The Odd Broad

Make Your Eyes Twinkle

My friend Richard gave me a piece of chocolate the other day.  I unwrapped it to find this message...

(Incidentally, the combination of chocolate and caramel does tend to make my eyes twinkle.)  xoxo

Get yer own!

Sometimes I feel a bit like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, when he opens up his pizza box and peacefully declares:

A lovely cheese pizza, just for me.

True that, Kevin McCallister, true that.  It's just, this past Friday something rather petty happened that I can't seem to let go of.  In an uncharacteristic turn, I'd skipped breakfast and by the time lunch rolled around I was famished.  I ordered grilled chicken from Ranch 1 with french fries and honey mustard. 

As you might imagine, when I opened that warm, deliciously scented bag I immediately wanted to devour those fries.  Indeed, their heavenly aroma wafted throughout the office, dangerously announcing to all and sundry that I was about to commence eating.  Unfortunately for me, it just so happened that others also wanted to eat my lunch as well.  One person in particular.

This man I speak of bothers us religiously come lunch time, loudly inquiring: "What's for lunch?  Hey, nobody ordered anything for me?  What a bunch of one ways!"  And every day we say, "Would you like us to order something for you?  It's really no trouble."  And he says, "No, no, no.  I eat too much as it is.  I'll go out for a walk and get something later, it's good for me to walk." 

If he doesn't want us to order him food, then why torture us with this daily sustenance guilt trip? 

As I bit into my first honey mustard covered fry, it occurred to me that I was hunching protectively over my meal, much like a canine might guard her food bowl.   

Yes, I was acting like a dog.  And as I'd feared, my coworker came a'sniffing:  "So, what's for lunch today?"  He then proceeded to reach across my chest and snatch up my container of fries.  A ballsy move, since I'd intentionally placed my food as far away from him as possible. 

"What's this?"  he asked, even as he shoved fries into his mouth.  "What's this?"  he said again.  The whole thing gave me the creeps. 

"You're eating fried food, huh?  Are you hungover or something?"

Reader, by this point I had no energy for niceties.  Smiling but barely concealing my ire, I told him no, I was not hungover.  My deskmate chimed in: "It's Friday!  She likes potatoes on Fridays."

What the?  Now I wanted to kill them both.

"It came from right across the street."  I offered eagerly, trying to put an end to the conversation.  "She ordered it, too!" I added, nodding my head at the woman sitting two desks over.  Sadly, my desperate attempts at diversion were futile.  He began touching the rest of my food.  "What's in here?" 

I was ravenous and weak.  With as much tolerance as I possibly could muster, I explained what was inside, then added, "Sorry, I'm really hungry today.  I guess I'm acting kind of like a dog."

Why the hell was I apologizing?

Is there anything more unpleasant than someone hovering over you while you're trying to eat your kibble lunch?  Seriously, what is this guy's deal?  Apart from feeling violated by the way he'd reached into my personal space, I was also feeling grossed out for other reasons.  I suppose I've always been particular when it comes to eating...

Back in elementary school a classmate once asked for some of my chips in exchange for a bite of her apple.  In hindsight, Mother Theresa herself couldn't have convinced me to take that bite.  (Apples are far too juicy for sharing.)  I shared my chips, naturally, but declined her lackluster offer.  I don't roll like that. 

When I was even younger, my uncle Jim asked me if I wanted a bite of his Snickers bar and I said no, thank you.  "What kid doesn't like chocolate?"  he asked my aunt, who knowingly explained:  "It's not that she doesn't like chocolate, Jimmy, she doesn't like other people's germs." 

No, I didn't.  And I don't.  Although I have gotten better.  I'll share anything with Hubby, for example.  Most of the time he's the one to be skeeved out by me, in fact. 

I'm not the only one in my family who feels this way.  My cousin Keely agrees that anything with a milky consistency is off limits.  You'll never catch that girl offering you a spoonful of her yogurt.  There are rules to follow, you see.

But I digress.  Later my deskmate (the gentleman who noted my apparent Friday love of potatoes), asked if I'd secretly been annoyed by all the lunch time attention.  "Well, yes, a little!"  I confided, adding, "I would never do that to someone!"

And it's true.  I never bother people while they're eating, or ask what they're eating or where they got it from.  Frankly, I feel it's bad manners to do so.  Also, who am I kidding, I don't really give a good crap.  I let people enjoy their food!  I don't want to socialize and I don't really want to share.  Most importantly, I don't want people sticking their unwashed fingers into my delicious cup of greasy french fries!  If this makes me a female dog, then Arf Arf.

His tone became confidential: "Can I just ask, is it that time of the month?"

What the?  Did he honestly just ask me that?  You wouldn't mind, but this guy just so happens to be the moodiest person I've ever worked with!  I've often suspected he suffers from a perpetual man period!  Fucker.

Breathe.

I went outside.  It was raining and windy and my broken umbrella kept turning inside out, but it was still more pleasant than being interrogated inside. 

I wouldn't describe myself as a selfish person.  I grew up sharing and caring.  At lunch time I always give whatever I don't eat away to anyone who'll take it.  I just donated to City Harvest last week, in fact.  But is it too much to ask that I be left alone to enjoy lunch at my desk?  Also, why doesn't anyone come up and disturb me when I'm eating a salad?  For some reason this fry incident has really hit a nerve. 

What are your thoughts?  Does stuff like this skeeve you out as well?  Would you share a saliva covered apple with a mere acquaintance in exchange for a measly few potato chips?  I ask you.  xoxo

Today's Special

I liken the act of cleaning out my refrigerator to taking a culinary trip down memory lane.  There's always something surprising lurking in there.  And by surprising I do mean moldy, rotten and foul.

Take the leftover ratatouille in the dutch oven, for example, massively heavy and inspiring me to perform detailed refrigerator rearranging for fear of breaking the shelf.  (Quite possibly why we were very nearly late for an out of town wedding last month.)  There were ample amounts of leftover marinara that sadly went unused, forgotten mashed potatoes, one quarter of the Tex-Mex meatloaf pie that turned out to be delicious after I finally got all of the meat to cook (had a bit of a nasty shock there after the first raw bite.)

