meat....sauce

Don't ask me why exactly, but it seems oddly appropriate that one of my first post-hiatus recipe recaps is basically about how I totally failed at recreating something seemingly simple. Probably a sign that Sunday is a night for either takeout or frozen pizza, and not something as ambitious as meatballs, especially when the ground beef is frozen solid, it's already 6pm, and you have two hungry, grumpy boys waiting to be fed. 

But of course I thought to myself I've been cooking up a storm lately. Meatballs? From a recipe that I've made before? Child's play. 

So off to a very crowded Harris Teeter I went with one of the aforementioned grumpsters (whom I love dearly, and who would also admit that he was grumpy, so I'm not exactly telling tales out of school here). We foraged for supplies. He talked me out of taking the time to make sauce from scratch. We braved the epic lines. I did my best to whip up dozens of meatballs in record speed. 

We ended up eating this: 

 

Do you see any meatballs? No, you do not. See, this overly confident girl got a little too frenzied in the kitchen (and some red wine on an empty stomach may also be to blame), and didn't fully braise the meatballs before they cooked in the store-bought sauce (note that I'm still shuddering at my lack of homemade sauce). So instead of being appropriately firm, the meatballs fell apart the minute you so much as touched them. Instead of trying to salvage them, I crushed them all up, and we had meat sauce instead of meatballs.

However, I can still wholeheartedly recommend this recipe, including the whole "make your own sauce" bit, because I whipped it up on Election Night back in November for sustenance as we watched the results trickle in.  I even forgot to add the egg to the meatball mixture that time, and they held up fine. So, follow the instructions and braise those babies. If you do, you'll get something much more like this: 

Note: grumpy, hungry boys, I learned, will eat either in mere seconds. So don't worry if you're as impatient and screw-up prone as me. 

patio picnic

On Tuesday, I went to the ballet with a few friends. As you'd expect, food and drinks are ridiculously overpriced in places like the Kennedy Center, and so while we've subjected ourselves to the price gouging before, we decided this time, we'd have a picnic in which be brought our own food. 

We weren't entirely sure of the Kennedy Center's policy on such things (we knew you couldn't take anything in to the theaters, but the lobby?), but decided to risk it. It just so happened that Tuesday and Wednesday of this week boasted temperatures in the high 60s, so we ended up enjoying our picnic on the patio and didn't need to worry at all about getting nabbed with mini bottles of champagne inside the lobby.

It was such a perfect day to sit on the expansive stone patio overlooking the Potomac, watching the last touches of pink fade from the sky. Once it got dark, you could see all the lights from the surrounding neighborhoods, and stare at the innumerable flights floating in to National airport. Although we're wearing our coats in this picture, it was actually beyond balmy by January standards. I love it.

 

I had a really busy few days, so I didn't manage to bring anything too creative to eat or drink. Instead I just picked up a pre-made noodle concoction from TJ's, and a few mini bottles of champagne and some OJ from a store near my building. I had every intention of a homemade touch coming in the form of these peanut butter nutella cookies, but they were a bit of a flop.

When I first found the recipe and read through the comments, I was aware of the potentially dry dough situation, but wasn't prepared for what I ended up with. My dough was a crumbly mess, even after the prescribed 15 minutes in the fridge. I tried my best to form the dough in to balls and press them on the parchment paper as suggested, but that's pretty much how the cookies remained. They never flattened out, and the resulting cookie was just...odd.

My friends ate a few and claimed they were tasty, but I was underwhelmed. Adding insult to injury, I also set off the smoke detector in my apartment for the second time in as many weeks, which is a horrifyingly harsh experience. I think the issue is the parchment paper, which I also used when I made the ginger spice molasses cookies and set of the smoke alarm. But really how do you get around that? Guess I need to add silpat mats to my birthday wish list...

you win some, you lose some

I generally don't successfully bake and cook all in one night. If I cook something resembling a grown up meal, dessert is a few spoonfuls of brown sugar in a bowl (no, really, I eat it straight...weird, but delicious and satisfying). If I go on a baking spree, I'll probably have a bowl of cheerios for dinner. 



Last night was a bowl of cheerios night, I'm afraid. I say "I'm afraid" because let's just say my pants are fitting a little tighter than I'd like these days, and the last thing I need is (multiple) dessert(s) for dinner. I also declared it a cheerios night with some trepidation given my latest "final hurrah" project. Being elbow deep in sugar means I won't really have time to make a dent in the meat supply in my freezer. And with my Vegas road trip looming, my self-imposed vegetarian experiment is also quickly approaching. 



