FOOD ON THE FOOD

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: I Have Tangerines and You Don't

Dear Pseudo-Chef,

I have a surplus of tangerines from our tree and I'm wondering if you've got any suggestions as to what I could do with them (and I mean recipes...). --Sis, HI

First of all, thanks for rubbing it in.  Second of all, thanks for stealing my joke, which was obviously going to be to stick them where the sun don’t shine.  Which, apparently, is nowhere on Hawaii, least of all your sun-kissed organic parcel of burgeoning paradise.  Thirdly, I’m not sure if you noticed, with the occasional freaky earthquake and the streams of lava flowing through your yard, but you live on an ACTIVE VOLCANO.  Enjoy the eatin’ while you still can.

However, since we’d still like to come visit you someday, here are a few recipe ideas.  You may recall that I mentioned a particularly good ham with tangerine chutney that I made a few Christmases back.  I hereby declare this to still be a good idea.  Maybe not on ham, but on one of those succulent, pit-roasted pigs you must certainly prepare each and every day at your own personal luau.  (Good call on dropping that vegetarian monkey on your back, by the way.)

Since you islanders also seem to like your fish, how about a tangerine-vanilla sauce for fresh mahi-mahi, opakapaka, or akuama’amakumukalakala, for example, courtesy of fellow food blog Cooking With Amy.

Of course, there’s always tangerine marmalade.  Peel off the skin in large pieces, and boil for 10 minutes.  Soak in cold water overnight, then drain and chop thinly.  Great grandma used to make preserves of all kinds by boiling fresh-squeezed fruit juice with equal parts sugar uncovered until thick (at least 20 minutes).  This will also work here.  Just add the peels to the tangerine juice before boiling, and check the thickness of the hot marmalade by spooning some out onto a plate and letting it cool.  You may need to go longer.  Store in sterilized jars.  And by sterilize, I mean boiling the jars for a few minutes, letting them dry, and somehow resisting the urge to then pee in them.

Or a simple tangerine sorbet.

Anyone else like to chime in?

Unhappy Meals (in 150 Words or Less)

Did you see that article in the New York Times Magazine by Michael Pollan?  I read it last night and it took forever.  And then my brain hurt.  But, that’s what happens when you’ve been pondering Dr. Seuss all day.  Still, the piece is recommended reading for anyone interested in leading a healthy lifestyle and/or eating delicious food at any point in the future.  Don’t have an hour?  Let me sum up:

Whole foods, good.
Processed foods, bad.
Science is good,
Except when it’s bad.

People lie.  Lying is bad.
But calling people liars feels good.
Is that bad?

Biodiversity is good.
Having 2/3 of human calories come from only 4 highly processed crops: corn, soybeans, wheat, rice:
Bad, bad, bad.

Grandma’s cooking was good.
Mom’s food was bad.
Today’s moms aren't much better because they're passed out drunk in a sandbox.
Oh wait, that was a different story.

Americans are fat.
Gluttony is bad.
Making money off of diet-related health problems is rad.
I mean, bad (sorry, a lobbyist jumped in there).

Real food is good.
Food broken down into isolated nutrients doesn't do jack shit.
One-A-Day is sad.

Health claims aren’t good ‘cause
They’re hiding what’s bad.
Diet fads are dumb.
A walk ain’t so bad.

Oversimplification is BAAAAAAAAAD. 
Oops, too late.

(A special thanks to squeezyB for inspiring me to bust a rhyme.  A special apology to Mr. Pollan.)

Technorati tags: Unhappy Meals, Michael Pollan

Today’s Shopping List

Milk
Leafy greens
Anchovies
Half-price feminine products
Life cereal
Life, not cereal

Strawberry Fair Restaurant, Norwell

As I was driving at 70 mph down Rt. 128 last week, a truck rolled over about 100 yards in front of me across three lanes of traffic.  Somehow, I managed to swerve into the breakdown lane and avoid all the other careening vehicles.  The three cars in front of me were not so lucky.  Miraculously, everyone walked away unhurt, including the driver of the toppled truck.  I’m still not sure how that was possible, but I suspect it had something to do with seat belts.

So, in honor of cheating death for the 416th time, I decided to treat my one-year-old passenger, who inexplicably slept through the whole thing, and my own jangled nerves to a delicious lunch at the Strawberry Fair Restaurant.  Actually, we were on our way there anyway for the article I’m supposed to be working on RIGHT NOW.  Good thing, too, because near-death experiences make you hungry.

So where is Norwell, anyway?  The South Shore, it turns out, somewhere between Weymouth and Marshfield.  I grew up in the South Shore and I’ve never set foot in Norwell in my life.  Does anyone live there?  No one knows.  They do have car dealerships, though.  Lots of them, and the Strawberry Fair just happens to be nestled incongruously among them along the main strip. 

A word of warning: the testosterone level of men who enter this restaurant is likely to take a steep dive.  The décor is very country kitchen meets Lilliputian fairy tale.  Shabby chic, to some.  Girly, to others.  It’s a cute little farmhouse with lots of cottage antiques crammed into every possible space.  Which is why the little girl in me thought it was kind of neat.  Okay, maybe it was one strawberry stencil design too many for my taste, but still, I’m a girl.