I reminisce about eggplant rollatini, chicken pot pie, and pancakes with fresh strawberry sauce, the remains of which are sitting in a small saute pan on the shelf above the crisper.  I peer with trepidation at the curious collection of Tupperware that contains everything under the sun- from chicken soup to chicken...from Easter.

I am ashamed.  Gordon Ramsey would totally kick my ass. 

xoxo

Talking to Strangers

At times I fear spending the past eight years in New York City has rendered me socially inept.  Take Tuesday evening, for instance, when I stopped by the grocery store after work.  I was waiting in line, shamefully engrossed by the covers of Star and The Enquirer (must they refer to Michael J. Fox as "Hollywood's Bravest Star?'), when I realized that the person behind me was asking a question.

"Are you going to make a spinach pie?" 

I looked down at my items.  Was I really that obvious?  I turned around to see a pleasant, normal looking girl who seemed about my age.  The only thing she was buying was a jar of pesto.  I have to admit, I was a bit taken aback.  It just struck me as such an unnatural thing to do, for a seemingly clearheaded, lucid New Yorker to be speaking to a stranger in line.  Well, I suppose I'd better answer...

"Oh, um, I'm gonna, make a pizza and put the spinach and feta and tomatoes on top."

"Ya, a spinach pie..."

"Oh, you're right."

She then proceeded to tell me she'd done the same thing, and had also made something similar with Pillsbury dough.  I added that I had kalamata olives at home and was planning to use them on my pizza.  We both agreed that I was really in for a delicious meal.

It was time for me to pay.  What should I do now?  Should I say goodbye?  How does one conclude a supermarket line chat anyway?  Has it been so long since a sound individual has shown me spontaneous kindness that I've completely forgotten how to react? 

This is what living in the big apple has done to me.  Once upon a time, I was friendly.  In New York I may as well be wearing an invisible cloak, such is the lack of eye contact and healthy social interaction that goes on around here.  Granted, a lot of the folks I come across on a daily basis aren't the types I want to be making eye contact with, but nonetheless. 

In the end, distracted by a cashier whom I always assumed was "normal" but who suddenly revealed himself to be a touch unbalanced, I ended up just leaving.  But I smiled benignly as I did so, just to show how good-natured and pleasant I was.

I did make a spinach pie, Dear Reader, and it was effing delish.  I think you should make one, too.

You'll only need 5 simple ingredients:

1.)  Boboli pizza crust

2.)  Feta cheese

3.)  One can of diced tomatoes, drained

4.)  Frozen spinach (cooked in the microwave and drained)

5.)  Kalamata olives

I laid the spinach on the crust first and then added the tomatoes, feta and olives and baked according to the package, about 8-10 minutes.  It was a quick and scrumptious weeknight meal.  And who knows?  It may just encourage strangers to talk to you while you're waiting in line.  xoxo

Got lipstick?

Last week I made mention of attending an out of town wedding for our friends Mike and Lori.  Though I may have hinted at the massive hangover that was to follow, I did omit one disturbing detail that I'd like to share with you.  The next morning, after sleeping through the continental breakfast offered at the hotel, Hubby and I opted for something greasy, something substantial, something we haven't consumed in ages.

Denny's.

Well?  Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Sadly, the meal was already doomed before the coffees arrived.  Much to our dismay, one of our water glasses had a pink lipstick mark on its rim.  Since neither myself nor my husband was wearing pink lipstick at the time, this was very much a buzzkill.  It definitely didn't ease our nausea.

Sickened, Hubby pushed the eggs around on his plate and later opted for a bagel from Dunkin's.  In a remarkably uncharacteristic turn, I was able to rally from the lipstick upset and speedily devoured my Heartland Scramble.

I tried to read this post to Hubby, but he doesn't like to think about it.  I can't really say I blame him.  xoxo

What's for dinner?

The first meal Hubby ever cooked for me was chicken cacciatore.  The year was 1999 and we were celebrating our first anniversary as a couple.  Unfortunately, that evening we were unable to obtain a bottle of wine and had to settle for Bud Light.  Naturally, this somehow made Hubby's effort more endearing.

In a moment of hungry nostalgia, I decided to recreate this dinner on Sunday.  Hubby and I modified his original dish using a Giada recipe.  It turned out zesty and delicious and we have lots of sauce left over.

Here's what you'll need:

3 bell peppers, sliced

1 cup baby portabella mushroom caps, roughly chopped

2 onions, sliced

3 cloves garlic, chopped

Chicken, cut into pieces (a lot of people use thighs, but I used 1lb of boneless skinless chicken breast)

1 14 oz can low sodium chicken broth

1 cup of dry white wine (I used chardonnay)

1 28 oz can of crushed tomatoes (I used Muir Glen fire roasted)

3 tablespoons of flour, some dried oregano, salt, pepper, 3 tablespoons olive oil

1/4 cup of chopped Kalamata olives (Giada uses capers)

Chopped basil, fresh parmesan (for garnish)

In a large freezer bag, toss in the flour, salt, pepper, and oregano.  Insert the chicken and dredge.  Add the oil to a pre-heated skillet or dutch oven.  Working in batches, add chicken to skillet and brown, about three to four minutes per side, depending on size.  Remove chicken and rest on a plate.

On medium heat, add the peppers, onions and garlic to skillet and saute until softened.  (Ten minutes or so?)  Season with salt, pepper and oregano. 

Add the mushrooms...

Once everything has caramelized, add the white wine and reduce for about three minutes.  Next add in the chicken stock, tomatoes and kalamata olives.  Bring the mixture to a gentle bubble, then add the browned chicken.  Lower the heat and simmer for twenty to twenty five minutes, or until chicken is cooked.

Serve with basil, parmesan and crusty bread. Enjoy! xoxo

 

Take that shroom and stuff it!

It's taken me decades to finally enjoy the taste of mushrooms.  I am now a full fledged, card carrying member of the fan club.  My favorite are stuffed mushrooms.  My recipe is super simple and very delicious.

 

As far as ingredients go, you'll need small amounts of the following:

Baby portabellas (remove caps; chop up several and reserve for stuffing)

Finely chopped red bell pepper

Minced garlic

Chopped parsley

A sprinkling of Italian style bread crumbs

Cheese: grated parmesan and fontina

Olive oil (for drizzling)

You'll notice I didn't really offer any portion sizes.  I usually just eyeball it.

