Hail Caesar! And Hello Again!

Missed me? You missed me. You totally missed me. I missed you! But there's been like...life to live. And blogging takes a backseat.

Casserole

I think a lot about food. This is what you do when you're trying to give up all the food that is bad for you, which is a constant, unwinnable battle. (How is unwinnable not a word? It should completely be a word, right? Things that can't be won: unwinnable. I guess I could just say futile but that's not quite the same. Whatever. Words are stupid. Says person who writes a lot.)

Anyway, I was discussing our mutual attempts to eat better when a friend said something about scrambling eggs and them not coming out right and I asked her what she did and she said, "Ya know, just scramble them in the pan." What? No. What? NO. AHAHAHA What? Noooo. I then described in detail how to scramble eggs. At least how I do it. (Opinions vary, as I discovered when I went to link friend to a "how to scramble eggs" youtube clip and none were quite what I do. But none were "throw eggs in pan and scramble" either.)

Then 40 Going on 28 wrote about popping corn on the stove top and what a revelation that was. Something I had already informed you good people about.

Funny what you grow up knowing about cooking. It helps that I happen to truly love being alone in a kitchen doing stuff. Sort of powerful for me. Which is one reason why my problem with food persists. I'm currently whipping up these bad boys BECAUSE I CAN. And I like afternoon tea. And shortbread goes really well with afternoon tea. Apparently I'm British. (Related: I bought a Bloomspot deal, and the other day and my mom and I went to Dartealing to use it. In white girl speak: Super adorbs! Highly recommended tea place.)

Sh*t White People Eat

When I was at the vaunted Olympic Club on Monday, I kept saying that I wanted to go into the clubhouse and order a white wine spritzer and relax on the patio. Beth finally asked, "Do people still drink those?" I have no idea, but it seems like the kind of drink a woman who frequents a country club would drink. And then I'd have a TaB. (True story: law firm I worked at during college had TaB in the vending machine. Every secretary, and they sure as shit were still secretaries, no admin assistant crap, to a woman (yes, all women), drank it. That shit is straight up white girl fuel.)

It got me thinking about other shit white people eat, which brought to mind this hysterical, and completely accurate, article from a couple years ago in the Hairpin about artichoke dip. (My family adds diced jalapeno and Tony's to ours. We like a bit of heat. We're dangerous.)

Quick Bites

First, your musical interlude:

I am not the kind of music aficionado who has opiniony opinions on bands or is ever ahead of the curve in what's hip and cool music wise. I rarely go to concerts because "Ah! People!" But I've linked to The Lumineers Ho Hey before and now I'm really digging this song. It's on a topic I relate to: "Classy girls don't kiss in bars." Word. So: musical endorsement: The Lumineers. 

Since I am the unemployed loser of the family, it falls on me to make dinner on the days the 'rents are at work. I have a natural aptitude in the kitchen and actually kind of laugh at any of you that can't feed yourself. Okay, not really, but you should work on that. It's a useful trick, to be able to make food for yourself.

In fact, I so enjoy the kitchen that I kind of get annoyed when anyone else is in there when I'm cooking. "No! This is ME time!" I just jam. Music on, doing my chopping, dicing, sauteing, straining thing. It's not usually fancy, though it can be. I think I like cooking because I know what the hell I'm doing when with pretty much everything else I don't. It's a control thing.

As I'm trying to do a low-ish carb "diet" (I'm so far from perfect, it's annoying but I'm trying. I haven't had fast food in over a month, which is the same time that I haven't touched potato chips. Dr Pepper and french fries remain a problem but trying to limit to once a week. Since you asked.), I'm trying out a bunch of new recipes that don't involve just meat and potatoes, which is the go to norm for our family.

The best replacement for regular meat and potatoes is beans. High in fiber, filling, good for you. Or so I tell myself.

I found the following recipe in one of the many Sunset magazines that are littered throughout our house and it was quite the hit. It's a recipe for campfire Dutch oven cooking but I cook outdoors exactly never. (Do I look like I camp? Actually, I'd kinda like to start. I do enjoy a good moderate hike. Beers in the woods sounds good. Beer sounds good. Stupid low carb life.) It works just fine on the stovetop. I had minor modifications and my amended recipe is below. The original one is at the link. (Mostly I skipped their herb recommendations as rosemary can be overpowering and I'm not buying anything else just to throw a tiny bit in a pot.) This actually takes like no time at all and is stupid easy so I don't get to hang in the kitchen much when I make it, but for simple, one pot dishes, this one was pretty fabulous.