We had a quick lunch of onion soup, a Cape Cod chicken salad sandwich with cranberries and walnuts, a bag of chips, and the obligatory bowl of strawberries (they don’t force you to order them, I was just somehow compelled).  And it was good.  Better than average.  And the service was great.  (They also have meatloaf sandwiches on the menu so the girly men that come here can feel slightly better about themselves.) 

I dare say I’ll be bringing the family back.  I’m in favor of supporting the quirky little family-owned places serving up wholesome edibles where kids are welcomed with a smile (they even have a small toy stash for antsy little ones).  It would make a good pit stop if you’re stuck in rush hour traffic on Rt. 3, or if you decide to head down the Cape on a Friday evening in the summer like a dumb-ass.  It’s practically right off the highway if you need a bite from somewhere other than McDonald’s/ Burger King/Applebee’s/Ground Round and their ilk.

Maybe I was just glad to be alive, but I thought this place was just peachy.

(Strawberry Fair Restaurant, 14 Pond St., Norwell, 781-878-7878)

A Great Big Bowl of Ugly

Q: What would the Swedish Chef say if he were Russian?

A: Borscht, borscht, borscht.

Maybe it’s the sudden chill in the air, but I had to have borscht.  Actually, more likely, it was because I tried Clotilde’s beet soup (the one with the anchovies), which was very good indeed, but do you know what would have made it better?  Big chunks of meat.  Cabbage is an added bonus.

My photography skills, it seems, have met their match in the ugly department.  Luckily, I didn’t have to try too hard to get this prince of a shot. 

But no one makes borscht for show.  It’s good, hearty eating when the wind is blisteringly cold.  It renders once-tough, gristly meat into ribstickingly tender morsels in a broth that’s both sweet and sour.  There’s a lot of it, and it’s pretty forgiving.  You can add potatoes, you can skip the cloves, you can just dump in the whole can of tomato paste so the rest of the can doesn’t fester in the fridge for three weeks.  Who cares?  We like it warm with a whopping dollop of sour cream. 

So, find your ugliest bowl, don a sweat suit, and don’t bother to shower.  Here’s my recipe, just in case you don’t judge borscht by its cover.

Borscht

2 medium beets
2 lbs. chuck beef, cut into bite-sized cubes
1 onion, halved
2 cloves
6-8 cups water
1 small cabbage, cored, quartered, and shredded
1 cup carrots, shredded
2 Tbsp. tomato paste
1/3 cup white vinegar
½ bunch parsley stems
3 springs thyme
1 bay leaf
Salt and black pepper, to taste
Sour cream

Preheat oven to 375°F.  Place beets in small roasting pan, cover with foil, and roast until done, about an hour.  Let cool, peel, and chop into bite-sized cubes.

Meanwhile, in a heavy pot with a lid, add meat with water to cover by 1 inch.  Press cloves into onion halves and add to pot.  Bring to simmer, cover, and continue to simmer over low heat until tender, about 2 hours.  Remove and discard onions (and cloves).  Remove the meat from the broth and set aside.

To the broth, add the beets, cabbage, carrots, tomato paste, and vinegar.  With kitchen string, tie together the parsley stems, thyme, and bay leaf (this makes it easier to remove later), and add to pot.  Simmer 30 minutes.  Add back the meat, and cook another 30 minutes over low heat.  Season with salt and pepper, and serve with sour cream.

I Hate Anchovies, Part Deux

I had to make an emergency trip to the store on Sunday because we were running dangerously low on anchovies.  This is not an acceptable situation in our house.  I love anchovies.  I love them salty and brown.  I love them vinegary and white.  Those little fishies rock my world and they need to be available at all times.

You may recall a conversation I had with my dad about anchovies and how much he despises them, despite loving Caesar salad.  Interesting.  So, I decided to further test the hypothesis that my dad is crazy.  I gave him some beet soup to bring home, soup that was laced with a certain secret ingredient. 

Let’s see what our taster thought:

Me:  How did you like the soup?

Him: It was good.

Me:   Really?  You liked it?

Him: Yes.

Me:   You ate all three servings?

Him:  I like beets.

Me:   Then you like anchovies, too.

Him: What?

Me:   That’s right.  I put anchovies in your soup.  HA HA.  Take that.

Him: You know, I’m not going to keep eating the food you give me if you keep sneaking things in that I don’t like.

Me:   Yeah, right.  The point is that you DO like these things.  You just don’t know that you do.

Him:  I know I hate anchovies.

Me:   Uh-huh, sure.

Him: Anything tastes good in a million to one ratio.

Me:   Eight percent.  It was 8% anchovy.

Him: I know ratios.  I’m a scientist.  I’ve been working with solutions all my life.

Me:   Right.

Him: I hate anchovies.

You may not have noticed, but in these conversations, the same person always has to have the last word.  However, it’s worth pointing out that his last word was not that he hated the soup.

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: Two Great Tastes

Dear Pseudo-Chef,

I used to work near a healthy takeout restaurant in Boston's Back Bay called b.good.  They used to make a delicious chocolate peanut butter milk shake called the Drunk Elvis. Any suggestions as to how one might make such a shake at home?  I've been craving one since this morning's healthy but non-chocolate smoothie.  –- Susanna, MA

Hey, I know that joint.  I wrote a little piece about it back in 2004 when it first opened. 

