the board of directors

Some time last fall, Allie and I went to an alumnae networking event that featured a panel of women who spoke on the keys to their successful careers.  One of the women talked about her personal "board of directors."  Her board of directors was the diverse, intelligent group of people who could be consulted for their blunt opinion in the face of major life decisions, moments of crises, and the like. 


I had never thought about it in those terms, but I definitely have my own board of directors.  Decision-making has never been my strongest suit, so the board gets pressed into service fairly often.  It's never a formal thing, and I don't always poll the entire group, but each of them are indispensable.  


So after an especially punishing week at work, I found myself subconsciously trolling Kayak for one-way fare to someplace Italian.  Nine times out of ten, the practical part of me is able to quell the impulsive side.  But my stress level was threatening to win this battle, and the thought of popping in to Bar da Gino and ordering a macchiatone was becoming more tangible.


Since quitting my day job and jetting back to Venice isn't exactly a sustainable plan, I decided to make pizza for Friday dinner and call in one of the board members, thereby taking out two nostalgic birds with one sad stone. (Board member Allie was my roommate in Venice, and pizza is, well, duh, Italian).


Rarely do I have enough energy on a Friday night to make much of anything from scratch, so the pizza dough came out of the freezer, and was made by my good friend Trader Joe.  While I let the oven and faux pizza stone (read: cookie sheet) heat up to a balmy 425 degrees, I tried to get the dough as thin as possible with my palms, not a rolling pin (per a tip from a cooking magazine). 

After about 5 minutes of pre-baking the crust, we pulled them out and started piling on the toppings.  Although the dough was store bought, I made the sauce from scratch.  Which sounds fancy and respectable, but it wasn't any more complicated than heating garlic and red pepper in olive oil and throwing in a can of tomatoes and some fresh basil.  In fact, I think cracking the can open was the most taxing bit of all. But homemade is homemade, right?    

Then the little pizzas went back in to the piping hot oven for a few more minutes.  I can't be more precise than that, because we were too hungry to even set a timer.  Instead, we stood in front of the oven waiting impatiently for the cheese to melt and bubble.  You could say the board was a little hungry.  


When they were finally ready, we relocated to the patio, because DC is in the middle of a relative "cold" snap.  As in, it's not 98 degrees and humid. And fortunately when I insisted we take advantage and sit outside, Allie did not argue.   

Allie doesn't know this, but she's only on the board because she has a patio.  


(totally kidding)


So we sat and ate and chatted a little bit about my career mini-crisis.  But before we got too deep in the throes of problem-solving, we decided to take a side trip to CVS so I could get dessert.  In case you didn't pick up on the trend, some form of chocolate makes an appearance in my life every single day.  


By the time we got back, I wasn't at all hungry anymore.  Suddenly exhausted, I settled in on Allie's couch for our semi-consistent Friday night tradition of watching and critiquing "Say Yes to the Dress."  (Don't knock it til you've tried it, it's highly entertaining). For two women who don't have weddings on the horizon, we have some strong thoughts on the hypothetical dress.  Nothing else at this point.  Just the dress. 


Shortly thereafter, I quickly packed up all my things and asked Allie if she could drive me home "kind of right now."  I was overwhelmingly nauseated, and wanted nothing more than to be at home if my stomach got worse. Exactly how I wanted my Friday night to go, really. 


I was horrified, worrying that it was the pizza and that Allie would also not feel well.  Luckily (?) it was just me.  I think all the stress (and not so healthy eating) this week caught up with me.  Whatever the cause, I got straight in bed and slept about ten hours.  


I'm pretty sure I dreamt about eating pizza Italy...

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? 

character-building

(after a brief fascination with fish, I decided it was so not my thing)

I'm a master at avoiding things I don't want to do.  I'll walk the 2 miles to work instead of taking the 5 minute bus ride, because really, who wants to go to work? I'll walk a mile extra to avoid switching metro lines (DC residents might be the only people not wearing a puzzled expression at this one), I will take the train or drive to prevent Miami airport-esque breakdowns.  


One thing I've been wholly unable to avoid during this Lent adventure is touching raw meat.  I've never been interested in vegetarianism (I already don't get enough protein), but raw meat freaks me out in a very visceral way.  I just really, seriously do not like touching it. If I can get it from container to skillet without actual meat contact, I do a bit of a victory dance. 


Add that to my general disdain for seafood, and it's just plain torture.  So when Allie and I settled on fish tacos for our last Friday night dinner, I was clearly not thinking rationally.  This would involve me...gulp...touching RAW FISH.  