2 cans (15.5 oz. size) each cannellini beans and chickpeas (garbanzos), drained and rinsed (That's four cans total for those of you who are bad at math/weird directions.)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 red bell pepper, sliced
1/2 yellow bell pepper, sliced
1 poblano chile, sliced (or whatever chile you have. I used Anaheim the first time; it was fine.)
4 medium garlic cloves, chopped
1 1/2 pounds cooked Italian sausages, such as Saag's or Aidells, cut into 1-in. chunks (I used Hillshire Farms smoked sausage, as we had one in the house. Any smoked sausage would work. You could use a raw sausage and cook it before making this but I think the smoked sausages had the right flavors. And that's an extra step. You don't want to take an extra step.)
Because I was indoctrinated into Tony's life in college: a healthy shake of that stuff all over.

Preparation
1. Throw everything into your pot with 3/4 cup of water. Cover. Put on medium heat.
2. Check every ten to fifteen minutes and stir. Add more water if it gets dry (I did not have this problem, but just in case). When the peppers are soft and the sausage swells (stop it!), it's done. Enjoy!

I find this hearty, filling, and delicious, and a nice riff on traditional chili which can feel really heavy.

In addition to being the family dinner maker, I'm the family baker. If you've read any of my Christmas posts, I go a bit crazy at that time of year. I'm finally sick of it though as I've decided most of my family is made up of ungrateful jerks and my culinary prowess goes completely unappreciated. So I'm sort of giving up on it. Because I'm stubborn. But! Because I am broke and couldn't afford a fabulous mother's day present for my mom, I told her I'd bake her something each month for all of time. Or until I move out. Whichever comes first. She always bugs me to bake and I always resist. I'm actually not much of a sweets person. Every so often I'll be like, "Chocolate. Now." But mostly my weakness is potatoes. All the potatoes.

There are, however, exceptions. One of which is caramel crumb bars. These things are addictive. I'm gonna just start calling them crack bars. They were my mom's first request for her mother's day present. There is a plate of them sitting on the kitchen table and I do not have the will power to resist them. Stupid baking skills. If you have any baking skills yourself, I highly recommend these. If you don't, you can pay me $20 and I'll make them for you. You're welcome.

I Can't Believe I'm Writing About the Olive Garden

But here it is.

Here's what happened, as short of a version as I can make it, in case you live somewhere without internet: A nice old lady in North Dakota wrote an entirely unironic and heartfelt review of the exciting new Olive Garden opening there. I have to admit my own bit of a chuckle when I got to the line "Instead of the raspberry lemonade she suggested, I drank water." It's adorable.

Then the internet got ahold of it and made it this THING, as the internet is known to do. THEN the food snobs that live in this city, did a review of our own Olive Garden because OMG we have one here in San Francisco too and how novel and quirky! That's when my head exploded a little bit and there were long Twitter conversations, the end result of which was basically I need to start a Tumblr called Weird Olive Garden Experiences, or: The Unbearable Sadness and l'ennui of Olive Garden.

All caught up? Okay. Now:

I didn't take internet glee in the initial review or chide it the way most of the internet did. Not that I'm above such snark, I'm obviously not. The lady reminded me of my grandmother and the way she reacted to things and I found it admirable that at her age she was keeping busy and churning out columns and that her review was straight forward and informative. What was there, really, to mock? You elitist kids and your locally grown, organic all natural farm to table food thought this was hysterical? Get over yourselves. Because guess what? The people in the midwest can't believe you'd go to Gary Danko (a restaurant I quite enjoy, btw) and drop what you do on tiny portions when you could go to the all you can eat pizza buffet for $10. It cuts both ways.

I also think that living in South Louisiana for a time gave me a fair amount of perspective, and some insight into the way life is for people who don't have constant access to locally owned and operated restaurants.

In a perfect world would we be able to support a locally operated business with values who is taking time, effort, and energy to make us a meal? Absolutely. That'd be great. But if there's one thing we know: the world is far from perfect. And sometimes you're visiting family in Grand Forks and the Olive Garden is THE best option. Sometimes you're on business in a place you're not familiar with and the Olive Garden/Red Lobster/Outback are comforting places where you understand the menu and can feel inconspicuous. Not everyone is lucky enough to live in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago or New York and have access to CIA grads trying out sous vide recipes with locally sourced meat from grass fed cows. Sometimes you work in an office park and the nearest choices are between Flingers and Flickers. The vast majority of the country goes to a chain restaurant and eats perfectly serviceable food in relaxed settings. And as food snobby as even the best San Franciscan can be, try to get into the Cheesecake Factory in Union Square on a weekend without a three hour wait.

I'm far more bothered by the utter douchery of the SF review than of Marilyn Hagerty's no nonsense take. They are not so above it. They even admit to having grown up with it. I actually didn't grow up with it. I, even as a kid, looked at a place like Sizzler as the most bizarre and novel experience. We used to tease my brother's best friend for saying that was his favorite. All the LOLZ. Essentially: I was a food snob, by breeding, before I even knew what that was. (Yes, I had an extremely privileged and spoiled upbringing. I am aware.) I got that knocked out of me when I went to college.