So, since that shake sounded so good, and I seriously doubted my ability to crack their code, I asked the owners for the recipe.  They were happy to oblige.  When co-owner Jon Olinto sent it over, he added, “I can only hope that before you post the recipe, you'll test it at home and vomit all over yourself.” 

Thanks, Jon.  I surely did.  And it was awesome.

Drunk Elvis

6 oz. milk
6 scoops non-fat vanilla frozen yogurt (about 1½ cups)
3 Tbsp. Teddie all-natural, smooth peanut butter
3 Tbsp. Hershey's chocolate syrup
1 banana

Blend in blender until smooth.  Serves 2.  Oh, who am I kidding?  Served 1.  (Garnish at your own discretion.)

b.good, 131 Dartmouth St., Boston, 617-424-5252; 24 Dunster St., Cambridge, 617-354-6500

A Big Squeezy Welcome…

…to my friend and new blogger, squeezy B.  Welcome to the blogosphere.  What took you so long?

Stereotypes are Fun

Ever since the debut of the Swedish Chef on the Muppet Show in the 1970’s, the Swedes have been up in arms about the portrayal of themselves as bumbling, mustachioed, culinary misfits who are none-too- attractive.  About that, I have this to say.  If I have to put up with the reputation Americans have for being obnoxious, oversexed, fat, and kinda dumb, then they have to embrace the Swedish Chef and all he stands for.  After all, if the shoe fits…

Bon appétit bork bork bork.

Reason #12 Not To Read My Blog: Vomit

I’ve vomited in half the restaurants in Boston.

Actually, that’s an overstatement.  I’ve vomited AFTER eating in half the restaurants in Boston.  I’ve vomited inside of only a few.  So far.  This also applies to the restaurants on Cape Cod, where I got married, as well as our honeymoon destination, Hawaii.  This was not the sort of action my husband was expecting.

To be clear, it’s not that the food stinks in fully half of our area restaurants.  Nor does it indicate an alarming fixation on my waistline.  It just happens.  Sometimes there’s warning and sometimes there isn’t. 

I’ve never found a correlation between what I eat and whether or not I get sick.  However, the ratio of deliciousness multiplied by how much I enjoyed myself is always directly proportional to the force and magnitude of my post-indulgent hurl fest.  That I might find myself doubled over the porcelain express fighting for consciousness actually says a thing or two about just how good the meal was. 

In fact, it’s an honor.

As you might imagine, this has made reviewing restaurants a bit of a challenge.  Thanks for holding out your ice bucket as I vomit in your general direction, as well as wiping up the errant splatters on your six-top, but your duck may have been a smidgeon on the greasy side.  On the upside, they take my criticism very seriously.

As it turns out, this situation has a medical name: acquired angioedema.  Translation: an unexplained explosion of the intestines.  Like I hadn’t figured that out.  Luckily, medication keeps it somewhat under control. 

I bring this up not just for a possibly lucrative outpouring of sympathy, but also because the more I’ve discussed this out loud, the more I’ve discovered just how common gastrointestinal issues really are.  Not a sexy topic.  But the more we can talk about it like mature adults, the sooner we can erupt into freestyle oral ejection and projectile diarrhea with dignity and maybe even a little bit of pride.

Dunkiin Dönuts Training Video (Re-released)

Because this is one dead horse worth beating.

In an unprecedented leak from Dunkin’ Donuts University, I hold in my hands a copy of the educational video used to train aspiring young doughnut bakers. 

I give you Exhibit A.

Enough said.

Is This a Food Blog or What?

Okay, how about a recipe for a change?

Over the weekend, I did my annual Chinese-dumpling- making marathon.  I do this once a year in the winter, preferably when I’m snowed in, but in the absence of snow I’ll still make them because, where the hell’s the snow?  (Actually, it snowed today and I credit the dumplings.)  Also, coinciding with the Chinese New Year, with which they are traditionally associated, is sometimes a happy accident.  But again, not this year. 

I make enough to freeze for many meals to come.  It takes hours, but it’s worth it.  If you’re not up to the task, you can buy Japanese gyoza at Trader Joe’s.  They’re pretty tasty.  But those wonton wrappers are a bit flimsy for my taste.  These are more substantial, and you don’t have to worry about them falling apart when you pan-fry them.  And I always pan-fry them.

For some reason, this year I started crimping the edges with a fork.  It works well, but they look all wrong, as if they might be filled with sweet apple instead of delicious pork.  So I went back to using my fingers.  Besides, I have a hunch the Chinese aren’t using a fork to crimp their dumplings. 

Here are the specs.  It makes many, many, yet not nearly enough.

Taiwanese Dumplings

1 head Napa cabbage, quartered
1 lb. ground pork
½ bunch Chinese chives (or scallions), trimmed and minced
2-inch piece ginger, peeled and finely chopped
2 Tbsp. soy sauce
2 tsp. sesame oil
½ tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. vegetable oil, plus 3 Tbsp. for frying
5½ cups flour
2 cups water, plus ½ cup for steaming
Soy sauce
Rice vinegar (or white vinegar)

To make the filling, put cabbage into a large pot with water to cover, top with lid, and bring to a boil over high heat.  Reduce heat to medium and simmer until soft, 15-20 minutes.  Drain and cool.  Squeeze out excess water.  Finely chop cabbage and transfer to large bowl.  Add pork, chives, ginger, soy sauce, sesame oil, salt, and vegetable oil.  Mix well with your hands.  Cover with plastic and refrigerate at least 1 hour or overnight.