But I was determined to come back from the sweetened condensed milk failure of last week and finally make Hello Dolly bars. I also somehow got it in my head that I need to make a mini apple crisp. I have some aging apples in my fridge, and DC is experiencing an early taste of fall, so it just seemed right. And I had been looking for an excuse to use the mini red pie pans I picked up at World Market ages ago. 


So when I came across this recipe for apple crisp after minimal searching and comparing, I immediately knew I had to pick it. See, it calls for flour OR finely crushed graham crackers. The Hello Dolly bars also call for crushed graham crackers. If two recipes can benefit from the same ingredient being whirled around in my (wait for it) mini food processor, sign me up. I really, really hate doing dishes. It takes away a small percentage of the post-stress baking satisfaction.  

After what was supposed to be a quick, frugal trip to a newly discovered Harris Teeter near my apartment, I came home with an hour less of my life and a lot less money in my pocket (never again will I go to the HT after accidentally having skipped lunch). Bowl of cheerios in my shaking, food deprived little hands, I started with the Hello Dollys...

butter + graham cracker crumbs 

(may or may not have scarfed down what didn't fit in the pan)

I really dislike coconut, but in the spirit of high school dessert nostalgia, I went for it

Mmmm, chopped pecans

a whole slew of chocolate and butterscotch

and finally, sweetened condensed milk 

(which I am convinced is the crucial ingredient)

So how did they turn out? I am really disappointed to say that they came out all wrong. See, Smitten Kitchen's recipe didn't specify how to layer the ingredients, so I just put them down in the order they were listed. Big mistake. If I had to do it again (and I most likely will try them again as I hate to admit defeat), I'd miss the coconut, pecans, and chocolate and butterscotch chips all together, then throw them over the crust. They taste ok, or at least ok enough to eat straight from the pan at 3am (I'm having some serious insomnia these days), but they just aren't spot on. All my hopes were pinned on the crisp at that point. 
 

chopped fuji apple in a lemon, sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon bath

butter, dark brown sugar, and graham cracker crumb crust

finished product + a baby scoop of ice cream

The crisp was definitely the success story of the night. Perfect size, perfect flavors, perfect maiden voyage of the mini pie pan. Surprisingly I'm not in some sort of sugar coma today, although I do feel like I need to brush my teeth a few extra times to stave off cavities...

lake of caramel

I'm spending some time at home for all sorts of reasons, none of which are worth really discussing.  But let's just say that I found myself frighteningly close to purchasing a one-way ticket to Italy and/or volunteering for a stint in a war zone, and I knew it was time to take a little break. Luckily my bosses were really generous about the whole thing, and so here I sit, "relaxing" at home.   


Relaxing gets the quotation marks, because I'm not the best at chilling out, and there have been some...exciting...moments since I got home. 


Saturday we had some friends over for dinner.  Right before I jumped in the car to drive home Friday, I tossed Fiona in the back seat.  She was a horrible car companion, very boring and quiet, but I knew she'd redeem herself making salted caramel ice cream (a special request from Mom).  


Making the ice cream batter went much smoother than my first attempt, which probably had something to do with having an extra set of hands in the kitchen.  When it was time to churn the batter, though, Fiona and I had our first spat.  


I left everyone on the patio chatting to quickly toss the batter in the machine.  I was obviously not thinking straight, or was just really excited for ice cream, because I neglected a hugely important step.  I DIDN'T PUT THE BOWL ON THE BASE.  So I turned the machine on and started pouring the batter in to the base of the machine.  Luckily I realized what I'd done before I poured in every last drop, but it was still a huge mess. There was suddenly a lake of caramel in the kitchen, and I was so ill. 


I poured as much batter as possible back in the mixing bowl, cleaned Fiona up as best I could, pulled the churning bowl from the freezer and set it on the base, and tried again.  It worked (as you can assume most things will when you do them CORRECTLY), but I was worried I may've gunked up the motor.  So while I fumed, Mom got to work cleaning with a paper towel/wooden skewer contraption...

Thankfully neither the ice cream nor Fiona seemed to suffer from my total idiocy.  In fact, it was completely amazing scooped over brownies and "lacey" cookies...