Seeing me barely touching the edge of the flounder fillets and wrinkling my nose as I seasoned them, Allie laughed and said "I'd offer to do this for you, but I think it's character building" and offered me a fork.  


The tacos turned out so-so, but I don't exactly blame my light touch with the flounder.  My heart just wasn't in cooking Friday dinner, and the lack of enthusiasm led to a passable, but not remarkable, taco bar.  I didn't even take any pictures of it (or of the lemon pound cake I made, and consumed mostly by myself, which isn't at all embarrassing to admit).  


But as unexcited as I've been about cooking some days during Lent, it's been a character-building experience (in the least formal sense of the phrase).  I can avoid touching gross raw meat now and then.  I can get around legitimate cooking once and a while.  But most of the time, I just have to man up and put on the apron.  I think we can classify that as progress from my days of Kraft mac n cheese and peas for dinner.


Now excuse me while I go reserve a cab to avoid the miserable weather tonight...

captain grumpy pants

It's Friday.  I got to wear jeans to work today.  All the bosses were out of the office.  It's Allie's turn to cook Friday dinner.  I have friends in town this weekend and next.  My family descends on DC in a couple weeks.  


And yet I am captain grumpy pants lately (not, sadly, an April Fools joke).  I can't decide if I need a little vacation from work (possibly I told a coworker "use your WORDS" today...) or if it's the weather (I swear, for the past three or four days, it looks like the same [indeterminate] time all day long because of the non-stop clouds and drizzle).  Either way, I'm hoping Allie's risotto and a little bit of wine will snap me out of this rut.  


Until then, I leave you with the evidence that I was destined to be a messy cook. 

friday night dinner (#3)

Allie and I decided, somewhat by default, that we'd start taking turns cooking Friday night dinner during Lent.  Last night was my night, and I decided to attempt  a couple of the recipes I found in her Food Network magazines.  


Only problem was, I hadn't yet bought most of the ingredients.  I had grand plans of working from home to accept my wine shipment, then using my "lunch hour" to go to Giant.  According to the first and second "delivery attempt" notices that UPS left on my door, they could not leave the wine at the front desk (as they do with other packages) because they needed to card me and prove I was 21.  Yesterday would be their third and final delivery attempt before returning it to the sender.  Given my slightly obsessive love for wine, I was not about to let THAT happen.  So, I got the blessing from my boss to work from home.  And long after the "10:30 to 2" estimated delivery window passed, there had been no knock at the door.  


I abandoned my grand plan, I did not shower, and I barely even had the tv on for fear I'd miss the UPS man.  I even opened the door a few times when I thought I'd heard commotion out there. By the time 4 rolled around, I was more than a little antsy.  When 6 arrived, I was plain mad. I called my mom to complain heartily, and she suggested calling UPS to see if they'd clue me in to the driver's predicted arrival time at my building.  Before I did that, I checked the tracking number one last time online.  


THE WINE HAD BEEN SITTING AT THE FRONT DESK SINCE 10 A.M.  I specifically worked from home and religiously waited for a knock, only for UPS to decide "heck with those 'we gotta card wine recipients' rules, I'm just gonna leave this at the front desk."  I was about ready to throw the wine out the window at this point. Except that I badly needed a glass or two. 


So I calmly collected the wine, set it inside my front door, and practically sprinted to Allie's (did I mentioned I had gotten antsy?).  We walked to Whole Foods for the final ingredients, then went back to her apartment to cook.  I made chile-garlic edamame to satiate our hunger while I started the sauce of sorts for the thai pork and noodles (with a substitute of shrimp for Lent compliance).  While I'm becoming more comfortable cooking, I'm definitely still a slow poke in the kitchen, and a messy one at that.  


Allie put her camera on the counter and set it to take one picture every thirty seconds, which creates a time lapse movie. The hilarious result is below.  It's me seemingly flying around her kitchen (taking the occasional cell phone/wine sipping break).  While I don't actually cook that spastically, it's not a huge hyperbole.  My favorite is how the movie ends. (I just realized you can't see enough detail to see why I like the ending so much--but basically I'm holding the bowl with the steaming noodles and shrimp and smiling in bewilderment like "oh I made this?")

ps-Allie and I both highly recommend both recipes. (Although I have made the executive decision that, from now on, I am mincing garlic regardless of what garlic-related action the recipe actually suggests, so may I advise you to make that tweak in both cases).  Allie even told me "the shrimp are beautifully cooked" and I had my own little Top Chef moment.  

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.