For the wrappers, put flour into large bowl and gradually add water, stirring with a fork until dough can no longer be stirred.  Turn out onto lightly floured surface and knead until smooth.  Transfer to clean bowl, cover with plastic, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or up to 3 hours.  Divide dough into 8 pieces.  With hands, roll each into a 1-inch thick rope.  Cut ropes into 1-inch pieces and roll into balls.  With a rolling pin, roll out balls into 3½-inch circles.  Keep remaining dough covered to keep from drying out.

For each wrapper, put 2 tsp. of filling in the center and fold dough over to form a half circle.  Pleat the edges together with your fingers.  If they don’t stick, use a little water in between to seal.  Transfer to a floured baking sheet and cover with plastic.  Repeat.  Freeze on individual trays until frozen.  Then store in freezer bags until ready to use. 

To pan-fry, heat 3 Tbsp. vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat.  Working in batches of no more than 8, add dumplings with ½ cup water, cover, and cook until the bottoms begin to brown, about 10 minutes.  Reduce heat to medium-low and continue cooking, covered, until filling is cooked through, 8-10 minutes.

For the dipping sauce, combine equal parts soy sauce and vinegar in a quantity that makes sense.

Source: adapted from Saveur.  Unfortunately, the recipe got separated from the magazine article itself, so I don’t know the surely-very-interesting back-story.  Just that the recipe came from Thomas Kuo, who was probably Asian.  I would call Saveur to find out more details, but that’s just asking for a copyright infringement lawsuit.  Plus, they don’t return my calls.

M is for Meme, Masochism

Oooooo, my first, and perhaps my last, meme.  For your reading pleasure, here they are: Five Things Most People Don’t Know About Me.

1.  When I was [redacted] years old, I used to sing less-than-tuneful songs to the squirrels in my backyard, whom I named Buffy and Muffet.  My repertoire included show tunes, patriotic anthems, jazz standards.  It didn’t matter.  Judging by the performances currently taking place at our house during “potty hour,” I can see that this gene has been propagated in all its glory.

2.  I was in the pep squad in high school, also known as cheerleading-for-smart-girls.  Apparently, this is not as much fun to watch.

3.  I once ate three boxes of Samoas in one sitting.  Then again, who hasn’t? 

(By the way, I’m talking about Samoas, not Caramel “deLites.”  The former were much, much better.  Must have been that sprinkling of delicious racism.  Plus the fact that groove is in the heart, not a box of cookies.  Stupid Girl Scouts.)

4.  I went through most of college thinking I was a biology major.  This made no sense whatsoever.

5.    In addition to wearing braces, I also wore a retainer, a headgear, and a god-awful invention called “The Bionator.”  Contrary to the name, it didn’t make me bionically strong (unless emotional resilience is a muscle that can be flexed).  Instead, this hellish contraption clamped your front teeth and bottom teeth together over a series of tortuous months, thereby bringing your lower jaw forward  (while simultaneously setting all social progress backwards).

Now, my jaw makes a horrendous popping/crackling/ exploding noise whenever I chew.  I have the following conversation almost everyday:

Stranger: What’s that sound?

Me: What sound?

Stranger: Like a jackhammer, but coming from your mouth.

Me: Oh, it’s probably my TMJ.

Stranger: Oh, okay.  I thought there were chunks of cement in your yogurt.

Sometimes, my jaw unexpectedly locks up in a most painful fashion.  Unable to call for help, I’m forced to fling myself against the wall over and over with great force until it unlocks.  And then comfort my crying children.

And, I think that’s all of the embarrassing facts for today.  Thanks a lot, CookieCrumb.  Let the humiliation continue with Ed and, oh, I don’t know, Julie?

Cooking and Writing Have Lots in Common

Raw shrimp, just because.

As it turns out, this blog isn’t just about food.  It’s about other things, too, for which food serves as a convenient metaphor.  You know, including food itself.

One of the things it’s about is honesty.  But, actually, it’s just as much about dishonesty as it is honesty.  For example, I mentioned in a previous post that I didn’t have any friends.  Clearly, a lie.  I have one friend.  Actually, two (one is a backup).  The other handful of people I’m sometimes seen with are acquaintances or, as I like to call them, “reserves” who get called up when “main friend” and “beta test friend” are busy having sex or something when I finally get a night out of the house. 

I’ll just leave it up to my friends to figure out which one they are.  And…now I have no friends.

Which brings me to my point.  Sometimes, through dishonesty we find honesty.  Other times, the reverse is true.  Like when we use the right words, the polite words, but what we end up saying isn’t really the truth of it.

Where I was mistakenly hoping this tangent would lead was to the subject of writing.  Only recently have I admitted to anyone, including myself, that I’m a writer.  That I actually write things down, read them, rewrite them, reread them, think I’m brilliant for a few fleeting moments, come to my senses, and then refuse to ever let anyone see them.  The reason is because, until now, I’ve always been afraid of “that look.”  The look that says, “you silly, deluded little girl, just because you write in your diary twice a year doesn’t make you a writer.”