I only wish I could have enjoyed it more, but I haven't been feeling well at all. In fact, I pretty much convinced myself that I've acquired an ulcer.  Whether it's an ulcer or my first brush with heartburn in my entire life, my esophagus hurts like nothing I've ever felt before (and no, there is no logical correlation to my eating habits).  Subsequently my appetite has taken a nose dive.  In what I can only imagine is a logical next step, I spent most of yesterday extremely dizzy.  Even I, one of the most anti-doctor people ever, was ready to go to urgent care first thing this morning. 


And then the dog groomer called us early this morning to let us know our dog had a huge bruise on her throat. Since I'm home and the parents are at work, I got to pick her up from the groomer and take her to the vet. It turns out I'll make one nervous mother if I ever have kids, because I was especially worried. The vet assured me that Gracie is fine (apparently dogs, like humans, bruise when they have blood work done, and she had just had her annual vet appointment Saturday). Still not sure if I'm fine, though, as I've now talked myself out of my own trip to urgent care. 


I'm here for another week, but I'm hoping we've gotten all of the excitement over within my first few days, or I'm going to go back to DC just as strung out as I was when I left...

the black cat in the kitchen

I'm a pretty superstitious person, particularly when flying is involved, but it also extends to my everyday life.  So when I wear something and have a horrible experience, I'm convinced the article of clothing is at fault.

My earliest memory of this phenomenon is this day right here: 

My first day of fifth grade at our new elementary school in North Carolina.  I was already slightly convinced, even at age 10, that my life was over when we had to move to a small town in NC.  Apparently I was a city girl from birth, and did not take well to the news that we would be leaving Atlanta for good.  

Even though we were living in a hotel while our house in NC was being built, the parents tried to keep things otherwise normal for us.  Which included an annual shopping trip to find a nice "first day of school" outfit.  Obviously I was really feeling plaid back in fall of '96.  At least I can say I was a solid 15 years ahead of the print on print trend.  (And apparently anemically cold? A coat in August in NC is a pretty hilariously illogical choice)

Let's just say my fellow classmates did not appreciated my forward-thinking fashion statement. My prim plaid skirt, stockings (again, in August in NC? really?), and nice black loafer-y shoes were met with blatant stares from my jorts-clad fellow fifth graders.  I'm pretty sure I went home (err, to the hotel) that night and tried to convince my parents to move back to Georgia.

Since then, I've had some pretty unfortunate moments with other articles of clothing.  I'm especially convinced, for example, that this great black and gray striped sweater dress from French Connection is cursed.  I've worn it at least three times, and two of the three ended in spectacularly bad fashion (no pun intended).  

But I digress.  This is a food blog.  And I am now convinced that it's not just clothes that are cursed.

No, friends, I recently realized recipes are, too.  

See, way back at the beginning of Lent, I was as on top of my cooking situation as I will ever hope to be.  There were week-long meal plans and strategic grocery shopping.

As part of this plan, I was to make chili garlic pork in the crock pot one day.  That day will forever be known as that night I ate wine for dinner.  Not being a big fan of failure, I always planned on replicating the dish, but without the whole charred pork aftertaste.  

So this past Thursday, I realized I had a pork shoulder in the freezer that would be the perfect size to share.  I convinced Allie to revisit our Friday night dinners from Lent, and we planned to have the spicy pork, some sort of adventurous rice, and chili garlic edamame (not that we have an unhealthy love for either red pepper or garlic). 

Imagine my disappointment when I woke up Friday, stumbled into the LKTC to make coffee, and spotted the pork shoulder SITTING ON MY COUNTER.  Yes, that's right people, I left that stupid piece of pork on the counter all. night. long.  Gross.  

I complained heartily to Allie about my newfound chili garlic pork curse, and she came to the rescue with this red pepper risotto recipe from the Pioneer Woman blog.  

yes, it's as good as it looks.  no, it's better. 

Feeling terrible for suggesting Friday dinner then ruining the protein, I brought chicken over, coated it in this Moroccan spice mix, and turned out a batch of the chili garlic edamame while we waited for everything to cook.  Not the most conventional mix of flavors, but it worked just fine for us.  In fact, I'm pretty thrilled to be eating the leftovers as I type this.      

    turns out you should read your edamame bag closely prior to purchase if you want the pod AND the bean. who knew?

  

We obviously did not go hungry Friday night, but I'm now I'm consumed with successfully making that stupid pork, and any other cursed recipe that crosses my path.  Heck, maybe I'll make the bad luck pork while I'm wearing the bad luck striped dress.  Two cursed things have to cancel each other out, right? 

a three-utensil meal

(happy wedding to my childhood buddy, cousin matt!) 

