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The best thing since sliced bread…

4 Dec

…would be a toaster that toasts sliced bread. Without burning it.

I just bought a toaster oven two weeks ago, making it the first toaster I’ve owned as an adult. You would think that if I managed without one for the 11 years I’ve lived alone, there would be no need to suddenly break down and join the toasting party.

You would be wrong.

There were two main drivers behind this purchase: 1) I feel guilty when I heat my entire oven to heat something for all of 8 minutes (like a frozen pizza), and 2) I have been craving cinnamon toast a lot lately. Because I have the palette of a ten year old.

I bought the smallest toaster oven I could find, hoping for something that didn’t chew up too much counter space. While I’m thrilled with the size of my model, I’m less thrilled with its temperament. It seems to have two settings: OFF and BURN.

In the two weeks I’ve owned it, I have ruined two frozen belgian waffles and a tray of spinach puff pastry hors d’ouvres. That might not sound like much, but it’s 50% of what I’ve attempted to heat.

And my place is permeated with a burning/charred smell to such and extent that it’s becoming my personal fragrance. I’m pretty sure that at yoga last weekend, shortly after I walked into the studio I heard someone say, “What’s that burning smell?”

If that happens today, I’m prepared: I’ll hand her a lifesaver and say, “I think it’s your breath.”

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Just when I think I’m clever…

21 Nov

This morning I heated my oven to 475 degrees to cook an Alsatian Tarte Flambee for breakfast. (Let’s not even discuss my food choices.) Since my oven was so incredibly hot, in an attempt at environmental responsibility I decided I shouldn’t just waste the residual heat on an empty oven.

Instead, I prepped a tray of walnuts, thinking I’d toast them for a dessert I plan to make later this week. Every few minutes I checked them, and each time I felt somewhat smug, pleased with myself for this burst of efficiency. An added bonus: as the walnuts took on a golden color, my entire place smelled heavenly.

So heavenly, in fact, that when Alan’s sister made a comment on Facebook about how great her place smelled as a result of something she was baking, I felt inclined to comment. And it was only as I typed the following words (which I then erased), that I realized what an idiot I was:

My place smells great too! Get excited: I’m toasting some walnuts for a Mexican Pecan Torte to share with you this week!

In case you’re curious: the pecan torte recipe doesn’t call for any walnuts.

I am a dipshit.

 

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Kale, Gobstoppers and Gangstas: let’s just agree – it takes skill to weave those together.

15 Nov

I’m sitting in my living room, waiting for the kitchen timer to go off, signaling that my kale chips are ready.

That’s right, people, I said kale chips.

(As a side note, let me do a poll: is it just as effective when I say “people” instead of “bitches” like that? Because I like throwing around the word “bitches” for emphasis like I’m gangsta, but I worry that my blog might become a bit too ghetto, and one of my friends’ parents would read it and say, “Why, that Alison has such a MOUTH on her… really, it’s quite unnecessary how much she swears…” without realizing I’m not actually swearing, but being hip and clever. Talk amongst yourselves and report back.)

So back to my kale chips. Let’s start by defining what they are NOT. They are NOT cow chips, wow chips, chocolate chips, or chipwiches. In fact, they don’t actually resemble potato chips.

Did I mention they’re made of kale? But because they have been spritzed with olive oil, generously doused in salt and spices, and baked until crispy, it turns out they make a fine substitute for potato chips. Except with slightly more nutritional value. Seriously, if you doubt me, you must try them… comment and I’ll post the simple/quick recipe.

The only downside is that after you eat them you definitely need to do a tooth-check before venturing out in public because you’ve essentially thrown black/green/purple confetti in your mouth.

Continue reading →

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An Ode to Fall: I’m ready to hibernate.

14 Nov

Alan’s in Michigan for the opening of rifle season, hoping to fill his freezer with venison for the next year.

Since I tend to be someone who gets energy from “alone time,” I’m using this week to recharge batteries through simple daily indulgences. This weekend, food has been the basis of some good exploration.

Friday night my friends Dan and Molly came over for wine and a simple spread of antipasti. (They brought the most amazing contribution – spicy meat and a meat/cheese-filled bread from Trinacria in Baltimore… check out the photo to the right if you’re drooling to get one yourself.)

Yesterday morning I hit the Farmer’s Market – hauling home sweet potatoes, broccoli, honeycrisp apples, spaghetti squash and a bag of purple kale – before walking into Georgetown to check out the Spice & Tea Exchange.