I’m not sure anyone really said that out loud, but it doesn’t matter because people who like to think of themselves as writers, or artists of any sort, are also psychic.  Nothing gets by us.  Nothing.

What’s worse than the look are the teacher’s comments.  What’s worse than the teacher’s comments are the rejection letters.  What’s worse than the letters are the editor’s comments.  See where I’m going with this?

Except that they’re all good because they make you better.  And you won’t get better unless you write.  So write.  The same goes for cooking.

I hope to write honestly (but not so honestly that disgruntled readers can hunt me down and kill me).  I'm not above taking cheap shots, but I hope there is always a grain of truth in what I write.  That's why I use my real name.  However, as a former fact-checker, I can tell you with absolute certainty, truth is in the eye of the beholder.  That's what the comment section is for.  Use it.

My name is Tammy.  I love food.  I love to write.

Oh, and I use the F word occasionally.  Sometimes, it’s the only word that can truly convey my meaning.  You will see it again.  My apologies in advance.

Some Notes About The Weekend

1.    The puree of celery root soup posted at Orangette is pure, silken goodness.  Even my 1-year-old liked it.  My 4-year-old wouldn’t touch it, but that just means that it’s definitely soup.  My husband said *that’s wacked, but good,* which is a glowing endorsement if I ever heard one.

2.    Dandelion greens aren’t as delicious as we have been led to believe.  At least, not coming off of a month-long sugar high.  Maybe, come summer when I’m starving and my postage stamp of a lawn is overrun by yellow weed (which gives me another idea for what to do with my leftovers).  Still, I’m going to need to find another emergency food source, just in case Boston is on nature’s shit list for this year.

3.    My husband may or may not have been up to his usual antics this weekend, but I’m banned from speaking of it.  Usually, I don’t obey these types of directives, but he’s keeping a list now.  To just add to it willy-nilly would bring him another cobblestone closer to his prize on the yellow brick road to divorce.  And we can’t have that, can we?  At least, not until next week.

4.    My husband hearts Tom Brady. 

Hello? (No Echo)

Hey, I got me some readers.  Thanks, Jen at Life Begins at 30.  Um, you have a lot of friends.  I’d love to return the favor, but I don’t really have any friends.  So, thanks, all of Jen’s readers, for stopping by to visit me.

Guess I should stop talking about my period.  Or should I?

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: A Return to the Glorious 1950’s

If you're a stay-at-home mom with a 7-month-old, hormonal 11-year-old, 2 high-maintenance dogs, 5 loads of laundry a day, a cockroach infestation, a puzzle business, and school, does that mean that your husband should have a hot plate of delicious food when he comes home? –-Trish, HI

Interesting question.  And not at all controversial.  I think what it means is that your husband will have a 7-month-old, hormonal 11-year-old, 2 high-maintenance dogs, 5 loads of laundry, a cockroach infestation, and a dead wife when he gets home.  Or, a mostly dead wife offering a hot plate of delicious arsenic.

To be fair, though, I should also consider this scenario from the perspective of a stay-at-home dad.  Would he, too, be off the hook for meal preparation if the roles were reversed?  The answer is no.  Why?  Because if the dad was staying home with the kids, then that would mean, by default, that I was the one working the 9-5 job.  And if I have to work at a dead-end job for a soulless employer with only the prospect of being sexually harassed to get me through the day, then I expect a hot, tasty meal on the table when I get home.

A is for Apple, Addiction

Fun fact: that’s my expired EpiPen that got injected into that apple. We will not be eating this apple.  But, it’s having one hell of a moment right now.

When I started writing this blog in November, I had no idea how addictive it would become.  In fact, I was pretty sure I’d get lazy and bored with the whole thing once the novelty wore off after, say, Week 3.  But, here I am at my whopping 2-Month Anniversary, and I can’t wait to sit down at my computer.  I even have a new reader (hi Julie!) to add to my other reader (hi CookieCrumb!) besides my dad (hi Dad!).

How could I possibly foresee how liberating it would be to write in my own shrill voice instead of the pleasantly chipper, responsible-adult type of voice I get paid to have (sometimes) for professional assignments.  How thrilling it would be to get revenge on my husband after years of being helpless fodder for his unmatched verbal wit.  And, most importantly, experiencing the joys of miniscule gains in readership. 

The downside, of course, is that blogging doesn’t pay the bills.  But, frankly, neither do my paying gigs.  If I calculated how much I made in freelance writing contracts this year and broke it down by month, it would just about cover the cost of my feminine products.  And so, with an end-of-the-month magazine deadline looming, I find myself behind schedule and just plain uninspired.  And, yet, here I am writing a post. 

Guess I’ll have to give up having my period.

What I’m trying to say is, gee, this is fun.  Thanks for reading, you three.  And for those of you who are considering starting up your own site, this is a warning.  Blog at your own delicious peril.

(Disclaimer: I reserve the right to get lazy and bored at any time in the future with nary a day's notice.  Or if something better comes along.  If this policy was good enough for my high school boyfriends, it's good enough for me.)

