holiest day of the year does not lead to particularly holy thoughts. The frosting recipe calls for mascarpone cheese – something I had never heard of before that took me 20 minutes to track down in Price Chopper and then almost killed me with its exorbitant price tag – so I had to get a little creative with its poor man’s cousin: cream cheese. Would it taste okay? Would it stand up on its own? (Even after a bumpy ride down the Merritt?) There was only one-way to find out: I had to put it through the dessert gauntlet.

My family specializes in desserts. On some occasions, our desserts outnumber our side dishes two to one. One person may be designated to bring dessert, but everyone will find some way to make an extra batch of cookies, brownies, cupcakes – you get the picture. If my cake could stand out among the many (or failed to garner a peep from Uncle Karl), I would consider it a success. As someone who is still too low on the family totem pole to be asked to bring things – Sister V. made it up to appetizers not too long ago – it was a stressful moment. Would Martha/my cake baking inexperience let me down?

Mama V., wondering if the baking gene was successfully passed down to her younger daughter. (She is not, however, wondering why she has a duck noisemaker around her neck. That was for the rest of us to figure out.)

The verdict? The cake was light, the frosting was not too sweet, and the jam didn’t make anything soggy. A success! It turned out to be a beautiful cake for a beautiful mommy. I love you, Mom. Thanks for teaching me all the trophy wife skills I know. I hope you had a wonderful day!

A gratuitous, embarrassing sister shot. She has dubbed my scar "gangsta." Don't you know it. (My cousin, on the other hand, informed me that I look like I've been murdered. I <3 my family.)

Cooking No. 3

I have a confession.

Actually, it’s not just my confession. I am confessing for every married, 20-something woman in America. Here goes:

Sorry, boys. We didn’t get married for you. We got married for this.

Yes, you saw that right. I do have one: the official proof of matrimonial registering: my 4.5 quart, 275 watt, Classic Plus Kitchen Aid Mixer (courtesy of an unstoppable sister/aunt duo). In white. (Unfortunately, Target does not sell it in “ice blue” aka close-enough-to-turquoise-to-make-me-happy. Otherwise, you know I would’ve been all over that.) And yes, my ultimate symbol of happy homemakerdom is still in its box. Buried under another box. (Bert’s monstrous Keurig – the masculine version of the Kitchen Aid?) And another box. Really, a whole closet full of boxes when you get down to it. Which we obviously haven’t.

It’s one of those things that “will get unpacked when we move.” Sigh. So why do I bring it up now, two weeks before we move to that TBD destination?

Because I decided I wanted to make bread. And I hate getting flour (and chalk dust, for that matter) on my hands. These two things are problematic, especially when your dirty-working machine is holding up the leaning tower of shower presents. (It was also problematic in second grade when every trip to the blackboard was followed by an OCD-induced trip to the bathroom to wash my hands, but I digress…)

So, I found a recipe that split the difference and satisfied all parties (my sidelined mixer and my neurosis): no-knead bread. Perfect! Who knew they even invented these things? (Bert didn’t either. “Don’t you need a bread machine to make bread?" <3)>

Result? The bread is definitely denser and more cake-like than a ‘kneaded’ bread, but to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not super picky about the consistency of my carbs. Just the quantity. And the taste, of course. This one's not too bad. Definitely worth a second bake!

Cooking No. 2

This post is dedicated to my sister, Erin, who, continuing her innumerable year streak of giving awesome presents, gave Drew and I these Crate & Barrel plates for Christmas.

We had tacos for dinner last night, which were remarkable only in my substitution of much cheaper ground chicken in place of the usual turkey. I didn’t even know they had invented ground chicken until a week ago and was a little concerned about the outcome, but they tasted, well, like chicken. Bert didn’t notice. (Or at least didn’t say anything.) I love taco seasoning. You can hide anything in that stuff.

Cooking No. 1

It is a well-known fact–somewhere up there with “The Earth is round” and “Massachusetts will always vote blue”–that my mother makes amazing pies. Incomparable pies. Epic pies. (She also makes soup of neighborhood-wide fame, but that is for another post.)

Her secret is the crust. She makes this perfect crust that’s earned her the honor of “making Thanksgiving Day dessert” for ten years running now. Everyone loves it and no one can duplicate it, so–of course–I decided to try.

Not purposefully, of course. I’ve tried to make piecrusts before. I know better than trying again. (In this case, perseverance would not be considered a virtue.) But sometime last week I decided I wanted to make a quiche. I found an old, college recipe–that I got from someone else and have never actually made before–skimmed it for the ingredients, and started off, willy nilly, without ever realizing the culinary trap that waited for me come Step 4.

“Pour in a cooled crust?” What?! The recipe didn’t say anything about making said crust. Obviously, it forgot my Home Ec teacher hated foreigners and consciously sabotaged my cooking education. (Or maybe that was because I refused to stop cutting things in her Teflon pans. Whatev.) Cue a frantic call to Mama V., who emailed me her top-secret recipe stat.

Said recipe contains a grand total of three ingredients carefully chosen to torture you in every physical, emotional, and spiritual way possible. “Don't overwork it,” she said. “Just until it holds nicely together.”

Uh huh. Okay. This advice created a floury ball of quasi-dough, flakier than, well, a Flake that smelled somewhat like the homemade play dough little Sarah use to make in her craftier moments, i.e. it was going nowhere fast.

Following Mama V.’s supplemental advice, I added more water. It started gellin’ and made it to the pie plate in mostly one–albeit too small–piece. (Why yes, that is a turquoise Fiestaware pie plate! Hello fellow dish snobs!)

Baking the thing was a whole ‘nother issue. Do you grease the pie plate? Do you not? The particulars of crust baking are not covered in architecture school. (I went out on a limb and didn’t. It was fine.) Mama V. said to bake it for 8-10 minutes. I ended up leaving it in there for a solid 15 and still wasn’t sure if that was enough. (It wasn’t quite the called for “golden brown”–more like a “pasty beige.”) But whatev. I figured the second round in the oven with the quiche would kill any remaining germies.

By the time the second oven round rolled around, I was very much looking forward to the simpler meals I’ve planned for the rest of the week. The quiche took about twenty minutes longer than it should have to cook and all my attempts to convince Bert that it DID contain microscopic bits of bacon failed. (But he still gave it the thumbs up. What a dear. :)

The quiche was alright. You could barely taste the crust under the combined clout of four eggs and multiple ounces of cheese. (But I imagine it was delicious!) Will I make it again? Eh, maybe. If I have time. And the bacon. And my mother. :)