New Orleans may be one of the best food cities in the world, Baton Rouge on the other hand is actually known as a testing market for new chain menu items and even new chain concepts, it's so thoroughly The Middle. I once read that displaced New Orleans natives after Katrina had a very hard time adjusting to all the strip malls and chain restaurants after being used to their neighborhood places. I completely understand that. I spent my first year in college getting chided for being a food snob. "Uh, you guys are going to Chili's? Isn't there like...a better option?" And likely there was (The Chimes comes to mind) but we were all college kids who weren't native to this new city, going places that were cheap and had 2 for 1 happy hour. We also went to where our friends worked. I'm gonna guess that chain restaurants employ a huge population of college kids working their way through college, something ignored by the SF review.

Look, I'm completely guilty of even taking down this particular Olive Garden, long before the review of it came out. (Summary of that: I hate the Olive Garden and the last time I was there, because of unrelated issues, I ended up bawling after my visit.) (My hatred of the Olive Garden does not mean I am above loving other chains. I quite enjoy some Outback cheese fries every now and then. And my affinity for Hooters wings is documented.)

But my comments there aren't really about lamenting how naive these people are to think the Olive Garden is the best, it's wishing they had other options. I have a bigger problem with corporate chains taking over our life than with Grand Forks adoration of its new restaurant. (It was also about, as someone said, "Olive Garden isn't someplace you go, it's someplace you end up." So very true. And when I ended up there, it was kind of an awful moment all around.)

The desire for people to have and seek out local options comes from experience. When I was traveling Europe solo, I ate at far more McDonald's than I would ever like to admit. I couldn't get used to eating alone so I just wanted to eat something I knew how to order as quickly as possible and not cause a fuss. After a bit of doing that I realized it was absurd and made an effort to eat at local places and try local cuisine. Now whenever, wherever, I travel, I make a concerted effort to find places that are local and noteworthy and do what my dad once taught me, "If they have a house specialty, order it." Food is more than just perfectly comforting sustenance. I don't want to go into a "food can elevate existence" rant here, but, well, it often can. I'm more likely to find out about a place, to talk to locals, to even learn something about myself at their own little joint than I am at the IHOP next to the freeway. Even thinking about my time in Baton Rouge, I was about to leave the city for good before I knew there even was a downtown with cool, funky places to get good food.

Am I perfect in my "eat local" execution? Of course not. Even I'm guilty of driving somewhere and just wanting to eat what I know rather than seeking out something new. Sometimes I'm trying to get where I'm going and quick, easy, and convenient is what I want. Sometimes I'm just lazy. Sometimes I crave junk food. Sometimes Hooters is easier than parking in the Lower Haight to go to Wing Wings.

But I GET it, Grand Forkians, your Olive Garden is a big deal. Far more absurd than you being excited about it, and the utterly straight forward account of what it is by a grandmother, is the faux wonderment and utter snobbish derision offered by the SF "review" of the Olive Garden. You deserve better than that mocking tone for what you enjoy. I apologize, as one native San Franciscan, who lives closer to our single Olive Garden than I do to any of our fine restaurants, for the snobbishness of us all. Because at some point, we are all Grand Forkians seeking out food that is "warm and comforting on a cold day".

(More good reading on the feeling aspect of the topic from Posnanski here, ATVS here. More thoughtful understanding on the topic from Awl here.)

Football Food Returns (Kinda)

It's football playoffs. For those of you who still care. My season ended. We're not talking about it.

We're midway though the hockey season as far as I'm concerned. (I watch so much NHL on the Fly at this point that I go to bed at night with foreign born player names running through my head. Which is basically all of them because Canada is a foreign country. (They spell defense and offense wrong.) (Oh, and if someone can explain why Saskatchewan accents sound like they're from Finland, I'd appreciate that. Perplexes me.))

But I wanted to tell you about an addicting recipe. One that is not mine but is stupid easy (as per usual) and your friends will enjoy if you want to trot something out for the inevitable Super Bowl party, whether the 49ers make it or not.*

Mashed Potatoes

I haven't posted anything food related on here in awhile and as I continue to avoid looking at my pathetic bank account, I figured I'd give you guys something to do on Thanksgiving that will make your parents proud of your ability to actually feed yourselves. Thus: Mashed Potatoes! I mean, how can you not love these? I am one of those people who takes potatoes over sweets 9 times out of 10 (with the body shape to prove it) so I might not be the best example but yeah, mashed potatoes are the best (well, next to french fries, and au gratin, and a loaded baked and scalloped...). It's fairly stupid easy but, well, I've had discussions with some of you about not owning the most rudimentary of kitchen utensils so we start with the basics.

