Suck on this, Pioneer Woman

OR
I Actually Can Cook One Thing Well
OR
This is My Mac-n-Cheese Recipe for the Ladies at Muskrat's Birthday Party

I once documented, on this very blog, my frustration over cooking. Go ahead. Read it. I'll be here when you get back.

I've also railed to the gods above, on Facebook, how much I hate cooking. I despise the whole process. I don't like choosing the recipe, then having to slog to the grocery store, coming home and putting it all away. Then there's the whole "trash your kitchen" thing and the entire "grease up your stove" bit and let's not forget the "dripping in the oven" nonsense. And when I'm all finished and the dishes are set before my diners (read: husband and/or mother and/or kids), I typically get a Meh response.

I'm not a cook. I can't taste a gravy or a sauce or a meat or a something and tell you Needs more this. Nope. And I don't enjoy the process at all. I guess you could say I'm more of a chemist repeating someone else's experiment. As far as I'm concerned, if a recipe book has gone through the trouble of being, oh, I don't know, published, then that means the recipes have gone through a test kitchen, have been tasted, and are good to go (translation: no one in the test kitchen barfed or made funny faces and everyone gave it a thumbs-up).

Somehow, though, when those well-thought-out recipes get to my humble kitchen, the chemistry has gone pear-shaped and that teaspoon of cumin should have probably only been a half teaspoon. It's magic, people, dark magic, that's afoot.

People share their recipes with me and, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, I'm just terrified to fix them because they'll turn out awful. I even visited the Pioneer Woman's web site for a pot roast recipe because people rave about her cooking prowess. For some reason, I've been searching for the perfect pot roast. It's my recipe holy grail to find the one pot roast recipe that delivers juicy red meat that is flavorful and not tough.

I fixed Ree's pot roast and was horribly depressed over the whole affair.

At any rate, there is ONE thing I can cook that is rather smashing. Macaroni and cheese. And it isn't even my recipe. It's from a cookbook. But not just any cookbook. Allow me to further bore you.

One of my favorite authors is Lilian Jackson Braun. She wrote a series of 29 books known as "The Cat Who..." mysteries and in said books, she described the most wonderful meals. Each time I would read one of her books, in addition to trying to solve the mystery before the main character, Jim Qwilleran, I wished desperately to step into his world and have a slice of Mrs. Cobb's coconut cake (Sidenote: Mrs. Cobb is Qwilleran's housekeeper) or to sit down with the protagonist and his cats for a plate of Polly's tuna sandwiches. Everything always sounded so mouth-watering.

And then, one day, browsing the cooking section, there it was. A cookbook based on the food in The Cat Who... books. A couple of crazy Lilian Jackson Braun superfans had come up with recipes for nearly every dish she ever mentioned in her books. I snagged the cookbook and raced home and immediately thumbed to the page titled "Mrs. Cobb's Macaroni and Cheese." This was the stuff of Cat Who legend. Whispered through the hallowed pages was Mrs. Cobb's mac-n-cheese recipe, how she made it taste just so, what was her secret ingredient that made this dish so very special. Here was the mac-n-cheese she made for Qwilleran that he would delight in eating and then freeze leftovers of it for rainy days in with his Siamese cats Koko and Yum-Yum. I HAD to make it.

And I did. And it was glorious. And it's the one page this book automatically falls open to each time I retrieve it. I make it for special occasions and a few of my friends have taken to calling it "Der's Mac-n-Cheese." Muskrat's 39th birthday party yesterday was just such an occasion to dust off the measuring spoons and bowls, and I'm proud to say that Mrs. Cobb and I came through once again. I challenge all of you to whip it up this next week and give me a verdict. Like? Love? Meh?

And if you love it, make sure you share it. Goodness knows there are other "chemists" like me who are out there, fighting the good fight, and feeling like cooking failures. Give them this recipe, pat them on the shoulder, and tell them there is hope.