What to do:  In a bowl, combine everything except the fontina.  Stuff those shrooms and drizzle each one with a dab of olive oil and top with the fontina.  Bake in a pre-heated 400 degree oven for about 10 minutes, or until cheese is melty.

Try not to eat them all at once.  (I try but never do succeed.  I devoured this first batch by myself, in mere minutes.)

And with that, I'm off to play Rock Band with the hubby.  (He just downloaded the B-52's for me!  I'm such a microphone hog.)

Happy Friday!

xoxo

Love thy oven

OK, so Shepherd's Pie certainly won't be falling into the category of health food any time soon.  Although I suppose one could make the argument that this dinner is undeniably good for one's mental health.  I was absolutely famished when I came home from work the other night and this was the only meal I longed to create and devour.  And since the warmer weather is thankfully on its way, I am embracing my oven while I can.  This hearty, comforting meal delivers and it really couldn't be easier.

Hubby finds it interesting that since I hail from Massachusetts I've always referred to this dish as "Chinese pie."  I have no idea why.  I've also always eaten it with corn.  Go figure.  This time around, my vegetables of choice were carrots and peas.  I simply chopped up a few carrots into small pieces and boiled until tender, about 15 minutes.  During the last few minutes of cooking, I tossed in a couple of handfuls of frozen peas.  No fuss, no muss.  After draining, I seasoned them.

I have to admit, I have a deeply embedded, lifelong aversion to peas.  In order to enjoy their taste, however, I added a liberal amount of butter, salt, pepper, and (The Secret Weapon): fresh rosemary.  I credit my friend James for bestowing me with this herbal inspiration, after he cooked Hubby and I an Easter dinner to really write home about.  He added fresh rosemary to his carrots and the taste was out of this world.  Trust me. 

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Since the mashed potato is quite possibly my most favorite sustenance ever, I would strongly advise against using instant.  If you go through the effort of lovingly mashing up some real spuds I guarantee your taste buds (and perhaps your significant other) will thank you.  This is just my own personal preference, of course. 

Also, since we're aiming strictly for flavor here, don't skimp on the butter and salt.  In other words, show your potatoes some love.  You can always snub the carbohydrates tomorrow.  (Or not, depending.)

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Lastly, but not leastly, we have the ground beef.  Naturally, you could also use lamb or turkey or no meat at all, for that matter.  I think an all veg edition of shepherd's pie would be equally delightful. 

To cook the beef, I started off with a chopped shallot sauteed in a little oil and butter.  To that I added just under a pound of ground beef and seasoned with salt and pepper.  Next, I grated in a clove or two of garlic and added some chopped rosemary.  (Do you detect a theme?)  Finally, I drained the meat, added about a cup of beef stock and allowed the mixture to simmer for a few minutes.

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And now, we layer.  I just love these miniature au gratin pots I picked up at Crate and Barrel.  They were only like 6 bucks a piece and they're perfect for chicken pot pies. 

I've been told by a co-worker whose wife makes a killer shepherd's pie that the secret is all in the layering.  The first layer of our little pie is comprised of the vegetables.

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The second layer is the juicy beef along with the stock.  With the shallots, garlic and rosemary, the meat really ends up being flavorful. 

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The final, glorious layer is a bountiful portion of buttery mashed potatoes.  This is a calming layering process, especially this concluding step, since there is a fair amount of sculpting involved.  I enjoy playing with my food. 

I brushed the top with a little butter to help them brown up.

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Now we're ready to slide those babies into a pre-heated 375 degree oven.  Let them bake for about thirty minutes or until their tops become golden and crusty.  Since the pots will be piping hot and probably leaking some of that bubbly beef stock, I recommend using a baking sheet.  Safety first!  (Says the woman with oven burn scars all over her forearms.)

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I realize I could've waited for these Shepherd's Pies to turn browner, Dear Reader, but the truth is I ran out of willpower.  In the end, this is as golden and crusty as my ravenous belly would allow them to become.   

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Yum.  I wish I could offer you a bite, really I do.  But Typepad doesn't offer that service yet. 

When Hubby got home from his band rehearsal that night around 12:30 he was finally able to eat his pie.  He said thank you.  Like ten times.  Guess it was a hit.

xoxo

Just in time for Good Friday...

My Sissy forwarded me this picture today in an email.  It's a Peep Show...

If yer Irish, step inta the paaa-laaa!

   

Let's face it, corned beef and cabbage is not for everyone.  For as long as I can remember, every year my large extended family got together for corned beef and cabbage on St. Patty's day.  They still do, in fact.  Seeing as I've never been much of an enthusiast for the salty, stringy corned beef, I mostly just ate the potatoes and carrots.  I thought perhaps I might grow into having a taste for this meal, but so far this hasn't happened.

Although my husband is of New England Irish descent on both of his parents sides, I was astounded to discover he'd never actually tasted a boiled dinner.  (Hey, how did he escape doing that?)  I decided to cook one for him a few years back, carefully following both my Dad's instructions as well as the ones that came with the beef.  I served Hubby a heaping plateful of corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and carrots and breathlessly awaited his reaction, which turned out to be:

"Is it supposed to taste like this?" 

(Was it supposed to taste like this, of COURSE it was supposed to taste like this!)  This was not the loving response I'd been hoping for, though I sensed he was aiming for diplomacy.  He proceeded to politely inquire if I'd perhaps not cooked it correctly.  I reacted calmly: 

"Of course I cooked it right!  That's how it's supposed to taste!"   

It turns out Hubby just likes to eat the vegetables, too.  I can't say I blame him.   

This year I won't be preparing corned beef, but there are a number of other nostalgic ways in which I like to mark this occasion.  (And they do not all include getting plastered and singing The Unicorn Song, although that doesn't sound like a bad idea, either.) 

I might play my Tommy Makem and The Clancy Brothers record, or maybe pop my ancient Darby O'Gill and The Little People VHS tape into my dusty VCR.  Incidentally, have you seen this movie?  If you haven't, I suggest you do.  Sure, this film is rife with stereotypes and a few shockingly poor attempts at the Irish brouge, but it remains charming all the same.  I'd even go so far as to say it's Sean Connery's finest work.  And I still cover my eyes when the wailing Banshee comes to take poor Darby away.  She is nothing short of terrifying. 