Hey friends (or should I say "hey friends who are still reading after a lengthy hiatus from updating this captivating blog"...).  So, I could try and convince you that I've been distracted because last week was full of unpleasant things like needles and flying, but, we all know I'm just a big lazy pants.  I'm working on it (she says from her perch on the couch).  


But really, life has been more hectic than usual.  There are some work things going on that I can't talk about just yet, so, stay tuned for that.  But there was also the minor little event that took place last weekend to keep me away from the computer.


My cousin got hitched down in Atlanta, and the whole clan converged on the DoubleTree Friday afternoon to kick off the festivities.  It was an exhausting whirlwind, although I'm not sure why...it's not like a)I did anything other than eat copiously and wear pretty dresses, or b)I was the one who got married.  I blame it on the flight-related mini-panics, and a particularly grating MARTA ride back to the airport on Sunday.  Any time I overhear a conversation that starts with "yeah, me and my cell mate" when I'm stuck in a tiny train car underground, I get a little squirmy.  But all panic aside, I think we all had a great time, and while it's so very weird to see my childhood buddy stand up at the altar and say "I do," I'm very happy for he and his wife (um, we're 25, we are too young for these words, right?).    


Anyways, there's something a tiny bit glamorous about throwing half a dozen cocktail dresses and a pair of platform heels in a carry-on and jumping on a flight, but there is nothing at all glamorous about returning home to "real life."  And by "real life" I mean not being able to use your bathroom because the management arbitrarily decides to re-plaster and re-paint it.  Or finding a container coated in rotten cilantro in the fridge (I really never miss having a dishwasher until situations like that arise).  Upside? I've been meaning to streamline my tupperware collection, and I subsequently felt little guilt just popping the cilantro afflicted piece straight into the garbage. 


Also decidedly unglamorous? My return to the LKTC.  I guess it can't be designated as glamorous or otherwise, because it hasn't really even happened. Monday I joined some friends in exploiting the $1 hotdogs and peanuts at the Nats game (just don't ask us how much the tickets or beers cost us...sore subject).  Tuesday I had two separate friends cook for me (yep, about as sweet as it sounds, more on that in a future post).  And yesterday following an extended happy hour, the poor camel's back (aka my little stomach) succumbed to the final straw of poor diet.  


At that happy hour, I mixed wine and cheese/chili coated nachos.  I don't even like nachos!  I'm just a real sucker for bad bar food once I've had about .3 glasses of wine.  Needless to say, the aforementioned stomach had just about had enough of my abysmal eating lately.  With the exception of two-dinner Tuesday, I've really been putting my body through the wringer.  It hasn't been all hotdogs and nachos, but, I've been far from consistent when it comes to eating meals at all, not to mention healthy ones.  I spent most of last night convinced I was dying, or at the very least that dying would be preferable to the pain my stomach was experiencing.  


So especially when I found out my happy hour plans tonight fell through, I was relieved to come home and eat something healthy-ish.  (By the way, if I add peas to it, I generally believe that tips the scales in the healthy direction...my standards could probably use some tweaking).  Then I realized that meant I had to cook something healthy.  Blast.  I did an admirable job of procrastinating (amazing what you can find on hulu) before I peeled myself off the couch and headed for the LKTC. 


Maybe I'm just out of practice, but I had a very hateful dinner-making experience.  First of all, I hadn't defrosted anything of the protein variety, so that was a real downer.  Then I managed to overcook said hastily defrosted protein because I have an exaggerated fear of food poisoning.  While I was letting disaster happen in the oven, I got a little overambitious and decided to make quinoa with peas and corn.  Have you ever cooked with quinoa?  If so, I'm going to need some advice on how to wash that crap.  Because I failed in a laughable fashion. There was quinoa all over me, the sink, and several different measuring devices.  But seriously, it's TEE TINY, so you can't just put it in a colander like you would with most things that need rinsing.  I mean, it all came out fine, but I'm convinced there has to be a better method than inadvertently giving myself a quinoa bath every time I want to cook it.  


But by God, despite the disasters, I had a three-utensil meal.  This is something I take such pathetic pride in because most of the things I cook for myself usually fit in one bowl and can be eaten with one utensil (fork or spoon, all depends on my mood).  Shockingly, this rarely leads to a super-satisfying meal.  But I've been so exhausted lately that I'm hoping throwing some protein at the situation will help.  Enter pork (overcooked, but a protein nonetheless), and a fork and knife.  

busted

So, before I delve into the (more recent) meaning behind the title, let me just say I love my sister.  I realize this picture, in which I'm clearly attempting to thwart her attempts to crawl, might lead you to believe otherwise, but I promise, it's all good these days.  I'm not really sure what was up in this particular shot...maybe I was just mad that my parents were dressing me in suspenders (no, really, guys...what was up with this wardrobe choice?).  But obviously I was busted, on film nonetheless, trying to keep my sister down back in the day, so, that's a little embarrassing.  