It was the kind of place where I wanted to go nuts and try everything, but at $4.89/oz, could easily go broke. Fortunately, I had a $20 credit (purchased for $9.60, courtesy of homerun.com), so I poked around and ended up leaving with four envelopes of spice blends –  Thai Coconut Rub, Autumn Blend, Tuscany Blend and Backwoods Hickory Rub. I’m testing out the Autumn Blend this morning on a pork roast, and my place smells awesome.

While it’s a bit pricey for my own daily consumption, the envelopes of tea, spices and flavored sugars would make excellent hostess gifts. In fact, I might be inspired to make some spice blends of my own at home and – with a few vials from the Container Store – have a little something extra that I slip in with a bottle of wine to take to this winter’s holiday parties.

Go ahead, steal my idea. Just make sure we don’t go to the same party. Or I will place this sticker on whatever you bring:

I’m sipping on a mug of freshly mulled cider as I write this, and I’ll be honest – the real reason I mulled the cider was because I wanted to make my place smell like fall. And you know what? My place DOES smell great now, and as opposed to burning a Yankee Candle, I can drink the finished product. Fall is the best season. Ever.

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The Muscles from Brussels broke my sink. Make that Mussels from Whole Foods..

31 Oct

Friday we had my friends Mike and Betsy over for a joint birthday dinner. Her birthday is the 21st and mine’s the 30th, so we combine them each year for a nice night out. This year we decided to stay in, but to make it festive, I wanted to get a bit experimental in the kitchen.

The tricky thing is that Betsy is a vegetarian, which isn’t where my mind immediately goes when I’m thinking of new flavors. I like a protein that was once breathing on my plate. So I got crafty and decided to make steamed mussels for the first time.

And because I’m an overachiever (and somewhat indecisive), I decided to make mussels two ways – one in a Curry Cream sauce, the others a more traditional sauce of fresh tomatoes, wine and parsley.

 

So a few things for people out there who have never prepared mussels:

From the moment I purchased them at Whole Foods (a ten minute walk from my house), I felt like I was carrying the Nuclear Football. The guys at the fish counter gave me good advice – don’t tie the bags shut, keep them on ice or put them in the fridge, rinse them but don’t submerge them… etc. – but it was like getting instructions on my first babysitting job ever. There was SO MUCH to remember, I was convinced these mussels would die on my watch.

And yes, there’s some irony for you. I am going to kill these mussels, but I don’t want them to die before I’m ready. Seems a bit sadistic, no?

So I rushed them home, and put them in the refrigerator. Through the bags, I could see that they were opening in what I imagined to be some final gasps of breath. (I don’t know why, but I started thinking of the shells as mouths.) I was a bit alarmed that they were suicidal, so I broke out the computer and googled “will mussels die in my fridge?”

I couldn’t find any kind of confirmation, so I just started prepping ingredients and pacing. When Alan arrived, I was a Stress Cat. “But you don’t understand!” I greeted him. “I am afraid the mussels are DYING as we speak! This is going to be a disaster!”

Alan assured me that restaurants wouldn’t serve mussels if they were that trigger-happy, which offered me some reassurance that they might not die prematurely, or that if they did, I wouldn’t accidentally serve a bad mussel and kill someone.

Just before Mike and Betsy arrived, I decided we should clean the mussels. Mussels have “beards” – hairy fibers that hang out of the shell. Although most cultured mussels are already debearded when you buy them, there are a few stubborn suckers that insist on making YOU yank the beard off, which is not fun and not for the weak handed.

We then scrubbed each mussel individual (the car wash) and gave it a good “thunk” with our finger to make sure it would snap shut. Those that weren’t tight got pitched. We were through the first 50 mussels when Mike and Betsy wheeled in. In retrospect, while Betsy is fine with seafood, she probably was somewhat horrified to walk in and see us confirming that each creature was still alive. (For our next trick, well throw lobsters in boiling water after letting her pet them.)

The mussels turned out great. Restaurant quality – and there was only one mussel that failed to open, so Whole Foods gets a thumbs up for the quality of their catch.

The only failure of the night was my foresight. We scrubbed and debearded the mussels in my sink. When we were done, I rinsed the beards down the garbage disposal without thinking.

Until this morning, when I noticed that the water was slow to drain from my sink and I went to run the garbage disposal. And it made no noise and smelled hot. Damn. I’m going to guess some bit of shell was attached to a beard and has jammed up the gears.

In an attempt to manually solve the problem (and prevent my house from smelling like compost when I return from Chicago later this week), I stuffed my hand down the disposal (while it was off, of course). I pulled out pulped tomato bits, parley pieces, onion, and some chunks I couldn’t identify, as well as some of those tell-tale beards.

I’m pretty sure I now know what a veterinarian feels like when he goes in up to elbow to deliver a calf.

Actually, now that I think of it, maybe this is why Betsy is a vegetarian.

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