And, in fact, for this being a stupid easy thing to make, potatoes surprisingly have a lot of their own tools. Just to get starches down our throat. I know, right? Also: if you are eating instant mashed potatoes, I don't want to talk to you. At all. Ever. It's an affront to the potato. And bad economics. A box of instant potatoes is, what, $3.99? A 10 lb bag of potatoes costs about that and yields way more. Don't EVER eat anything instant, do you hear me? There are just no excuses. If you're gonna kill yourself, if should be with real butter and cream and home cooked foods. /climbs off soap box  Minor exception: frozen veggies CAN be better than fresh, especially in the case of peas, but other than that: no.

(Oh! An aside! (you've missed these): When I moved from the all natural state of California to the deep fried state of Louisiana, getting used to their cooking habits took me a long time. And mostly I rebelled against them and tried to change their ways. Other than incorporating Tony's heavily into my repertoire, learning I would be looked at funny if I said "soda", and upping my spice tolerance, that is. Why in god's green earth does everyone in the south use freaking margarine? WHY?! It makes exactly zero sense. I'm pretty sure it's been proven to be worse for you than regular butter. My college roommate, smart, gorgeous, ridiculously popular, had it in our fridge when I moved into our room. "What in the hell is that?" I asked her. Seriously you guys, I'd never seen it before. Never. I'd also never heard the n word spoken out loud 'til I moved to Louisiana either, so, ya know, yay for being a sheltered Californian? I was unfamiliar with this weird tub of butter-like substance. It seemed, as I learned more about the South, to be a staple of every household. One that I to this day do not comprehend. If I'm going to kill myself, it is going to be with full fat, full flavored, full caloried butter. Not that imitation crap. So, just, yeah, BUTTER in your mashed potatoes.)

Utensils:
Large pot
Potato peeler
Strainer
Potato masher
Knife

Cooking items:
Salt
Stick o' butter
Russet potatoes, 4lbs-ish, but really you can do this with any amount
cream, about a half cup.

Rinse the potatoes. This makes them easier to peel. I don't know why, just trust me on this. Take your potato peeler and peel the potatoes. Don't have a potato peeler? I think you're lame and should go to the store and buy one because they cost about $3 but if you insist, a paring knife will do. Just be extra super careful. If you're using a peeler, it's pretty self explanatory, take it and peel off the skin. I make this a competition if someone is "helping" me do this. I can get through ten pounds of potatoes in less than 30 minutes. If ever in prison, this skill will likely come in handy. If you're using the knife, you're going to take thin ribbons of potato skin off. I like to make a game when using a knife of how much I can peel off without lifting the knife off the potato. Yes, I'm well aware that I might need something like a life.

Alright, your potatoes are peeled. Rinse them again to get rid of the rest of the dirt. Cut them into 1 inch cubes (in half lengthwise, in half lengthwise again, run knife down to cut them into roughly uniform pieces). Throw potato cubes in a pot, add water to cover. Add a ton of salt. Place on stove on high heat. Wait for them to boil. Boil the bejeezus out of them. You should be able to stab them with a fork and not meet any resistance. I do want to caution against over boiling. You can leave them boiling forever, 'til they're falling apart and they'll still make a decent mash but they're much better, contain less water, if you make sure they retain their shape. So boil on high for about ten minutes and check them, then check them every five minutes until they're done. You are WAY better off overcooking than undercooking though. No one likes crunchy mashed potatoes. Err on the side of too much rather than not enough.

When fork tender, carefully remove pot from stove and strain potatoes.

Now, if you want to be fancy, you can combine the butter and cream over low heat in a sauce pot on the stove. All the chefs in the world would tell you to do this, but whatever, it's not necessary. Oh, and we're using cream. Yes, cream. It's actually called "Heavy Whipping Cream". It's Thanksgiving. Don't be the asshole who makes the healthy version of mashed potatoes with your 1% milk. Everyone will hate you. In particular me. Oh, and you can use more than just a stick of butter. Use all the butter you want. Pretend you're Paula Deen and butter those potatoes up. 1 cube was just a starting point. There's actually an inside joke in my family where we call mashed potatoes with equal parts potato to butter French mashed potatoes. This stems from when we were in France (pretentious anecdote alert) eating at Le Jules Verne. My entree came with a small copper pot on the side loaded with the most insanely decadent mashed potatoes ever. And whenever we eat at French restaurants, their butter/potato ratio still seems to be about equal. Thus: really buttery mashed potatoes are French mashed potatoes. Made funnier if my mom says it in an accent. (This is actually a restaurant trick for just about everything. Want to know why their food tastes better than yours? They've added butter all along the way, way more than you would ever dream of using at home, to make their food taste good.)

Once you have strained your potatoes, return them to the pot. Turn the heat back on low. You're essentially going to dry out your potatoes without cooking them. Do this for about five minutes, stirring them occasionally. (You are free to skip this step.)