My rebellious streak continued well in to kindergarten, when I was busted for my monopoly on the play doh "restaurant" in my classroom.  I have apparently never been a fan of delegation. 


After my otherwise kind kindergarten teacher chastised me, I kept much more on the straight and narrow (if you think I'm joking, you obviously don't know that I went to an all girls' high school and lived in fear of our headmistress and her propensity for dispensing demerits). 


So in the spirit of full disclosure, this past Thursday, I bucked my long-standing trend of relatively upstanding behavior and I ate out.  Yes, I tumbled right off the proverbial Lent wagon.  It was far from glamorous.  No, I fell hard.  Right in to a big old plate of Paolo's spaghetti alla bolognese (yes, I actually make a mean bolognese myself).


I could make excuses (there was a lot of wine involved, I was still traumatized from the rotten potato incident, I've been punishingly stringent with the rules up until now, etc), but there's no getting around the rapid descent from the original Lenten guidelines.  


Listen, I'm not proud of it, but, it happened and I have spent plenty of time feeling guilty over it.  More importantly, I can't take it back, so I see no point in apologizing excessively or trying to explain it away.  


I still know why I decided to try this adventure in the first place, and I've clamored back up onto the wagon.  


PS--I actually did some time-consuming cooking this weekend, maybe in an attempt to clear my conscience(?).  I made spaghetti and meatballs for a friend's birthday Friday, and baked what turned out to be a tasty blueberry buttermilk cake for girls' dinner Sunday. 

last one to clean her kitchen is a rotten potato

(proof that I was not always put off by raw meat {it's a tiny little fish, i promise})

No, I did not learn the wrong childhood metaphors.  I found a rotten potato in my kitchen today.  I'm not sure if you've ever encountered a rotten potato before, but it is possibly one of the more disgusting things I've ever come across in a kitchen before (and that's coming from a girl who avoids touching raw meat at all costs).  


So, I remembered to defrost my last steak this morning (despite my post-girls' night tequila haze), and planned on having it with mashed red potatoes and garlic.  I have little baby red potatoes on my counter, but intended to cut up the slightly older, larger red potatoes and use those before they went bad. 


Way too late for that, friends. 


I took the first potato off the pile and it felt fine.  I smelled it to be sure, and then I noticed the OTHER two potatoes.  I couldn't even really see the one at the bottom of the bowl, because the middle potato apparently decided enough was enough.  Either he was going to be used, or he was going to mutiny.  And mutiny he did.  (Note: I don't really normally think of food as having a personality.  This traumatizing experience has convinced me otherwise).


The middle potato was lying belly up with a jagged, gaping hole in it.  There was a pool of black goo at the bottom of the bowl, and the hole in the potato exposed yellow liquified grossness.  I just stood there for a minute staring at this huge, disgusting mess (seriously, I couldn't even bring myself to make you look at a picture to prove that I'm not exaggerating, it was that gross).  Then the smell hit me like a brick wall, and I couldn't get that bowl of rotten potatoes into the trash fast enough.  Yeah, the bowl was sacrificed.  


Don't judge me until you've confronted a similarly traumatizing rogue potato incident. 

that night i ate wine for dinner

It was bound to happen.  Despite all my semi-careful planning, there was going to be an unforeseen after work event that would keep me from eating at a reasonable hour.  I didn't think it'd happen the day I put a pork roast in the crock pot at 7 a.m., expecting to check on it at 4 p.m. (yes, I realize how old and boring that statement makes me sound...stop judging)


I finally extricated myself from a work happy hour at 9 p.m. I'm not sure if you've seen a piece of pork overcooked by five hours, but ugly is a polite adjective.  Not only was my dinner in charred shambles, my apartment smelled like scorched soy sauce, and there were some seriously unpleasant dishes to wash.  


But I was famished, having only had a few glasses of wine to "eat" since about 2.  (Note: I did not start drinking at 2, I just hadn't eaten anything since then). I did a commendable job of turning down the bar food everyone offered me, even though I found my hand wandering towards the fries more than once.  