Mrs. Cobb's Macaroni and Cheese
6 cups water
1 ¾ cups elbow macaroni
⅓ cup chopped onion
1 tbsp + 4 tbsp butter, melted
1 tsp dry mustard
1 tsp salt
⅛ tsp black pepper
⅛ tsp red pepper
2 cups + 1 cup shredded extra sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
½ cup sour cream
¼ cup half-and-half
3 eggs, beaten slightly
3 tbsp dry white wine (Mrs. Cobb's secret ingredient)

Preheat oven to 350-degrees. Bring water to a boil. Add macaroni, stirring occasionally to separate elbows. Bring to a boil again; reduce heat to medium. Cook, uncovered, until tender - about 10 minutes. Drain. Sauté onion in 1 tbsp of the butter. Stir onion while adding the mustard, salt, and peppers. Set aside. In another bowl, combine 2 cups cheddar cheese, mozzarella cheese, 4 tbsp melted butter, sour cream, half-and-half, and eggs. Combine macaroni, onion mixture, cheese mixture, and wine. Place in greased dish. Sprinkle top with 1 cup cheddar cheese. Bake 35 minutes.

The Particular Sadness of My Kitchen

I recently read The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake* (A pretty good book with an interesting story line that will keep you engaged if you can overlook the staggering lack of quotation marks, which, quite frankly, made me want to RIP OUT the author's larynx. But, I'm cool. It's aaaaallll good.) and wondered what people would discover about me through my cooking.

And that's when I remembered... I don't cook! I suck at cooking. My cooking? Bad for your health.

OK, OK, I'll be honest. There are a week's worth of meals I know how to cook without making people gag and run for the hills. But? Overall? I'm not good at it. Deep down, I'm a recipe-literalist. If a recipe says 1/4 teaspoon of this and 1 cup of that, then I'm putting in 1/4 teaspoon and 1 cup, no more, no less. I don't experiment and I certainly don't know what spices or vegetables make which meats taste better or worse. I'm clueless! I'm at the mercy of the recipe and what it says goes for me. It drives me nuts when my mom, a.k.a. Martha Stewart, Jr., will tell me "dash" of salt or "pinch" of nutmeg. NO! Absolutely not! Don't give me that bovine crap. Do you know I actually found measuring spoons that are labeled pinch, dash, and smidge? Yeah. That's how desperate I am. I use a kitchen conversation piece in my mother's cooking.

And when I get excited and try a new recipe that my loved ones deem Meh, could use more 'insert ingredient here'. I lock up. What's the point in slaving over a stove full of new-recipe-food, after a day of herding kids, laundry, dishes, and toys, when the end result is going to be Welllllll..... I've even tried the simple pot roast. Easy, right? A slab of meat, some salt, pepper, dry onion soup mix, water, brown that sucker on all sides, put it in the crock and pot and GO! Wrong. Turns out dry and tasteless every time, no matter what combination I attempt. After all that, the kitchen is then trashed and everyone's taste buds go to bed unimpressed and I couldn't care less if I ever touch another cookbook or skillet again.

So, if I actually did cook on a regular basis, and any of you had the talent of the young girl in The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, you would most likely taste the following:

frustration - that I have to cook
irritation - that I've spilled yet another ingredient on the floor
fatigue - that it's the end of the day and I wish some one else would fix this food
anger - that it's all going to turn out Meh after all that work

Anybody want to send me some flash-frozen casseroles?

*BTW? Not a paid post. So, suck it FTC!

My Father-in-Law Hates Me

I love my father-in-law (a.k.a. Chuck). Truly. We're both physicists, we laugh at the same jokes, and we share similar opinions.

But the man needs to quit bringing raisins into my house.

When Chuck found out that I disliked raisins, grits, and fried okra, he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and mumbled under his breath. He then proceeded to sneak raisins into muffins, waffles, cookies. No food was safe.

And now, he's brainwashing my children. He and my mother-in-law took care of the kids Wednesday night and I came home to find the above Raisinets on the kitchen counter. OK, fine, the kids were safe and sound, fed and asleep, the toys were cleaned up, and the dishes were washed.

But... RAISINETS! ON MY KITCHEN COUNTER! TAINTING MY HOME WITH THEIR CHEWY, CHOCOLATE ICKINESS!

The man has gone too far. This is war.

Chuck, there's a plate of sugar-coated green tomatoes, fried in bacon grease, waiting on my kitchen counter for you.

Love, Me

Kitchen Porn

Two years ago the Pampered Chef mafia forced me to purchase one of these. And honestly? It's awesome. I use it to simultaneously core and slice apples as well as pears, and it takes me all of two seconds to fix fruit for the kids' lunches and dinners.

But the pears. Oh, the pears. Whenever I core/slice a Bosc pear? The core? It's well...

Glory be, but I think my kitchen might need an NC-17 rating:


I'm just sayin'...