Cookie Cravings Die Hard

I thought I was through with cookies now that the holidays are a distant, bloated memory, but it turns out I’m not.

My plan had been to make some cutbacks.  Nothing drastic, just a little less lard here, an extra citrus fruit there.  Perhaps, send an unexpected bouquet of leafy greens to myself.  Not a resolution – those don’t stick.  And definitely NOT a diet.  Just a little friendly reminder about what a normal portion size is supposed to look like after weeks of excess.  So, what is a normal portion size, again?

But then, my fabulous friend Erin showed up.  With cookies. 

I could barely wait for dinner to be over.  I don’t remember what I made.  Some chicken thing with turnip greens.  It doesn’t matter.  What does matter were the cookies.  Soft, ooey, gooey chocolate cookies with hunks of Heath bar inside.  Oh, Lordy.  Plus, they were huge.  Big as saucers.  I had two.

Now, what was I saying about cutbacks?

Recipe for Giant Chocolate Toffee Cookies.

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: Post-Holiday Gingerbread Question

What is the proper way to dispose of a gingerbread house? --Ed, MA

I’m so glad you asked.  According to my husband, the proper way to discard a gingerbread house, which his son lovingly crafted by hand out of graham crackers and the frosting that he didn’t eat, would be to “whip it” into the bushes from the back door.  Drop-kicking it might work, too, but the point is that it should be airborne for as long as possible, and mostly still intact upon landing in the shrubbery.  If all goes well, it will end up near the sunken pumpkin carcasses from the previous Halloween.  And in plain view of the child’s bedroom so he will ask puzzled questions.



Happy New Year, little sparrows.

Another Letter to Dunkin’ Donuts

In response to my earlier complaint about their crap-ass doughnuts, Dunkin’ Donuts sent me an e-mail.  I have to give them credit, they wrote me back within 24 hours.  I have no idea how they pulled it off so quickly.  Here's an excerpt:

Dear Tammy

Thank you for taking the time to contact Dunkin' Donuts.  We always appreciate hearing from our customers.  It's important to us to get feedback both good and bad about our products and the service you receive at our shops. We will make sure your comments get heard and shared with the appropriate people.

At Dunkin' Donuts we value our customers and…blah, blah, blah, more stuff cut and pasted from what they sent to the last crackpot to write in, subtext: what’s wrong with you, it’s a stupid doughnut, don’t you have a life?…

Thank you and have a great day.

Customer Relations Associate *Boy, do I hate my job* # 23

The answer to your question, CRA #23, is a resounding *no.*  I do not have a life. 

This was my reply to their reply:

Dear Dunkin’ Donuts:

Thank you so much for your very personal and heartfelt response.  In these cynical times, it’s nice to know that one person really can make a difference.  I’m so glad that one person is me.

Since you’ve been so open to constructive criticism, I will share one more story to illustrate further the need to improve your doughnut-making technique, specifically, but not limited to, your chocolate glazed variety.

Over the summer, we hired three college students to paint our house.  My husband, who was heading in your direction anyway to feed his thrice-daily ice coffee addiction, brought back a dozen doughnuts for them, as well as a keg of coffee to fuel their well-meaning-but- slackerish spirits.  The young men politely accepted the offering and, after several enthusiastic keg stands, then proceeded to eat none of the doughnuts.  Not a single one.  All day long.  College students.

My husband speculated that they were all diabetic.  What are the odds of that? 

I wish I could participate in the recent coffee craze, but I don’t drink coffee because I don’t do drugs.  Well, except for chocolate.  The way I see it, you’re on borrowed time.  It won’t be long before they’re on you the same way they’re on the cigarette companies.  And when that happens, won’t you wish you had a halfway decent doughnut to fall back on? 

I appreciate your willingness to share my comments with the appropriate people.  I assume that can only mean the CEO of Dunkin’ Donuts, himself, Jon Luther.  I’m sure he will be devastated by popular opinion and will enact changes with great haste.  How long do you think it will take?  Three weeks?  A month?  At any rate, I look forward to seeing the improvements we talked about in early 2007. 

Thank you for such a dynamic customer service experience.  I look forward to another delightful response!

Sincerely,

Tammy Donroe

P.S. I hope they aren’t paying you in doughnuts.

I sent this two weeks ago.  They never responded.  I can’t understand why.

Reason #11 Not To Read My Blog: The Food Network

I don’t watch the Food Network.

Or food shows on any other network, for that matter.  Rachael Ray?  Who’s that?  I didn’t even watch America’s Test Kitchen even though I worked behind the scenes and got to carry a bowl of potatoes robotically across the set on camera once. 

Part of it is that I don’t watch very much TV period.  We don’t have HDTV.  We don’t have TiVO.  We’re lame.

Another part is that, although some of the shows may be interesting, I find the personalities too annoying.  Emeril is annoying.  Giada sexing up the camera makes me a little uncomfortable.  Bobby Flay makes me want to take the only cookbook of his that I own and, with my crème brûlée torch, ignite it one page at a time.  It’s a fine line between entertaining and annoying.  If you’re reading this blog, you probably know what I mean.