This Saint Patrick's Day, The Odd Broad raises a toast to her handsome Irish grandfather, Pa, who is no doubt somewhere up in Heaven eating a plate of corned beef.  xoxo 

What to eat?

Is anybody else forgoing meat on Fridays in honor of Lent?  I am, and this year I'm craving more than the usual grilled cheese sandwiches and boring pizza.  I long for exciting, tasty meatless dishes.

Being a good Catholic girl, this past Friday I made pasta alla puttanesca, which in Italian can roughly be translated as pasta the way a whore would prepare it.  Yay whores!

I absolutely adore this dish and recently tried to research its name.  Legend has it that prostitutes favored this dish because:

a) the zesty, pungent smell lured in gentleman callers.

b) it was a quick dish to prepare and scarf down in between romps.

c) the gals had only one day a week at the market and this recipe calls for ingredients they often already had in the brothel. 

Phew!  All this talk about whoring has worked up my appetite.  Let's get cooking.

   

1 handful chopped cherry tomatoes

1 can crushed tomatoes

3 cloves garlic, chopped

2 Shallots, chopped

1/4 cup olives, pitted (I use Kalamata)

2 tablespoons capers

2 tablespoons flat leaf parsley, finely chopped

Fresh basil and arugula, julienned (1/4 to 1/2 cup each)

1 teaspoon dried oregano, a healthy pinch of crushed red pepper flakes, a grind of black pepper

1 teaspoon anchovy paste (I sometimes omit this ingredient since Hubby doesn't like it.  Plus, the capers and olives already add lots of zest.)

Parmesan cheese (for garnish)

Pasta (My favorite is orrechiette: it's little and ear shaped.)

While the pasta is cooking, prepare the sauce.  In a deep pan, pour in one tablespoon olive oil.  Toss in garlic and shallots to caramelize.  Add the capers, olives, parsley, chopped tomatoes (not the can), red pepper flakes, dried oregano, and a grind of black pepper.  Cook for two to three minutes, then add the can of tomatoes.  Simmer for about five minutes, then stir in the basil and arugula.  Add the cooked pasta and toss.  Garnish with freshly grated parmesan. 

And that's it!  Could it be any more simple?

 

I just finished eating my bowl as I wrote this.  It was zesty and delicious.  Who said meatless Fridays during Lent have to be boring?  (I don't think it was a whore.)

XOXO

Show and Tell

For the past two years I've been entertaining lofty thoughts of making a pie.  Somehow I just never got around to it.  Until yesterday. 

My unused rolling pin and pie dishes were super enthusiastic.  (They were starting to develop a complex, I fear.)

I opted to begin with savory.  Since this would be my first attempt at pie making, I enlisted the helpful aid of Pepperidge Farms.  (Well, I still had to roll out the puff pastry so I'm not counting this as cheating.)  Hubby came home from work to find me wielding my rolling pin in a feverish cloud of flour.  This is certainly a sight he doesn't see every day.

The recipe I followed came from Jamie Oliver.  Doesn't he seem like a nice bloke?  (I have obtained permission to use the word bloke, incidentally, since I happen to be a fervent Anglophile.)  For some reason this recipe wasn't up on The Food Network's website, though luckily for me his is one of the plethora of cooking shows I tape on my DVR.  Usually I watch these shows solely for leisure, but this meat pie made me feel, dare I say ambitious?

The filling was as follows: chop up some red onions, garlic, celery, carrots, rosemary, mushrooms, and brisket of beef.  Saute everything in a deep pan, sprinkle in some salt, pepper and flour and then slosh in a can of Guinness.  Cook in a 350 degree oven, covered, for about two hours, mix in some handfuls of cheddar cheese (yum), ladle the mixture into your pie crust, brush the top with egg wash, cook for forty minutes and viola!!

You'll have your very own beefy weeknight treat to savor and love.  And if I can do it, then you most definitely can, Dear Reader.  I'm still feeling very Martha Stewart about the whole thing. 

Much to my voracious delight, there was still plenty left over for tonight's dinner.  I find something comforting about coming home to a warm beefy pie after an exhausting, soul sapping day of work.  Mmmm.

Perhaps next time I'll finally work up the chutzpah to tackle fruit.  A grapple pie, perhaps.  We'll see.

xoxo

The Odd Fruit

Have you ever had the pleasure of biting into a delicious grapple, Dear Reader?  If so, what are your thoughts on this unusual, fragrant fruit?

A grapple is essentially an apple that looks and tastes like an apple but smells like a grape.  At first I thought it was pronounced gr(apple) but the packaging tells me it should really be called a (grape)le.  Personally, I think I prefer the first way better.

The first time I tasted a grapple was at work.  I sat down at my desk and immediately noticed the air around me was perfumed with a sweet odor.  I couldn't quite put my nose on what it was, however. 

I also noticed that someone had left a small apple next to my keyboard.  Hmmm.  I probably wouldn't eat it, since I didn't know where it had come from.  (My inner obsessive compulsive good deeder suggested I give it to a homeless person.)

The morning marched on.  What was that smell?  Had someone planted potpourri or sprayed air freshener in my general vicinity?  And if so, why?  My inner paranoid began to wonder if someone thought I was stinky.  (Just so you know, this is highly unlikely, Dear Reader, for I have a Virgo moon and rising which makes me quite hygienic.  Indeed, some days I've even been known to shower twice, if the fancy strikes me.)

Still, the sweet, ambrosial scent lingered on.

Wait a minute, was it coming from the apple?  It was!  Hey, this must be a grapple!  My friend had told me about these and must've placed it there on my desk as a treat.  I ran around, thrusting the fruit under my coworker's noses:  Smell it!  Go on, smell it! 

Everyone had a sniff and watched eagerly, prodding me to take a bite.  Eat it!  They demanded.  Do it!

"I can't eat it yet!"  I squealed.  After all, I'd been shoving the poor thing up everyone's nostrils for the past ten minutes.  Amid all the manhandling, my precious grapple had become rather skanky. 