So I tried the pork.  I grabbed a couple forks and attempted to salvage a little bit that wasn't hopelessly attached to the bottom of the crock pot.   And I ate it.  It was about as bad as you'd expect, so I washed it down with half a sleeve of cookies, and called it a night.  {the picture of the burn-y aftermath is downright sad, so I'm not going to force you to look at it}


I did all the dishes today, and I've mostly eradicated the scent of crispy soy sauce from the apartment.  And I've decided I need to start scarfing down a sleeve of crackers before I get talked into a marathon work happy hour, because while I like wine, I prefer to chew my meals, not drink them. 

best laid plans

what I actually had for dinner

what I was supposed to have for dinner

I had really respectable intentions for my meals this week.  I even drafted a rudimentary dinner line up (although you can see that it fell apart a bit when I got both bored and overwhelmed and decided I couldn't possibly plan for NEXT weekend).  I had Allie's cooking magazines marked, and I made sure to include every last necessary ingredient on my grocery list to minimize the chances of straying from the plan.  

And then I devoted a sizable percentage of my weekly adventurous culinary spirit to some seriously successful biscuits and meatballs yesterday.  And after a day of being up to my elbows in goo, I think I lost a little steam.  Plus, I realized there was no way I was setting my alarm for one single second before 6:30, making a shower AND crock pot prep unlikely if I wanted to get to work on time.  

So spicy pork lost out to hygiene (I'm sure my coworkers would be grateful if they weren't such heathens themselves), and I figured there was no harm in swapping Tuesday's and today's planned meals.  

I was still on track, albeit a slightly parallel one, when I sat down to copy Allie's food magazines before cooking dinner.  One of the first recipes I had dog-eared was for buttermilk pancakes.  I happen to have just enough buttermilk sitting in my fridge.  My sweet tooth has returned with a vengence after winter.  And I love breakfast for dinner. DINNER = DERAILED.  

I threw some fruit on there to make myself feel a little better about a dinner swimming in maple syrup.  And there's turkey bacon for protein.  Let's just say there were a few more than 2 slices involved, but I got hungry while I was making the pancakes.  I mean, who can turn down "thin and crispy" turkey bacon (which reminds me, I need to write a thank you email to whatever genius at Oscar Meyer decided to manufacture that)?  

I feel just the tiniest bit guilty about succumbing to the siren call of syrup, but whatever.  This whole adventure is about becoming more comfortable and self-sufficient in the kitchen (and, you know, religion, too).  And I think being in a quasi-sugar coma will actually prove helpful as I battle Comcast to get my cable back in working order.  

weekend update

Friday night - Moroccan spiced shrimp, brown rice, garlic naan

Saturday night - sauteed beef, fried rice, more garlic naan

Saturday morning - buttermilk biscuit experiment

Saturday morning - buttermilk biscuit fail 

Sunday morning - pre-opera brunch picnic

For someone who gave up eating out (and hates to cook), I'm eating pretty well.  Not healthy, but well.  There's a big difference.  And I did not give up eating junk (although I probably should have), so I'm totally ok with it.  

Friday night, I made shrimp, rice, and naan for Allie and I. In the spirit of full disclosure, Trader Joe's made the naan, and it was delicious.  The spice rub on the shrimp was also pretty amazing, but in this case, I also can't take credit for anything other than my blog-trolling skills, which led me to this cool site called Dinner: A Love Story (where I found the recipe).  Saturday I used the remainder of the naan as a vehicle for rice and sauteed beef.  It was just so/so, but that's what I get for using pre-packaged rice mixes (Sarah, if you're reading this, I clearly need some cooking lessons-your fried rice rocks).    

Saturday morning, I decided to experiment with two different biscuit recipes to prepare for today's pre-opera picnic brunch.  The first one was for plain biscuits from Paula Deen and the second one was for buttermilk biscuits from Epicurious.  I didn't want to be too wasteful, so I cut each recipe down by half or more, which turned out to be an excellent decision, because both were total flops.  I tried really hard to follow the directions verbatim and to not overwork the dough (a no-no for biscuits, shortbread, etc).  And yet I pulled two separate pans of flat, blah biscuits out of my oven.  I refuse to throw in the towel, though, because I think every self-respecting quasi Southern woman should be able to make biscuits from scratch in a pinch.  If anyone out there knows the secrets to the fluffy, flaky Bojangles style biscuits, we can negotiate recurring payments for access to this (dangerous) intel. 