But the real reason I don’t like to watch food shows is that you find yourself getting very invested in the process of cooking, but you don’t get to participate in the rewards.  And the rewards are key.  Instead, you get to watch them eat, and then struggle to come up with new and surprising ways to say “delicious.” 

What about me?  Now, I’m really hungry and I just wasted an hour during which I could have been cooking up something just as good.  Okay, maybe half as good and definitely only an eighth as pretty, but the point is I’d be eating by now.  And I wouldn’t be mad.

Fun Facts About Today

Six-day-old homemade manicotti is delicious.

It’s 70°F in Boston in January.

Global warming is a big, made-up lie.

Husband Declares Me To Be Loser…

…of the Great Macaroni and Cheese Cook-Off of 2007.  And also for writing a blog.  And just for general loserishness.

When I heard that I’m Mad and I Eat was teaming up with Seriously Good (nice to meet you) for a mac-n-cheese-off, I couldn’t wait to join in.  Seemed like fun.  Good, cheesy fun.  Except that I don’t really like mac ‘n cheese.  In fact, I think it’s kind of gross.  Minor detail.

I like macaroni.  I love cheese.  All mathematical principles point to my liking, even loving, the two together.  But if there’s anything you can’t trust, it’s math.  And when the answer to the equation is dried-out, mealy cheese on dried-out, chewy macaroni, well, that’s the part I’ve never been able to get past in every single homemade variation I’ve ever tasted.

Still, I saw an opportunity here.  A chance to change my own tune or, failing that, having someone else change it for me.  Perhaps, somewhere in this wide world, there existed a pasta and cheese combination tailor-made for me, just waiting to be discovered?  I put on my thinking cap and sat.  For a very long time.

I considered goat cheese, but suspected I might have a problem achieving the right texture.  I heard murmurs of blue cheese and thought that might be a good idea.  But, what, don’t I have an original thought in my head?  I guess not, because what I eventually came up with was Gruyére and white wine, and where have I seen that before?  Hmmmm.

So, I dug out my favorite fondue recipe and promptly started scheming.  I chose corkscrew-shaped pasta in keeping with the wine theme.  Also, in homage to Silvertone Bar & Grill in Boston (it’s not stealing if it’s in homage), home of the single macaroni and cheese experience I actually enjoyed .  I grabbed a bottle of crappy, but not too crappy, white wine and started pouring.  Pouring and melting cheese, melting and pouring.

The result?  Well, the conversation with my husband went something like this:

Him: You lose.

Me: But, you don’t even know what the other people came up with, yet.

Him: I don’t have to know.  There would have to be cigarette ashes in theirs for you not to lose.

Me: But, it tastes just like fondue.

Him: I don’t like fondue.

Me: You don’t?

Him: No.  I was lying all those times because you only made me eat it once a year.

Splendid.  But, I’m not throwing in the towel just yet.  If you like fondue, I do believe you’ll like this variation, especially the torn and buttered bread crumbs on top.  I sure did.  It stayed moist.  It wasn’t mealy, although keep in mind that all real cheese congeals when cool.  Best of all, it’s the winiest!

Fondue Mac

2-3 cups cavatappi pasta
½ lb. Gruyére cheese
½ lb. Emmenthaler cheese
2 Tbsp. flour
1 clove garlic
2 cups dry white wine
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 Tbsp. kirsch (or more)
Dash nutmeg and paprika
1 Tbsp. butter
½ cup fresh breadcrumbs (or just torn-up baguette)

Preheat oven to 350ºF.  Grease a medium baking dish.  Cook pasta in salted water until tender. 

Finely dice cheese and toss with flour.  Cut garlic clove in half, rub on inside of medium pot, and discard.  Pour wine into pot and heat until hot but not boiling.  Add lemon juice.  Add cheese in four parts, stirring constantly in between, waiting until the previous cheese has melted before adding more.  Add kirsch and spices.

Add half of the cooked pasta to the cheese.  Add more pasta until you’re satisfied there’s enough pasta in there, but there’s still some cheese pooling on the bottom.  You want that cheese pool.  It’ll keep things moist in the oven.  I’d err on the side of too much cheese, because you can never have too much cheese, but that’s just me.  Pour into greased baking dish.

In a small frying pan, melt butter.  Add breadcrumbs and toss until sufficiently buttery.  Sprinkle over pasta and bake until bubbly and lightly brown, about 30 minutes.  Broil the top briefly, if desired.

Debut of *Ask the Pseudo-Chef*

Wow, the questions are really flying in now.  In response to popular demand (two requests, one from me), the question forum is now open.  Ask a food-related question and I shall attempt to answer it by consulting Wikipedia and my crack team of know-it-alls (you know who you are).  To submit an inquiry, e-mail me.  Questions and answers will be posted (maybe) and then saved in a sidebar as soon as I learn some GD html. 

Read on and prepare to be enlightened...

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: Chocolate Care

My husband and I were debating as to the best care for a box of chocolates he received from his employer.  Obviously, the best answer is in my mouth, but until then - fridge or counter?  --Susanna, MA

Yes, one’s own mouth really is the best place for them.  In the meantime, skip the fridge and find a cool, dry, dark cabinet in which to store them, preferably not your spice cabinet (chocolate has a tendency to pick up strong flavors).  It should keep for at least a month, sometimes up to six months, but if it’s still there the next time I come over, you and I are totally going house on it.