Lovingly, I rinsed it and took a bite.  My verdict?  Well, it smelled like a grape but tasted like an apple and a grape.  And somehow it actually tasted as good as it smelled.  Candy like, but not.  It was as if my apple had been soaked overnight in grape crush soda, but not in a bad way, necessarily.

I'd like to try it in sangria.

I wish you could smell these luscious grapples through your computer screen, Dear Reader.  I suppose you'll just have to take my word for it. 

xoxo

Walking

Last night on Good Eats, Alton Brown mentioned that the Incans used to measure time by how long it took to cook a potato.  As in, I'm gonna take a nap, wake me in thirteen potatoes, please.  Or something like that. 

I have an eight minute walk to the subway from my apartment, though today I discovered my own new and satisfying method of measuring time and distance:   

Two thirds of a King sized Caramello. 

Considering I was carrying several heavy bags, and began eating about two and a half minutes into the total eight, I find this feat downright amazing.  (If not just a little sad.)

Either way, now you'll know what I'm talking about if I ever tell you to hold your horses, I'll be there in two thirds of a Caramello.

(It will mean that I'm on the rag.)

The Broad Makes Breakfast

On Saturday night I was in the mood for a Greek inspired banquet: grilled chicken with roasted eggplant, squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, all tossed with olive oil, garlic and fresh thyme.  Along with this I served feta cheese, olives, pita bread and tzatziki sauce.  It was delish.   

In hindsight, perhaps I was a wee overambitious in my roasting, since I now have enough leftover vegetables in my fridge to feed a small nunnery.  (Do vegetarian nunneries exist, Kittie wonders?)  In lieu of my sudden surplus of roasted eatables, I've decided to prepare you a healthy breakfast.

Do you happen to own one of those mini Corningware dishes?  (The 16 oz size?)  My friend Karen gave me mine, (hi Kar-bear!) and I find they work quite nicely for omelette making. 

If you don't have one, a small, microwavable bowl will do just fine.  Give it a spritz with some cooking spray, and in a separate bowl beat together one egg, two egg whites and a dash of milk or water.  (I'm being healthy-ish today, hence the egg whites.)  Pour the egg mixture into the mini Corningware, then add the chopped roasted veggies, lots of crumbled feta cheese and maybe a pinch of pepper and salt.  (Feta is already kind of salty, so today I omitted the latter.)

Cook on High in the microwave for two minutes, then check to see how it's coming along.  At this point I usually run along the edge with a knife to make sure it's not sticking, though nothing should stick since you've greased the dish with cooking spray. 

Let it cook for another minute or so, until everything looks firm, and then slide that sucker onto a plate, pretty side facing up.  Careful, though, the dish will be hot! 

And it's as simple as that.  In mere minutes, and before you can say the words Sunday morning hangover, you'll have whipped up a beautiful, healthy, mostly egg white omelette. 

The bowl really gives it a cute little shape, don't you think?  I'm serving mine alongside some pita and hummus. 

Using this method, you can substitute my ingredients with anything you prefer.  In the past I've used cheddar, monteray jack, spinach, roasted red peppers, mushrooms...truly, the breakfast possibilities are endless.

Okay, now what to do with the rest of these damn veggies...minestrone, anyone?  Roasted vegetable dip?  Anyone for vegetable lasagna?

XOXO

PS: This is a super easy way to cook eggs, but you may have to use an SOS pad to scour your bowl afterwards.  It'll come clean easily enough, though.  (Just an FYI for whoever's on dish duty, though hopefully it won't be you, Dearest Reader.) 

Chicken Without a Head

Years ago I was eating dinner at my Auntie Kimmy's house when I tasted something scrumptious.  That evening I returned home and gushed to my Mom about the meal I'd just eaten.

"Chicken?"  She furrowed her brow, perplexed.  "I make you chicken all the time!" 

"No, Mom, this was like, a whole chicken, an entire chicken?  Like the only thing missing from it was its head!  It was a whole chicken, with the head cut off."

From then on my family has referred to roasted chicken as chicken without a head.

On Monday night I decided I wanted to roast a chicken with no head.  You know, for the hubby, so he'd say, wow, what a broad, or something to that effect.  The thing is, I can be a bit squeamish when it comes to raw meat.  I'll cook it, of course, but let's just say there's a good deal of hand washing involved. 

The few times I've prepared chicken without a head, hubby has always been there to rinse it, or salt and pepper it, or hold open the cavity so I can stuff it with celery and onions and all the fixin's.

But this time I'd be flying solo.  Could I pull it off? 

I began by unwrapping it.  Shit.  I'd forgotten to get out a pan!  I'd already touched raw meat, though, so I figured I'd better wash my hands before cross-contaminating all of my Corningware.  (And so begins the dance of the obsessive compulsive.)

Removing the giblets didn't prove too difficult, since I just kept the bird in the bag and tipped him upside down over my trash can.  While yelping, of course.  Giblets disposed of?  Check! 

Now for the bird rinsing.  OK, just take that sucker and plop him under some running water, right?

"Aaaahhhh!"  An involuntary howl escaped my lips.  He was heavier than I'd imagined!  My God!  This was so gross.  My voice took on a coaxing tone: "Come on, now, little fella, I'm just gonna wash ya."  The thing is, I didn't really want to even look at it, let alone touch it. 

Irrational, hysterical scenarios kept making their way into my brain, like perhaps the good people at the poultry factory had made a freakish mistake and left a toenail on?  Or, worse still, left the HEAD in the bag?  I braced myself for the possibility of coming face to face with chicken eyeballs.  I mean, accidents do happen...

Within the next several minutes I was reduced to a squeamish, babbling nutcase.  Kittie proved to be little help, though she appeared to want to assist.  At this juncture, however, I needed a human. 

I called Sissy.  I tried my best to dial her on speaker with minimal touching of the phone, since my fingers were covered in raw meat juice and by this point I'd already washed them with anti-bacterial soap five times.

Thank God she was home.  Sissy's voice wafted happily into my kitchen: "Hi, Sister!" 