Because I had strawberries and fresh whipped cream (as in, I poured heavy cream into a bowl and created deliciousness), I had to develop a vehicle for that sugary goodness.  Enter shortbread.  I found a shortbread recipe by accident when I was searching for biscuit recipes, and decided I also wanted to give that a go.  (Are we noticing a butter-related trend yet?).   So after spending yesterday with Allie (more on that in a minute), I came home and made shortbread.  I was disheartened by how crumbly the dough was (I could barely roll it out), and by the fact that the cookies weren't pretty (did I remember to warn you all that I'm a very typical first-born perfectionist/type A? and that part of my disdain for cooking is this trial and error process? ok, well now you've been warned).  In case you're also trying to consume your weight in butter, here's the shortbread recipe.  I got a little wild and added some grated lemon peel to balance the sweetness of the cream and strawberries.  

But the cookies were delicious, and were, in fact, the perfect vehicle for spoonfulls of fresh whipped cream and sliced strawberries.  We also had eggs, bacon, muffins/danish, pasta salad, and cheese and crackers along with our champagne.  Then we piled into a cab in our fancy dresses and saw Madama Butterfly at the Kennedy Center.  Oh, and it was about 65 degrees and sunny today.  PERFECT SUNDAY.  

And finally, yesterday was basically a perfect Saturday.  I bookended the day with baking experiments, and spent the middle of the day shopping and crafting with Allie.  We originally set out to just go to the craft store, but detoured to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, World Market, Marshalls, Old Navy, and Home Goods first.  I picked up all sorts of random accessories for the LKTC (microplane, biscuit cutters, carafe, mini bottles of champagne, etc).  Then we went to Michael's and JoAnn's, where we tried to find the perfect fabric and trim to make a headboard out of scratch for Allie's room.  See pictures of the entire process right here.  

Ok, that was the most disjointed account of my weekend that I could have possibly dreamed up.  I'd lie to you and say it was intentional...trying to keep you on your toes and all that...but mostly I'm just exhausted and not thinking (or writing) all that logically.  Sorry to confuse/bore you...I'll be back on top of things after I kick daylight savings time's little butt.    

a line in the sand (almost)

The wine glasses pictured are the ones we drank out of all weekend at my friend Allie's condo in South Beach.  Note the "regular" size glass for comparison.  Yeah, it was a relaxing weekend (full of wine, sun, voracious reading, and some crazy wind).  And Allie cooked for me, which made the whole thing even better.  


So why am I drained, and still a little anxious?  


Lately I've been uncharacteristically forgetful.  There was the day I left the burner on with an empty pan over it long after I consumed the food cooked in said pan (and got a nice little burn on my thumb as a stern warning never to do that again).  Then I packed my bag for South Beach very efficiently and quickly....and left my camera battery in its charger IN THE WALL (it is now ruined).  Also in my luggage was this nifty interchangeable charger with the ipod and Blackberry attachments in the little travel bag...make that the wrong Blackberry attachment. While in South Beach, I dropped my phone at least twice, and now it won't hold a charge.  And today, I dashed out of the office to grab a cab to my late afternoon doctor's appointment and left my wallet sitting on my desk....which I didn't realize until the cab and I were nearly to the doctor, morphing what should've been a $6 or $7 cab into a $20 ordeal and causing me to seriously toe the line of punctuality. But most troubling is the flight anxiety ordeal that went down last night at the Miami airport.  


So let's back up a few steps.  As I'm sure I've warned you, I'm a nervous passenger. But after a nearly two-year hiatus from air travel, I've flown a few times a month since September.  I even managed to maintain my composure to and from Egypt, people.  And I flew basically without incident TO Miami.


Yet for some reason that I would love to have some insight on, I basically lost my marbles at MIA last night.  It certainly did not help matters that I was sleep deprived, Allie was flying out of a different terminal (aka no pre-flight chatting could happen), and my phone was dying (preventing me from calling someone else to chat and distract me).  It didn't go downhill immediately.  It was more like a slow motion disaster. 


Once I checked in (and silently thanked the American Airlines rep who put me in a window seat at the front of the economy cabin after I explained my irrational fear and subsequent coping mechanisms) and cleared security, I decided the key to staying calm was distracting myself prior to departure (which was still roughly 2.5 hours away).  This lasted for maybe 20 minutes, and then I decided I should set up shop at my gate and concentrate on calming myself while stationary.  I called my parents, and realized my phone was going to die any second (still hours from departure), so I trekked back to a techie store and forked over money for a charger (this is the second time in less than 2 months I've paid for an item I already own but neglected to bring to an airport, and wouldn't have even happened had I brought my proper Blackberry attachment).  