Get out your masher. I recommend one that looks like this:

That's my preference. I like my mashed potatoes a little rustic and not perfect so that masher works for me. If you want super silky smooth mashed potatoes, run them through a food mill or a ricer. If you have to ask what a ricer is, get the thing pictured and don't be such a gunner, okay? For the love of god do not use a mixer. Whipping mashed potatoes makes them super extra starchy somehow and tasting like what I can only imagine cafeteria food tastes like so while that may seem like a reasonable short cut, it is not and the potato gods will know and smite you. Do. Not. Whip. Your. Mashed. Potatoes. Got that? This whole thing isn't taking you that long anyway, so deal with it. (The worst part is peeling. What can I say? Thousands of years of human evolution and a peeler or a knife is the best we can do. Yes, there is also the apple corer but it wastes a lot of the potato.)

Pour your melted butter/cream mixture over the potatoes and get to mashing. If you didn't melt those together, no worries. Just cube up your butter and toss it in the potatoes and pour the cream over the top. You might want more than my guess at an estimated amount of cream, depending on how loose you want your potatoes/how well they're holding up. You don't want them swimming in cream but you want the right consistency. As with the Supreme Court's ruling on pornograph: you'll know it when you see it.

Mashing them is very basic behavior. Just get in there and mash 'em up. Do it until you have the consistency you want. Like I said, I don't like mine perfectly smooth, a few lumps and a rough consistency is right for me. But it's up to you. You'll know. (I'm saying that a lot here, but just trust your instinct. You can always go in and mash more) Make sure you at least thoroughly incorporate the butter, cream, and potatoes.

You'll need to taste test along the way. Add more butter or cream as you see necessary. You might need to throw in a heavy pinch of salt. Because fun fact: potatoes don't really taste like anything. That's why you'll be covering these in turkey gravy later. So add more butter, cream, and salt until they taste perfect to you. Again: you'll just know when you got it right. This is a fairly un-fuck-up-able recipe. It may end up too salty, it may end up a little too creamy but they'll still be edible. 

You can make the mashed potatoes well ahead of dinner, just leave them in the pot and then reheat them on low heat while stirring. If you don't stir and use anything but low heat, you will burn the mashed potatoes and ruin Thanksgiving. Yes, ruin it. Don't do that.

If you want to be fancy, you can add sour cream for a little tang to your mashed potatoes. Cream cheese will add, well, creaminess. You can roast garlic (bulb of garlic, top sliced off, drizzle of olive oil, wrap in foil, place in oven for 1 hour at 375, smush out bulbs) and add it to your mashed potatoes. Fresh rosemary is nice, as well as other fresh herbs. You can do any or all of that if you want extra credit. But frankly? I'm a purist. Just the salt, butter, and cream for me. And then slathered in turkey gravy.

Can't wait for Thanksgiving...

Pasta Carbonara

I'm working on an epically long sports post that I'm hoping to have done before I leave for Vegas. (I will! I will have it done! Like I got f*ck all else going on...)

In the meantime, as I am in a writing mood, pretending to eat carrots like they are actually so delicious and not just sticks to shove in my face, I confer on you my most favoritest pasta recipe ever. Guaranteed to stop your heart. Seriously, eat this only very rarely, it will kill you. But it's also super easy to make. I ate it the other night before drinking my weight in Corona. (Fat forever, y'all!)

What ya need:

• Pancetta. That's Italian for bacon. If you don't want to spend money on pancetta, just get bacon. But make sure it's GOOD bacon. Like really good. Remember our rule: the better the ingredients, the better the dish. You need like half a pound of this. More if you want. Seriously, it's bacon. You can't go wrong.
• 1 c heavy whipping cream
• 1 c (maybe more like 1 1/2. I like cheese, I use a lot) grated parmesan reggiano cheese. Yes, the good expensive stuff. From Italy. Your parm should not be made in Wisconsin.
• 6 egg yolks (Told you this dish would kill you.)
• Your preferred long pasta. I'm partial to linguine but whatever works.

Dice up your pancetta/bacon. Fry it in a pan til all crispy and golden. Resist temptation to walk by and eat it piece by piece leaving none for pasta dish. In the meantime, boil a large part of water for your pasta. In a mixing bowl, whisk together your egg yolks and cream, dump in all the cheese you want. Set aside. Okay, cook your pasta to perfection and drain. Put the bacon in the pot you just emptied of pasta and add about a tablespoon of the bacon grease, return the pasta to the bowl and toss it all together. Put it on low heat and dump on your egg yolk mixture. Gently toss all to coat and for it to thicken up a bit.

That's it. Plate and serve. Red pepper flakes can add a little punch and you can always add more cheese but that's the extent of making the carbonara. You can feel less guilty when you eat scrambled egg whites, from separating yolk and white, the next morning instead of just eggs. But not really.