In a manner most desperate, I bent over and stuck my face into the phone, my arms spread out slightly above my head like I was at a religious revival and had just found Jesus.  "Sissy, I need your help!  I'm trying to roast a chicken and I need to wash it and stuff it and I'm freaking out.  Could you just stay on the phone with me for a sec while I do it?"

I'd like to say it did take two seconds, but of course that would be untrue.

For whatever weird reason, I was stalling.  And my speech was becoming increasingly mental.  "OK, let me just plop this birdie in the sink here and Aaaaaahhhhhh!"  At one point I wondered how the neighbors were interpreting my high pitched monologue.  Ah, who gave a good crap, I had bigger fish to fry.  (Or birds to roast, rather.)

After a while, Sissy became impatient.  (The girl is seven months pregnant, after all.)  "Come on, just wash it!  What's the big deal?"

I continued with my deranged chanting: "OK, sorry birdie, you've never done anything to me...OK, here I go now, eeeekk!!!"  I let rip every expletive I'd ever known.  (And a few I never knew I did.)

"You're acting crazy,"  my elder sister informed me, before leaving with her husband to pick their car up from the shop.  Once again we were on our own.  It was just me, Kittie, and a chicken with no head. 

Eventually, I rinsed the bird.  I stuffed the bird.  I rubbed the bird with olive oil, salt and pepper, the entire time apologizing aloud in a manner most psychotic.  For a moment, my squeamishness subsided as I tried to fit just one more slice of onion into the cavity when I suddenly realized I was zealously clutching the poor bird's leg.  "Ahhhhh!!!!!  What the!!!!" 

By the time Hubby got home, the 375 degree oven had turned our apartment into a sweltering inferno, but at least chicken without the head was ready to be eaten.  Aware that my Martha Stewart persona had gone completely down the toilet, Hubby decided to cut some slices for us.  We soon discovered, however, something very unusual...

Hey, where was all the meat?  This bird ain't gut no meat! 

"Oh, I see!"  Hubby calmly flipped the chicken over.  "There's tons of meat on this side!"

Yeah, apparently I'd roasted the frigging thing upside down.  So shoot me. 

I have to admit, my first solo run proved to be very tasty and quite succulent, once we'd found where all the meat was hiding, of course.  I tasted a piece of the skin and marveled aloud at what a superb job I'd done on my chicken without a head.  Then guilt overcame me as I remembered all we'd been through together: our walk home from Key Food, the rinsing, the stuffing, the roasting...  But still, I ate.  After all, I think it's what birdie probably would have wanted.

In closing, Dear Reader, if you suddenly find yourself with a hankering for chicken without a head, here's what I stuffed mine with:

Fresh sprigs of rosemary, sage and thyme, some lemon wedges, a whole head of garlic, some slices of onion and celery, and salt and pepper.  On the outside, slather on some olive oil, salt and pepper.  Roast it.  Baste it.  Eat it.  (But don't forget to place birdie right side up on the pan or you may have a breakdown and have to cry for a moment, like your friend the Odd Broad did, Monday night.)

Happy eating! xoxo

Eating Birds

The other day my husband ran into someone we used to work with a long time ago.  The guy was driving one of those pedi-cabs.  You know, those bikes that pull passengers into oncoming traffic?  These contraptions always strike my inner old bitty as being extremely dangerous, but hey, what does she know?

"Who was it you saw?"  I asked.

"Sadat.  Remember him?"

Oh, but of course I remembered Sadat.  How could I forget?

It was a few months after we'd moved to nyc and I'd just performed in a production of The Sound of Music up in Tarrytown, NY.  The first time I'd played Liesel I really was sixteen going on seventeen, but this time around I was twenty-one so I had to pretend.  (I earned my degree in pretending, did you know?) 

The guy who played Rolf got hubby and I jobs at the place he worked at, an upscale restaurant in Chelsea.  And so commenced our illustrious careers as waiters in the world of Private Dining.  The gig paid $20 an hour, but since we only ended up working a handful of hours per week we were nearly always broke.  I don't think we ever realized it, though, young and in love as we were.  Now I shiver at those uninsured, starving artist, hot dog and Natty Ice filled days.

We worked weddings, bar mitzvahs, rehearsal dinners, corporate Holiday parties (these were always the most entertaining, as they were coincidentally the most inappropriate.)

One of the myriad of co-workers we met during our tenure there was a young man from Turkey named Sadat.  Being from a small town in MA, I'd never met anyone from Turkey before.  I was intrigued.

A rather short man in his early twenties, Sadat had somehow managed to snag a very tall, pretty girlfriend, though I can't recall her name.  I do remember she was a Scorpio, however, and Sadat was a Virgo.  (As I've mentioned before, Reader, Astrological retention is my greatest gift.)

One evening Sadat showed up to work with a huge grin on his face and told me, "I have wonderful news!  I have been married!"

"Wow!  Congratulations, Sadat!"  I hugged him.  "When did you get married?"  (After all, I'd just seen him a day or two ago.)

He was beaming.  "Today!  This afternoon!  We are married!"

What the?

"Wait a minute, you got married today and then came into work?"

"Well, yes, I didn't think Paul would give me the evening off, so...but it's ok, it's fine, soon I am going home and we will have a long and beautiful evening."

OK, I may not remember the bride's name, but I do remember long and beautiful were Sadat's exact words.

I crept over to hubby and whispered in his ear: "Sadat got married today."

"That's nice."  (Hubby is a most diligent worker and has no time for idle chitchat.  It's terribly annoying.)

I was persistent: "No no no, Sadat got married, like two hours ago!  And then he came into work!"

"What the?" 

I suppose I've always been a bit meddlesome, but this was simply too much.  With the air of a five year old who was about to tattle on someone at recess, I marched over to our boss.  My voice had a singsong ring to it as I announced: "Paul! (pronouncing my bosses' name as if it contained two syllables instead of one, of course)  "Pa-aul, Sadat got married today."

"What?"  He laughed.  "Why the fuck is he here?"

"That's exactly what I thought!"

With flourishing congratulations, Paul immediately gave Sadat the night off to go home for his long and beautiful evening.  As for my part, I was more than glad to have done Sadat the favor.  It is my strongly held belief that nobody should have to begin the union of marriage by serving up steak au poivre to the wealthy. 