My phone and I then sat on the floor by a column with a power outlet, and I commenced crying.  Let's be very clear about this--I do not condone public displays of emotion or affection.  Typically my fear of flying is not easily detected by unknowing observers.  I tend to withdraw completely, and the most outward sign of the anxiety is wringing of hands.  But for some reason, yesterday I was particularly anxious.  At my mom's urging, I took my anti-anxiety drugs early (let's also be really clear about this--I do not typically take medicine unless basically forced to do so under duress, but the anxiety is so bad that I welcome any relief when it comes to flying). 


Even an hour later, I was still a mess.  I called my parents back, and I'm sure my dad owes my mom one for taking that call.  I don't remember exactly what I said for the hour leading up to the flight, but that could be because most of it was not coherent.  I'm sure my mother was ready to just tell me to get over it and get on the stinking plane, but, she kept it together impressively, even when I asked her to look up the times and prices of an Amtrak train back to DC from Miami ($220 and roughly 22 hours, in case you were curious).  


I think she and I were both surprised by the intensity of the fear this time.  If I were a betting woman, I would have put a huge sum on my not getting on that plane.  I said as much to my mother at least a dozen times. 


See, my fear is centered around turbulence, and there was some rough weather up and down the East coast yesterday.  So knowing that it was dark, we'd be flying over an ocean, and there might be significant turbulence, I was genuinely unsure that I could calm myself down and then remain calm for the 2.5 hour flight.  The absolute last thing I wanted was to be in full-on panic mode for 2.5 straight hours.  What if I needed to get off the plane and couldn't?  Knowing that I wouldn't be able to see the ground below (a strangely comforting thing for me during turbulence) was definitely getting to me.  But nearly equally disturbing to me were the implications of walking away from that flight and climbing on a 22 hour train. I was terrified that I would be drawing a line in the sand in terms of ever getting on a plane again.  And I've got a lot of life ahead of me to just throw in the towel on flying. 


Anyways, the crew of my flight arrived late, so boarding was delayed by nearly 45 minutes.  I think that extra 45 minutes made a big difference.  I had a chance to continue talking to mom, who did everything she could to calm me down (short of jumping through the phone and forcing me to take deep yoga-type breaths and drink some water).  And then I got on the stinking plane.  


Per mom's advice, I didn't go straight to my seat, I actually stopped right inside the door when I saw the purser (the head flight attendant).  I said something like "I need to talk to you really quick" (not my most articulate day ever, really) and the minute she saw me (again, a huge mess), she immediately went into protective mother mode.  She said "oh no, what is it? what's wrong? whatever it is, we can fix it!" and she pulled me into the galley, shut the little "privacy curtain," gave me a hug, poured me some water, and we talked about the fear of flying issue. I was mortified all around, but she assured me that they see many people as anxious (or worse) as me.  She distracted me by talking about where she's from (also NC) and where she lives now (near the Pentagon), and then she took me into the cockpit.  The pilots showed me pictures of their families (their impetus, in part, for flying as safely as humanly possible) and we talked about my turbulence issues.  I asked the pilots to estimate how much turbulence we could expect, and they answered honestly.  Then the flight attendant escorted me to my seat, and explained to my seat mates that they should keep an eye on me (embarrassing, but appreciated).  She also said she'd check on me constantly, and that I could come sit with her if I wasn't doing well.  By now, my whole body had stopped shaking violently, I was breathing like humans are supposed to, and I was committed to staying on the plane, but I was still anxious.  There were definitely some bumps, but the flight attendant kept coming by to reassure me that the airplane was fine.  When we landed, I got another hug, and was led to the cockpit again to chat with the pilots. 


I realize this all sounds absolutely ridiculous.  I'm 24 years old and I can't get on a plane without having a near-panic attack, despite nearly a dozen successful flights in the past 6 months.  But fear is not rational, and that makes it difficult to manage.  I did an exceptionally bad job of managing it yesterday.  And I'm incredibly grateful to the flight attendant and the pilots, who had absolutely no obligation to treat me as well as they did.  I might still be on a train on my way back from Miami right now if it weren't for them.  


I intend to try and think through what went (especially) wrong yesterday, but for now, I'm just relieved to be home.  I can't believe how quickly my time in Miami passed, and that tomorrow is my last chance to eat out before Lent.  Don't worry, I already fit in one last trip to Chipotle...