Warm Cookies

No, that's not a euphemism. (Could it be? I dunno. One of you would turn it into one, wouldn't you?)

I'm fairly convinced of the healing powers of warm chocolate chip cookies dipped in ice cold milk. As I just ate two of them. In that vein, today I offer my idiot proof guide to making chocolate chip cookies.

You know how you buy the dough, break them off and can put them in the oven? Yeah. That's for amateurs. You aren't an amateur, are you? No. You aren't. You like a solid, homemade cookie. And impressing people with your culinary prowess. Or secretly hoping to make them fat so you look thin by comparison. (No one does that. Nope. Never. Wouldn't dream of it.) So make these.

(As an aside: I kinda rock at the cookie making. I go crazy at Christmas time and make oodles of them and get rave reviews for all my different concotions. It's the closest I get, for now, to being a rock star, shoving cookies in peoples' faces. So trust this recipe. You with me? Good.)

This is basically the recipe on the bag of the bag of Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips but I've modified it so that you need only one bowl and no mixer, thus making it that much easier, just right for you bachelor types. Trust me when I tell you that in the amount of time it will take you to open the package and break them apart, you can make a whole batch on your own. Okay, slightly longer, but the rewards in flavor and comfort level provided will be worth it.

What ya need:

2 cubes of butter
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
3/4 cup white sugar
1 tsp vanilla (Yes, buy this. Do not whine about needing it. I can imagine you now. Stop it.)
2 eggs
salt (a dash if your butter is salted, a teaspoon if your butter is unsalted)
1 tsp baking soda
2 1/4 cups flour
1 12 oz bag of semisweet chocolate chips

Utensils:
Large mixing bowl
Spoon or other stirring implement
cookie sheets
teaspoon

To make:
Turn oven to 375 (okay, really more like 365 works the best but if your oven has those stupid little hash marks, just do somewhere between 350 and 375). Slice butter into pats or chunks and throw in bowl. Microwave for a minute and a half or so (our microwave is old, thus takes a bit longer, probably killing me faster), until melted. No one anywhere recommends this but this works for me, so, screw 'em.

After the butter is melted (it doesn't have to be perfectly melted, a few remaining lumps of butter is fine), stir in the brown sugar followed by the white sugar. Dump in vanilla and stir again. Add eggs. They'll sort of float on top so whisk them together a bit, breaking the yolks and then mix in to the butter sugar mixture. Add your salt and stir again. Sprinkle the baking soda over the top and stir yet again. Stupid easy so far, amIright?

Alright, here's where it gets ever so slightly complicated: The flour? Stir it in about a 1/3 of a cup at a time. And make sure to really stir it in, that it's all incorporated before adding some more. Phew. Difficult, I know. Once you've mixed in all the flour, dump in the chocolate chips, stir in to batter. What'd that take, five minutes? Rock star.

Drop your cookies by heaping teaspoons onto a cookie sheet, spaced apart about 2". Put in oven. I initially set a timer for 8 minutes, but check it after about 7 to see how they are doing.

If you have an extra cookie sheet, drop the dough on that one and then when the others are done you can switch it out and have constantly rotating cookie sheets so that there is always something in the oven and you aren't stuck waiting in the kitchen all day. If not, no big, remove the warm cookies to a plate in a single layer to cool. (I'd say a wire cooling rack but I don't want to ask too much of you people.)

Because ovens are finicky beasts, and mine runs hot, I actually turn the temp down a bit after the first round of cookies and decrease the cooking time by about fifteen seconds after each batch. I know, that sounds complicated, but just: 8 minutes somewhere between 350 and 375 and check at the seven minute mark. You'll be fine. (They might need longer, somewhere in the ten minute range, depending on how your oven runs.)

These cookies tend to come out thinner and crispier than if you creamed the butter and sugars together, which is how I like them.

Et voila! Homemade chocolate chip cookies! To dip in milk! Heaven! (Immmmaaaa be fat forever. Sigh.)

I even took a picture for you. Pretty! And delicious.

How to Pop Corn

More in the how to feed yourself in case of zombie apocalypse series. Though I think this one works  better for how to impress someone on an in home movie date.

Actual real IM conversation the other day:

Me: Yeah, but I ate like four cups of popcorn (after working out).
Him: Popcorn = not bad at all.
Me: Butter.
Him: You should read the back of the bag sometime.
Me: giggle
Me: I DO NOT MAKE POPCORN OUT OF A BAG!
Him: Oh, right

Junk Food (kinda)

Today we're taking my guilty pleasures and making it grown up food. I have several food addictions: dark chocolate, Dr Pepper, bacon, egg yolk, anything fried. There is a reason my body is not what I would like to be. Besides genetics.