Ask the Pseudo-Chef: Wine Whiner

What do you do when someone, who shall remain nameless, strips the cork on the good wine and you can’t get it out of the bottle on Christmas Day?  Hypothetically.  --Tammy, MA

Self, that is a good question.  Frankly, I had no idea, so I called my local liquor store to find out.  According to Bill Kane, store manager of Gordon’s Fine Wines in Waltham, wine that has spent too much time vertical is at risk of cork stickage.  He didn’t actually say “stickage,” but I think we would all know what he meant if he did. 

Keeping your wine horizontal during storage is important because it keeps the cork wet, flexible, and much easier to remove.  If your fancy-schmancy wine opener fails you, Kane recommends trying a good, old-fashioned, hand-held corkscrew, and putting it in at an angle so you don’t end up tunneling through the existing hole.  If that doesn’t work, try jabbing a paring knife into the cork and twisting it manually (careful with that).  If that doesn’t work, use a clean screwdriver to push in the cork or pieces of the cork (you can always strain them out later) to create a pouring hole. 

If that doesn’t work, and this is me speaking now, you are not meant to drink this wine.  Pour yourself some Scotch and curse the French.

Got Mochi?

While making the rounds of family last week, my 10-year old niece let me in on a closely guarded secret among the Maui tween demographic. 

Mochi.

Perhaps you’ve noticed it before in Trader Joe’s frozen section, but you weren’t sure what it was or how to say it (the “ch” is pronounced like chocolate, not like mocha). 

How to describe it?  Think of it as a somewhat flattened ball of ice cream covered in a thick, elastic skin.  Kind of like fried ice cream except not fried.  Like they battered it all up and forgot about it for some undetermined length of time. 

The Mikawaya brand comes in four flavors: strawberry, chocolate, mango, and green tea.  Originally a Japanese confection traditional to their New Year’s celebration, the skin is actually made of glutinous rice.  However, the ingredient list on our box included a pinch of wheat so as to alienate the celiacs (was that disappointment in my mother’s face or relief?). 

The concept is kind of weird, but really kind of intriguing once you figure out how to cut through it with your spoon without completely smushing it (Got…to get…to the ice cream).  My sister wasn’t impressed.  She said her strawberry mochi tasted like a cartoon (more Hello Kitty than Dragon Ball Z, I presume). 

Still, my 4-year old was willing to trade in his chocolate chip cookie for a few oddly chewy spoonfuls of mine, and he’s not an easy sell (although, to be fair, he was still recovering from a bad melted-chocolate-chips-all-over- my-fingers-help-my-skin-is-melting-off kind of emergency situation).  And when we finished (they’re pretty small), I have to admit, I felt cheated.  Out of more mochi or my lost youth, I’m not sure.  Maybe both.

Bottom line: I’d eat another one.  Possibly, a whole box of six.  It helps to have a 10-year-old girl nearby.  Not a bad idea for slumber parties.  But, over the long term, I don’t usually like too much coming between me and my ice cream.

No Blood This Year

If I leave my house on New Year’s Eve, bad things happen.  Very bad things.  Emergency room–related things.

Take our millennium festivities seven years ago.  We went to a party in Somerville, and I woke up the next morning with six stitches and a broken tooth (but you should have seen the other guy).  Actually, what really happened is that I tried to dive through a hardwood floor with my face (my hands were otherwise occupied with beverages).  Next time, I’ll try the stairs.

In college, I once took a New Year’s firecracker to the head while tooling around Florence.  I couldn’t get a brush through my hair for three days, which was about how long it took to get the hearing back in my left ear.  Note to self: when in Italy for New Year’s Eve, stay indoors. 

Last year, I spent New Year’s Day rehydrating in the ER after spending the entire night vomiting.  In case you’ve ever wondered whether it was possible to breastfeed a baby while vomiting, it actually can be done, though nobody really has very much fun.  Another tip: although old-fashioned candy bars sound like a neat idea for stocking stuffers, that’s only true when they themselves have been manufactured within the past decade.  Not if there was any chance they were just salvaged from a vintage basement storeroom somewhere in the Midwest.

Anyway, it should come as no surprise that we decided to lay low this year with a casual dinner party with close friends.  Juliet provided the hummus and Israeli yogurt dip.  Shona shook up the cocktails (pomegranate and pear/cardamom).  I cooked up the short ribs, rice pilaf, and baklava.  And Ed and Chris teamed up with Rich once again to bring us their unique brand of humor. 

Conversation ran the gamut from madcap holiday adventures with our crazy families, to idiot savants and how to nail down their particular talents (i.e., what might happen if instead of a piano nearby, there was only a loom).  Much fun was had, or as much fun as six adults might hope to have with five children sleeping upstairs and one in the womb (not mine, thank God).

Here are some scenes from our New Year’s Eve kitchen:

Beef short ribs braised with balsamic vinegar and tamarind (courtesy of Ana Sortun’s cookbook, Spice).

Oleana’s Paopao cocktail (pear nectar, cardamom, and Prosecco).

Baklava, pre-sugar-syrup-soak.

Baklava, post-sugar-syrup-soak.

Here’s to a brand new, shiny year!