What's Shakin' Bacon?

Almost two months ago, there was this big happening called a Republican National Convention. Yeah, I didn't know about it either (sarcastic, much?). And did you know it was held in Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota? Don't ya know? And I remember hearing about a bunch of reporters from various cable news outlets taking in the Minnesota State Fair during said convention. And from what I understand, Minnesotans will eat almost anything fried or coated in chocolate or both. And what was the thang being munched with much gusto?

Chocolate-covered bacon.

So then Adam Heath Avitable, with his candy fetish, went all wuss and tried out a chocolate-bacon candy bar. He? Was not impressed. That's because I think he did it all wrong. If you're going to eat chocolate-covered bacon, you need to eat the bacon fresh outta da frying pan. And the chocolate needs to be dark, gooey, and warm. None of this hard, cold candy bar crap.

Enter the following photo essay*:


It's all about center-cut bacon, baby. Yum!


And if you're going to dip center-cut bacon into chocolate, then it needs to be dark chocolate fondue from the Melting Pot.


The Ty-man was unconvinced that this was a good idea. But, as he pointed out to me, not only can he bring home the bacon, but he can also fry it up in a pan, and still remind me on a daily basis that he is, indeed, a man.**


The dark-chocolate fondue is gooey and ready to go! Doesn't this just scream "BACON!"


Let the dipping begin, people! (Pay no attention to my nasty hair. Stop it! I said pay no attention!)


I know what you're thinking. "Is she constipated? Is she cutting a big one? Is she going to barf? WHAT?!?" What's happening is that I'm reconciling the salty, meaty, slightly-burnt goodness of the bacon with the sweet, gooey goodness of the chocolate. People? Hershey's and Mars need to market this as an impulse-candy-buy that you nuke before eating so that it's warm when it hits your tongue. Because this? Was the pork-y, sweet, chocolate-y, salty equivalent of crack. I'm sure of it!


The Ty-man finally gave in and tried some. His verdict? "Yep. That tastes like chocolate-covered bacon." Well, no shit Sherlock. But it's AWESOME! RIGHT?!? My husband, the king of understatement.


So the verdict from our maison? Two thumbs up, baby.*** Git sum!

*Thought about doing a video, but I hate my voice. Sorry peeps.
**Yes, folks, he did say that. And told me to tell you all. I love my dorky hubby.
***That's one thumb from me and one from Ty-man. He was taking the picture and couldn't hold up his thumb. And I? Was holding my fourth piece of chocolate-covered crack. I wasn't about to drop it for a second thumb-up.

Sunday Worship

Sundays are my day of rest, my day to get away from the kids, the house, the Ty-man, the dishes, and so on. You get the picture. My Sundays typically begin with sleeping in for two blessed hours. Unless, of course, I'm at the WellStar emergency clinic with Miss-Miss who, it turns out, has a wicked case of strep throat. I can't figure out how she got it. It's not like she's been licking door handles or - oh wait, maybe she was. Whoops!

After joking with the pharmacist about needing five prescription bottles of amoxicillin instead of just one since every one of us will probably have this crap by the end of the week, I dropped a fussy Miss-Miss off at the house (have fun, Ty-man!) and I was off!

First, it was the Marietta Greek Festival and some damned good food:


Oh, yeah. I gorged. "Yes, I'd like Sampler #1 with a Greek salad." But, ma'am, Sampler #1 already comes with a salad. "I know. Give me another one." Hee hee!

Then, it was over to the Church of the Holy Transfiguration:


I took the church tour and discovered this beautiful example of iconographic art:


This gorgeous oak carving:


And this area behind the altar:


It's the "holy of holies" where only the priests and altar boys can go. Hmmmm, gotta figure out how to get back there next year. I then made a small donation for a candle. Me, a deist, lit a candle for my atheist cousin-in-law and brand-new mommy. Holy Transfiguration? Expect a lightning storm later tonight.

Then? It was down to the pastry tent for some loukoumades:


These are also known as "Krispy Kreme doughnut holes on crack." Well, that's what I call deep-fried pastry balls dipped in honey and served by plump, happy Greek women. I chowed down, listened to some Greek music, and left my pancreas panting in the chair beside me. Poor thing was worn out after that sugar rush.

Now that I had stuffed myself silly, it was time to shop for a new dress. Seriously. Isn't that the best time to go shopping? When you're belly is poking out from the loukoumades, rice, chicken, lamb, spanikopita, and - well you get the picture.