This time we tackle ranch dressing and buffalo wings. Or: The buffalo chicken salad.

Play at the Plate

I should have written this earlier. Before our baseball world got imploded with Buster Posey's ankle. (I'm watching Sportsnet Bay Area right now. That is one quiet locker room. Oh, and pictures.) But I didn't, because I am easily distracted by shiny objects/the fleeting matters of my own brain so I'm less exuberant about last night than I would have been otherwise.

Anyway, I went to the Giants game last night. It was predictably cold. Those of you that don't have the pleasure of San Francisco summers, the main descriptor would be temperate. I have undoubtably mentioned before that it wasn't 'til I went to college in South Louisiana that I finally figured out why were wearing short sleeves at night on all those Braves broadcasts that Turner shoved down our throats in the '90's. "Oh! You mean you don't buy hot chocolate in July at night all over the country? Who knew?!" Not I, that's for sure.

So Tuesday night was one of those chilly weeknight games. Angela got a Kalua and coffee. The Giants lost. That all seems really trivial in the wake of our adorable, well liked, hard playing catcher getting bowled over at home and...we won't even guess at what the outcome is.

But before the game, and tonight's game, was dinner. OMG dinner. We went to Don Pistos. You guys need to alert me when something awesome happens in North Beach. This place was amazing. I meant to ask to bring a back of chips home to eat later because they were that good but by the time we got done sharing all the small plates, I was too full to remember. The flavors were all really fresh and bright. It was just so delicious. You can tell when something is being made with careful attention, you know? This was. Shrimp tacos, chicken tostadas, grilled pork chop, the beef with the fried eggs so the yolk oozes... Have I mentioned my new favorite condiment is egg yolk? Yeah. It is. This is why I will be fat forever. Between frisee, lardons and a poached egg at french restaurants, the ravioli uovo I had at Seven Hills the other night, a fondness for carbonara, and my penchant for breaking the egg yolk all over my roasted potatoes at breakfast, I'm pretty sure no matter how much I run, I will never ever get thin. This is a conundrum. I'm already trying to give up soda and potatoes. Not sure I can add egg yolk to that list. (We won't even mention my fondness for ranch dressing...actually, we will later. I'm gonna do another what I eat thing.)

So yeah. Dinner was awesome. Baseball? Well. We still have a WS trophy in the case don't we? No one can take that away.

Chicken (soup)

You're getting a two for one today. This will be both "how to feed yourself like a grown up" (especially when sick) and a story of how I totally punted and now feel LAME. (Skip down four paragraphs if you know how to make/don't care about soup.)

5 ingredients + knife = dinner

More in my "How to feed yourself like a grown up in case of zombie attack" series.

Whipped Cream (It's been bad)

Horrible pun. Don't care.

Decisions and Cooking

Do you ever feel paralyzed by making decisions? Even the really little ones? Like there are just too many choices? Tom Petty sang that the future is wide open but maybe it's frighteningly wide open. At least that's how I feel lately.

Normalcy

I thought being done with the bar exam would be a big giant relief and I would be a normal human being again. Um. Yeah. I completely figured that one wrong. I was a giant anger ball for the past week. Mostly, I think (I really have to stop typing "I think". OBVIOUSLY it's my thoughts. Gah. Bad writing.), because it meant the future was here and that's scary for all of its own reasons.

So like I said, giant anger ball. Which I didn't want to shout at the internet because it's all just very me me me and I find it annoying and self indulgent so don't really want to expose everyone else out there to it too. And there's definitely still stuff I'm working through, both on an emotional level and on an actual tangible clean my room run errands level. Sometimes those are the same thing.

Instead, after wanting to claw my skin off/punch a wall/kick something, I finally called up Cheryl and we ramped up the ole BNBD meter. On a Tuesday night. It's Thursday. I'm fairly certain I'm still hungover. (It's now Friday. I feel mostly human again.)

But ya know what? It was one of those in vino veritas/bacchanalia much needed release kind of things. Despite the hangover I felt much better after acting like a drunken idiot than I had prior to it.

My mom kiboshed my road trip to New Orleans because my car is actually HER car, so despite being 30 I am stuck in the 'Sco (Yeah, the Sco. I'm hip. What of it?), which lead to some of the crankyness. I realize, after pouting about it for a day, that it's probably better to not just drive to Louisiana without a plan or a place to stay. On the other hand, as my dad said when we talked about it Thursday night, "What's the point of living if you can't be spontaneous?" And in true defiant teenager fashion, that's when I went out and got drunk.

After the BNBD night, I peaced out to the beach house and basically laid around there doing nothing. It was magnificent. I indulged in all my guilty pleasure foods and played tug-o-war with Maverick.

And now, I am back at my house and it's time to seriously get shit together. Like yesterday. So we're gonna do that now. Slowly. Lists and checking things off and such.