A few weeks after this, Sadat approached me as I was polishing silverware.  "Would you guys like to come over to our house for dinner?  I am a great cook, I will cook for you!"

Instantly I felt shy.  "Oh, that's so nice.  What do you like to cook?"

"Birds!"  He exclaimed.

I thought maybe I had heard him wrong, because it sounded like he'd said buds? 

"Hmmm?"  I cocked my head to one side.

"Birds!  I will cook birds for you!"  He was smiling from ear to ear.   

"Oh!  Birds!  Thank you!  What...kind of birds?"

"You know!  Birds!" 

Sweet Baby Jesus.  For some inexplicable reason I instantly thought of my Great Uncle Jerry and the pigeons he used to raise in his back yard. 

Unconsciously picking at the cuticle of my thumb, I sidled over to hubby and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, once again employing my singsong, tattlelike whisper:  "Sadat wants to cook birds for us..."

We never did make it over to their house to eat the birds.  And Sadat's marriage never did last that long, either.  I mean, as it was, the three of them were living in really tight quarters.  That is, Sadat, Sadat's bride, and Sadat's bride's Mother.

He seems to be doing well now, though.  I mean, he's got a pedi-cab and all...

 

The Odd Broad Cooks For You

Have you eaten, Dear Reader?  Here, let me cook you something nice...

My Little Secret

I've never been able to commit to having a favorite Season, but Fall on the east coast is lovely.  There's an intangible, expectant quality in the air that makes me feel like I should be buying pencils and notebooks, though it's been seven years since I've been in a classroom.  Unless you count TV Commercial Acting classes as school.  (Do you?  Didn't think so.) 

This butterflies in my belly feeling turns up like clockwork every September. 

On a more curious note, something about this time of year also brings out my inner Ina Garten/Nigella Lawson/Lidia Bastianich.  I'm compelled to pull out my crock pot, turn on my oven, and I experience a maniacal urge to begin simmering things.  What the?

Rather than buying a new pair of shoes, I want to go to Williams Sonoma and purchase olive oil that costs $22.  It's not right, and I know it. 

My Sister gets this way, too.  We're both stupefied as to where this make your own marinara mentality comes from, since our Mother has never been the Susie Homemaker type.  On the contrary, she used to jokingly refer to herself as Peg Bundy.

It's not that Ma isn't a talented, skilled cook, because she most definitely is.  (Her stuffed peppers?  Her meatballs?  The best.)  But let's just say she's never gotten giddy over puff pastry.  Or deglazing a skillet with white wine to make a flavorful pan sauce.  Or frittattas made with chorizo, fresh basil and roasted reds.  She cooks, but she's not going to sit on the phone and talk about it.  (Which, oddly enough, her offspring do.) 

Now that I think of it, I suppose my Dad is a bit of a foodie.  He's always marinating something or other.  And all the neighbors do make requests for his split pea soup each winter. 

Still, I'm always intrigued/puzzled (disturbed?) by women who emit June Cleavery type vibes...

Several years ago we were at Hubby's Aunt's house on a weeknight when her daughter announced her high school was having a bake sale the next day.  Well, go to the store and buy a box of cookies, right?  Wrong, apparently.  What happened next, Dear Reader, was Truly Amazing. 

In the most casual of manners, and without batting an eyelid, Aunt Kathy began peeling apples, kneeding dough, and before our eyes prepared two beautiful apples pies from scratch.  I was dumbfounded.  Who was this culinary wizardress? 

Kath couldn't understand why I was so shocked.  "Sweetie, hasn't your Mom ever baked a pie from scratch before?"  (Um, no!  Has anyone's?)

For as long as I can remember, (though my Mother will tell you it was 1988- OK, so I was ten!), Ma worked full time in retail and when she wasn't working was taking me to voice lessons/auditions/evening rehearsals for awful community theater productions.  To this day, my Mother is the most maternal woman I've ever met.  (Maternal and domestic being two very different things, in my estimation.)  But roll her own pie dough, she will not. 

There was another time back in college, when I was at a friend's house and her Mom cooked everyone breakfast.  And I don't mean toast.  I'm talking scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries...and it didn't end there.  There was lunch.  At the dinner table.  I'm fairly certain she would've cooked dinner as well, but we all went to a function that evening.  I think she must've thought my childhood was a page out of Dickens, such was my rampant disbelief at her culinary prowess.

My Italian Mother-in-Law also displays similar behavior, though Hubby doesn't expect this sort of thing from me.  My husband happens to be a thoughtful, independent Scorpio who was cooking and doing his own laundry long before I ever learned how.  (I think he was like ten?)  He's been preparing me romantic dinners for nearly ten years.  In short, cooking for him is a pleasure, mainly because he doesn't expect me to.  Sometimes I flatter myself by thinking I've had a feministic effect on him, but I think perhaps he was just born this way?  (What came first, the Broad or the egg?)

Of course, I don't think I would've fallen for a man who'd expect me to clean and cook for him simply because I have ovaries.  As if my female genetic makeup somehow makes me better at vacuuming or cleaning out a toilet bowl than someone who has a wiener.  The very idea of it makes my skin crawl!   

I was sent to Kindergarten with a tote bag that said Anything Boys Can Do Girls Can Do Better.  I was reading Ms. magazine in the 7th grade (until Ma and Dad decided I was becoming a touch too bitter).  My parents worked hard and brought Sissy and I up to go to college, no questions asked, without any mention of marriage or future grandkids.  I was raised to follow my dreams, not to putter around the kitchen making homemade energy bars! 

Maybe it's the novelty of it that I enjoy?  Or perhaps, after all, my dreams are turning out to be not so different than the ones my parents themselves had? 

Whatever the reason, Dear Reader, I simply cannot help myself.  There's just something so warmie about Fall.  Let's go saute something, shall we?

Crumb cake, anyone?

The other night Hubby and I went to eat at our favorite restaurant and afterwards stopped into our local quickie mart to get some toilet paper.  Much to my dismay, all they had was Marcal but we were desperate and one-ply would have to suffice. 