I finally found the dress. But? It's a surprise for the Ty-man. So, Ty-man, don't click here. Everyone else? Feel free to take a peek. Finding this dress was a torturous affair. I no longer have a size 0/2, pre-kid body that can wear cute, kicky clothes. I have more of a size 8 (which is actually a size 12 since manufacturers adjusted the numbers to make our 21st century obese society feel better about themselves) post kids, no hips, flabby belly, dimpled thighs type of body that only looks good in denim skorts and Old Navy t-shirts of various colors. Ish. Was that too much information? Bad mental picture? Me, too.

But, I have decided that I shall now buy all my clothes at Coldwater Creek because their sizing? Makes me a size 4. Yeah. That's what I said. I figure if I keep eating Greek-festival-style I can be a size 0 again by 2012! Woo hoo!

Finally, I took a drive over to the local cinema to watch the 135-minute long epileptic seizure known as Speed Racer. Whew. Um... yeah. I got nothin'.

And that's enough randomness for today. I'm off to shoot up some insulin and re-think what I'm going to eat for the next week or two.

Spotted... What?

A while back, my buddy Adam Heath Avitable fulfilled a boyhood dream when a friend sent him a package of Turkish Delight. You know, that stuff that Edmund in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe goes nuts for, the stuff the White Witch uses to entice Edmund. When it's described in the book, it just sounds sooooo good. Well, according to Avitable, the actual Turkish Delight was horrible, as was the follow-up experience with chocolate-covered Turkish Delight.

So, what did I learn from this experience? British snack food cannot be trusted.

Have I heeded this lesson learned through Avitable? No.

Enter spotted dick.


Oh, yes. I kid you not. Raisin sponge pudding is called "spotted dick." I so couldn't pass this up.


The instructions are to insert a knife between the edge of the pudding and the can, run the knife around the pudding (and it's not even a pudding as we Americans imagine pudding - it's a cake, you nutter Brits - CAKE!), plop it out on a plate, and pop it into the microwave for two minutes.


Yeah, that's Mom, who was kind enough to participate in this ill-fated venture. She's not too sure.

The first taste?


Meh.

Mom's opinion?

Meh².

Bland. Totally bland as hell. Only the Brits could make a raisin sponge cake, call it pudding, name is after a diseased sexual organ, and after all that, make it taste like crap.

So, the aftermath?


I can honestly say that I'm good if I never have another bite of spotted dick, especially spotted dick from a can (wow, that sounds nasty), in my life.

Avitable? Back to you.

Leave the Kid, Take the Cannolis

So, we're at Ippolito's last night, celebrating the FIL's (a.k.a. Chuck) birthday. By the way, he turned 35 yesterday. Seriously! :-) Of course, we took the kids, who charmed the pants off everyone. Anyhoo, after our delectable meal of pasta and garlic rolls (garlic rolls that I would sell my soul for!), three of us received Ipp's special chocolate chip cannolis. Yum! Good and extremely sweet. As we packed up to leave, I noticed the couple behind us had also ordered the cannolis.

"You know, " I joked, "those are horrible! We'll take them off your hands so you don't have to deal with that nastiness."

They chuckled, replied "Suuuurrrreeee, right, whateva!" and it was a pleasant laugh. I figured I should joke with them because getting three kids ready to leave a restaurant can be traumatic, with much bumping of chairs, and I wanted to warm them up to us before we inadvertently caused bodily harm with flailing arms and car seats.

As we were walking out, the lady commented, pointing toward J-man, "If I had known about that little cutie when you offered to take our cannolis, I would have said sure and offered a trade!"

Now, I have no prejudice against those who are obese. I have family and friends who are or have been obese. To me, it's just a physical state of being and whether you choose to be that way or can't help it, whatever. That doesn't define who you are. But, when this woman said that, a woman who was definitely morbidly obese, the only reply my brain could dredge up was, "Trade the cannoli for the kid?!? Are you kidding?!? He's a baby, NOT FOOD!"

Thankfully my smart-ass filter kicked in before I uttered the above. I instead said, "He is a cutie at that!" and walked on. Whew!

Yes, the evil, twisted part of me is just below the surface. Fear it.

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Hooking up with Not Afraid To Use It tonight at the Cheesecake Factory. Yum! Incriminating pictures to follow upon the 'morrow!