Not a particularly exciting update but I'll have more soon (I hope).

In the meantime, it's Mardi Gras weekend. Which should be a national holiday(s?). In honor of NOT being there, I've decided to make a ton of New Orleans food and indulge. Because that's the point. Sheer hedonism. We're gonna do Mosca's Chicken a la Grande. I might start that with some Crab Maison via Galatoire's. There will definitely be Abita. Maybe a hurricane or two. Pick up some Po Boys? Sazerac's are also decidedly New Orleans. Oh, and for dessert? It's just not Louisiana if you aren't flambeing some bananas. Although: If someone knows where in the city I can get a decent approximation of a King Cake, that'd be appreciated. I should probably invite some people over for this...

Now THAT makes me feel better.

Mea Culpa

To make up for excessive whininess and general miserableness I feel, I bestow on you an oldie but a goodie. Quite possibly one of my most favoritest things I have written. Even though it remains THE most embarrassing thing that has happened to me ever. Intrigued? I hope so...

Holidaze

I hate the day after Christmas. Everyone is all good cheer and Christmas carols and present wrapping for a month. The sun rises on December 26th and pfftt that is all over. The light rock station is light rock again and not a marshmallow world in the winter. There are no presents under the tree. There is no good cheer left and nothing to look forward to. (Except for a bowl game on January 7th.)

This year, then, I suppose the fact that I was extremely hungover on December 26th was a good thing. Or at least had an upside. I barely left my bed. My mom came in my room at 3 p.m., after I'd been in and out of dozing all day and said, "It smells like drunk people in here." "Yeahhh...I'll take a shower." And that was pretty much all I accomplished yesterday. Apparently I was way into the holiday spirits the previous night.

Bake-A-Thon

When the holidays roll around, I use it as an excuse to bake like a fiend. I've gone through 7 pounds of flour, four pounds of butter, at least a dozen eggs...and I'm nowhere near done.

So far I've made:
2 batches of polk-a-dot cookies (chocolate cookies with bright green mint chips)
2 batches of white chocolate, macadamia, cranberry cookies
2 batches of peanut butter cookies (I'm not particularly enamored with these and they may be moved out of the rotation)
1 batch regular old chocolate chip
1 batch of mexican butter cookies with sprinkles
2 cheesecakes


All of this while battling my sinuses which are driving me BANANAS and my family, who are mercifully all at work this morning, but also driving me bananas. I am just in NO mood, folks.

That is until I turn on the Christmas carols and zone out stirring, mixing, folding. Michael asked me last night why I go all crazy with the baking. Frankly, I find it relaxing. It's sort of zen. It doesn't require heavy thought. I think all of what I make is really good, but it's not original. I'm following a recipe, someone else's directions. Sure, I add and subtract and change minor things but essentially, someone else has made sure the things work. And cookies make people happy. It's an easy gift. Giving my trainer a cheesecake every year is a seriously simple thing I can do to make someone happy. I jokingly threw in a plastic fork and knife to the box I put his cheesecake in this year. I get a text that he's on BART eating it. I mean that just makes my day.

In quasi-related news: I started a "Look, I'm a fatass!" blog. It's tedious and boring and more for me than you (insert usual self deprecating joke here). Even the title refers to how boring dieting is and talking about dieting is and actually dieting is. But. If you felt compelled, there it is. Don't worry, faithful few, any inspired content will be reserved for here.

Lots of non-sequiturs tonight so: Despite last week's horoscope telling me to go out and have some damn fun, I've been hiding in the house with my baking. I just can't muster it. It's cold. I actually like not drinking and waking up with bad decisions lingering in brain. But: I'm dragging myself out tonight. I need to talk to people not related to me so I can stop talking to myself. Out loud. In public. Which I have caught myself doing a frightening number of times lately. I am headed to meet Cheryl in her neighborhood. Which is of course the Marina. I'm sort of determined to stay away from my brother's bars so we'll see how that goes... (Probably impossible since they are ALL "his" bars. I would have liked to stick to Sunset/Richmond Irish bars [something about the holidays makes me nostalgic] but Cheryl is Asian and thus can consume 2 drinks before drunk so it's safer in her 'hood.)

In more other news: I saw Forever Tango with my mother today. It was meh. Not as good as Burn the Floor. Favorite moments though: 1. Me saying, after the 45 minute show, "That's it? That's a lot of money for 45 minutes." Mom, "Didn't you read the program? Or wonder why no one was leaving? It's intermission!" Me, "Oooohhhh." 2. Mom, "I thought this would be more exciting. More flamenco-y." Me, "Um, then that would be flamenco, and not tango. It's called forever TANGO." Mom, "Oooohhh." Apparently there's some holiday fatigue setting in. We're not usually this retarded.

So those are the current goings on. Hopefully more to report tomorrow...