This got me to wondering, when exactly had we become accustomed to nice, soft, two-ply toilet paper?  I guess around the time we stopped drinking Natty Light, or taking the $10 Fung Wah bus to Boston or buying our subway rides one token at a time...(Back in ye olden days when they still sold tokens.)

The friendly store owner was especially giddy that evening and began telling us about a spectacular deal he had gotten on Entenmann's pastries:  "You should buy some cakes!  Me and two of my friends all own shops and we all bought cakes from this guy for $1.50 less!  It's a great deal!  A super deal!"

Did I mention I had imbibed two tall glasses of Riesling over dinner?  I wasn't exactly crystal clear on what all the frenzy was about, were the cakes a dollar or something?  As a rule, I generally don't eat boxed pastry, but he just seemed so genuinely excited...

Hubby was just paying when a wave of good deedery caused me to go over to the cakes to peruse them.  "We'll take one!"  I exclaimed. 

Drunken good deeds are the best.  Except the cake wasn't a dollar, it ended up costing more like five.  Ah well.

Anyone for crumb cake? 

Shrimp(s)

I'm kind of a foodie.  A lot of times I watch The Food Network strictly for comfort, though there are many occasions when a recipe will rally me to get off my arse and give it a whirl.

On Saturday, Giada De Laurentiis was the inspiration for the dish you see to your left: a shrimpy, lemony, garlicky, shalloty, arugula filled delight, and very easy to create.  Although I have to warn you next time I might add less than the recommended 1/2 cup of olive oil, since I've sometimes found Giada's measurements can be a teensy bit off.  (Hence her penne ala vodka that actually tasted like vodka.  I was nervous to bring the leftovers to work for fear of smelling like a wino.  Not that there's anything wrong with winos...)  Other than that, I find Giada simply glorious.  Except, does anyone else find her vast cleavage distracting?  Sometimes my eyes just don't know where to focus: on the pancetta or on her herculean decolletage.

This was a scrumptious linguine dish, though.

PS: Surprisingly, frozen shrimp are quite nice, especially given the fact that in the past I've ruined many a raw shrimp by overcooking it.  I've discovered even my dreadful (drug dealin' at the deli counter) local supermarket carries pre-cleaned peeled frozen shrimp, and I think now that I've purchased them I'll be far less squeamish in the future.

PPS: I really have a soft spot for arugula.  After last year's spinach scare I found myself turning to arugula for solace, and this nutty leafy green delivered, it really delivered.  It's tasty on a sandwich, too, or wilted in Pasta Puttanesca.

PPPS: This particular shrimp dish pairs well with a glass (or three) of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling.  (Who am I kidding, a peanut butter sandwich with crushed Lays chips goes well with this heavenly wine.)

PPPPS: Why is it more fun to say "Shrimps" than "Shrimp?"  It reminds me of my sinister childhood neighbor J.P. and the excuses he'd make up not to play with me: "Na, I can't, my Ma's taking me ta K-Marts ta buy a toy."  (And remember I'm from Massachusetts, so we actually pronounce it K-Maahts.)  Call me wacky, but I find inappropriate pluralization to be one of life's simplest and best joys.

If you're a shrimp(s) fan, click here to try this dish.  It was refreshing and light.  Hubbers agreed.

xoxo ~The O. B.

Hot Dog Soup

In my opinion, nothing is more delicious than a steaming bowl of hot dog soup on a raw, rainy east coast day in April.

And that is why, after this especially trying work day, I stopped by the store to pick up the ingredients necessary to create this comfort in a bowl.

What is this concoction, you may wonder?  (I say this because people are usually simultaneously fascinated and repulsed when I mention this family recipe.  One time I mentioned it during an acting class in college and rather than dissect my performance, the students (and teacher) continued to ask numerous questions about this soup.  "Did you say hot dog soup?  What is that, exactly?  What does it taste like?" 

Hot dog soup, or HDS, as my family lovingly refers to it, is a family tradition.  Recently my Auntie Kim passed it off as "hot dog stew" to people outside the family and it was a big hit.  Ma suggested I refer to it as a stew today, but somehow I cannot bring myself to do that.

Nanny, my Portuguese Grandmother, used to make HDS with linguisa, but somewhere along the line she converted to hot dogs.  All the women in my family love it, while most (all?) of the men do not.  Although I must say my husband enjoys a nice bowl of HDS on occasion.  (His reply when he heard I was making it tonight?  "Oh good, it's a perfect night to eat that."  See?  He's breaking the cycle, one bowl at a time.) 

If you're partial to tomato based, onion-y (is that a word?) flavored soups, please give this recipe a whirl.  You may just thank me.

Heat a large pot over medium heat.  Add to the pot 1 large diced onion, and 2 packages of hot dogs, cut into about one inch pieces.  Cook until the hot dogs start to brown and the onions are translucent.  Now, fill the pot with water until everything is covered.  (Make sure to do all this in the same pot- it really enhances the flavor)  Add one can of tomato paste, a little salt, pepper, 1 package of frozen green beans and two to three potatoes, peeled and diced.  Bring to a boil and then simmer until the potatoes are tender and your home is filled with a warmie, pleasing aroma. 

My Mom would say to simmer the soup for 45 minutes, while my Auntie Ding would ridicule her and say to simmer for no less than two hours.  Either way, it's salty, soothing, and reminds me of home.

Here, I'll show you:

Please allow me to introduce to you my lime green dutch oven, whom I love very dearly.  She was given to me by my Mother in law for Christmas.  I also received an orange Rachael Ray one from Santa (woops, I mean my Mom) this year, too.  If you don't have one of these babies you really must get one, she goes from stove top to oven and does so with a smile.  Sometimes she evens sings a little Streisand while she's simmering.  (The early stuff, though, none of that Bryan Adams duet shit)

And here is my HDS:

Warmth in a bowl, my friends, warmth in a bowl.  I forgot to buy potatoes today at the store, and it was so cold and I felt so exhausted and my ten pound shoulder bag was so heavy and my umbrella I got from work was so obscenely over sized (really, it comes up past my navel) that I decided to just go without.  This will explain the lack of starch in the picture to your left.  There really should be potatoes in there.  Nevertheless, my bowl was still bursting with oniony, green beanery, hot diggety doggedly goodness.

Now I've gone and done it.  I think I need another bowl.