For the last couple of days, I have been an absolute cooking PHENOMENON. Or in the words of Paula Absurd’ Feh Nomenon.
Earlier this week, I made chili and it was divine. We ate it on Tuesday and Wednesday night when I discovered that while my mouth adored the combination of ground sirloin, beans (kidney and northern and black beans, oh my!), tomato juice, Bowl of Red (which is a local chili powder brand that I highly recommend if you ever should see it in your supermarket), garlic, black pepper, cumin and lemon juice (yes, lemon juice’ don’t ask)’ my gastrointestinal system did not. I subjected Esteban to a bedtime tummy gurgle that lasted for at least three straight minutes. It was like that scene in League of their Own where Tom Hanks is peeing, only we had the added suspense of finding out if the gurgle would turn into a gimongous bottom burp.
That’s British slang for fart. Because I’m trying to keep things classy and stuff.
Thus, on Thursday night, Esteban was quite content to go for a hat trick with the chili, while I declined, opting to play Iron Chef in the kitchen and get myself something to eat before Survivor started. I ended up chopping some free garden tomatoes gleaned from a filing cabinet at work and mixing them with garlic and a drizzle of olive oil. Then I seeded and roasted a red and yellow bell pepper under the broiler. Next, I put three tortillas on a cookie sheet and spritzed them with my olive oil Misto. I then layered the tomatoes, the chopped roasted peppers. Then I realized that I only had Queso Blanco cheese, which is Mexican and it wouldn’t quite be a pizza that way, so I sprinkled some lime juice and cilantro on the tortillas before crumbling up the cheese. Then I broiled until the cheese was getting soft (Queso Blanco doesn’t really melt easily). God damn! It was so very good. I could only eat two tortillas and I did end up burning my finger but it was so very worth it. I was very impressed with myself and also that it was conducive to Operation Hottie.
On Friday, Esteban and I caught dinner out, but when I went home, Mo called me and seemed upset that I had already eaten. She didn’t have Abby this weekend and wanted to watch movies at my house. I offered to make her some food if she just wanted to come over. She was entirely too excited about the prospect. I warmed up some chili (I made a LOT) and also, buffeted by my fabulous tortilla venture from the previous night, made her some quesadillas (she doesn’t like peppers or tomatoes) in a frying pan. She was quite happy with the resulting meal at Chez Weetabix.
Yesterday, we helped a friend move. I hurt my back in a rather spectacular bout of idiotic gymnastics and wanted to go swimming afterward but Ward and June were nowhere to be found, so instead I went grocery shopping. I’ve been thinking about replacing some of the dry goods in our pantry (sugar, flour, corn starch, etc), so I went to the local cheap ass place, where you have to bag your own groceries and they only take cash. Hate that place but it is definitely cheaper. Ended up with a huge heavy bag of dry goods, butter, milk, peanut butter, etc, for $20. Then I decided that I wanted to make cookies. Not any cookies. Wonderful Martha Stewart-esque sugar cookies in the shape of fall leaves, with lovely orange and yellow frosting. Because when you’ve got a sore back, there’s nothing better than standing at a counter which is too short and using a rolling pin for hours on end. Once I got home and began to put things away, which included bending, I scrapped the cookie-making plan. Mostly because I was pretty sure that I could either make dinner or make cookies, but definitely not both. So I thawed some chicken breasts and proceeded to sit on our recliner with a heating pad. God, I’m so middle-aged before my time. Where are my liver pills, I ask you? Where? My name should be Arlene. Gah.
Esteban then came home from work and brought me Advil and turned up the surround sound because I didn’t want to move. He also took directions in marinating what I had decided would be Tandoori chicken, although my directions had to be exceptionally precise (‘In the pantry on the left side at eye level’ no, MY eye level not yours’ there’s an orange jar’ no, not the bar-b-cue sauce!’). Then I hobbled into the bedroom and laid flat while I cleaned up my TiVo. I was disappointed that they didn’t have the Two Fat Ladies caught this morning, but apparently they had them on Tuesday night. Ricky Fitts, my TiVo, caught it for me and wouldn’t you know that I had never seen that one. I heart Ricky so very much.
It took about an hour and a half of lying there without moving before I could mull up enough gumption to get up and finish dinner. Ironically, I’ve been purchasing blueberries and had about four pints in the refrigerator and a quart in the freezer from last season. I tossed the frozen berries with the oldest pint of fresh ones with some flour and sugar. Then I used a pre-made batch of ‘Dutch Crumb Topping’ that I had stored in the pantry in 2000 from a particularly over exuberant Dutch Apple pie making venture, and blended it with half a stick of butter using my pastry blender. Oh my poor pastry blender. It was so very expensive and it’s so well made. It probably had such high hopes when it was made, hopes that it would be used and cherished by some pastry diva. It had wanted to make pie crusts that would be so tender and flaky, oh yes. But instead, I bought it and stuff it in my gadgets drawer, where it nicked my expensive silicon spatula in frustration because I use the spatula almost every time I cook. When searching for the pastry blender, I actually missed it the first time, went to another drawer, didn’t find it there and went back to look again. It was right in front of my nose. I think I had forgotten what it looked like.
Then I set about making risotto. Because plain white rice wasn’t cool, no. I had to make something where you had to use white wine and chicken stock and SAFFRON. Crazily enough, I actually had everything I needed for that as well, although I did end up using a blush zinfindel, making the rice a bit pink, but that was overcome once the saffron started doing its job. But what I didn’t realize is that you had to stir risotto for something equivalent to four weeks. You have to keep coaxing it to take in more chicken broth. I started having conversations with it. ‘Come on, be a friendly Arborio. You want this chicken broth. You LOVE this chicken broth. Soak in it. Love it. SUCK IT UP YOU RICE BITCH!’
The result: incredibly creamy artful rice. With no flavor whatsoever. Perhaps I shouldn’t have threatened it so. My tandoori chicken was too dry because I stupidly followed the instructions and baked it far too long, although Esteban volunteered that it rocked. Sadly, my risotto has been punished and sent to live on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator where neither of us will touch it and it will grow green fuzz and perhaps a slime mold if it is lucky. And it probably still won’t smell or taste like anything.
The blueberry crisp was fabulous. I used Martha Stewart’s style, which included the addition of flour. That made it far thicker than my normal crisps, which I actually sometimes use instead of syrup on my waffles. This was more like a blueberry pie sans crust. Esteban was inspired to run out for some frozen custard (there went Operation Hottie’ right there) to go with the crisp and I have to say that it completely made the meal.
Esteban : And blueberries are very high in anti-oxidants!
Weetabix: You’ve been watching commercials again, haven’t you.
Even though my back still hurts and now the kitchen is full of dirty pans from cooking for the last three days, I still have this urge to make cookies. I’d tell you what’s causing all this but you already now. Damn it. Next thing you know, I’ll be churning my own butter.
Mofo nesting bullshit.
Oooh, while I was writing this entry, Esteban did the dishes, made me breakfast of whole wheat toast and his perfect scrambled eggs, and then ran out just to fetch me a Sunday paper. Gosh. Sometimes it just doesn’t get any better than than… a crisp fall morning when the sun weakly attempts to counter the nip in the air, a plate of steaming impossibly fluffy scrambled eggs, a glass of orange juice, and sitting on a lovely heating pad while reading the paper and enjoying how nice and toasty it makes your bum. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.
I just may be making cookies for him after all.
