Potlikkery

kingdom for a brownie

Even though I don't love chocolate, I made brownies Sunday morning. Each month I look forward to "The Last Touch," the final column in Gourmet.  This month (June) it featured four brownie recipes. Actually, the first, Coconut Blondies, is perfectly my speed, my taste. And someday I'll make that recipe for certain, but it's not what tugged at my apron strings Saturday afternoon as I browsed magazines on my back porch and ate strawberries straight out of the pint container.

Peanut Brittle Brownies. Yeah. It's deceptively simple. You make your brownie batter, pour it into your pan, and bake for 25 minutes. Pop open oven door, pull out rack, and sprinkle peanut brittle crumbles on top. Shove rack back in, close door, and bake another 5 minutes. Viola! You have yummy brownies.

By the time Ian arrived home Sunday morning, they had cooled enough to cut. Ian suggested that I cut and keep aside all the corner pieces for him. We are so compatible when it comes to baked goods. He likes the corner pieces, while I prefer the inside pieces that have absolutely no hard crusty edges.
Sigh, isn't it great when relationships work out like that? The only thing we usually fight over are black olives when we get that large shared salad at Olive Garden. Have to equally distribute the olives between us.

The brownie was yummy. I used 4 ounces of  Ghirardelli chocolate morsels I bought ages ago with Laura at Sam's. First time I opened its bag, actually, and was glad to have it. No doubt the Ghirardelli quality infused those brownies with an undeniably rich chocolate flavor.

I packaged up most of the brownies and as we made our Sunday rounds, I dropped off a half a dozen or so at my mom's house and and Ian's parent's house. It's best to share brownies, any sweets, really, so that those who are tempted and cannot control themselves do not have so much a temptation to overcome.

sausage king of north carolina

Sometimes when you aren't shopping for something it arrives in your life anyway. Early this fall Ian told me that he put in an order for twenty pounds of sausage with this fella he works with called ______ Bennett.

I'm not naming names because we also get moonshine from folks with whom Ian works and we recently learned that it is illegal to distill and give it away. We both thought you were allowed to distill and give away, or keep, as the case may be, a certain liquid measure of it each year. So who knows what kinds of heat could be brought down upon Mr. Bennett's uncle who makes his own sausage, but not in Tennessee. Mr. Bennett's uncle lives across the mountain in North Carolina. He makes sausage each year to sell to folks. It comes in regular and it comes in hot.

Ian likes it hot. So that's what we got. On the sixth of January Ian brought home two bags filled with sausage that we formed into patties. We rolled up sleeves and donned gloves because if you've never worked much with sausage or other fatty meats, well then you don't know how it cakes on to your hands and how soap won't loosen it a bit.

I form sausage patties in the same manner as I do a hamburger patty, but describing the technique... I've never tried. Ian made them a bit bigger than I would have, but surely that was to compensate for the shrinkage factor we faced once we fried up a few samples.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Good. But, they weren't as spicy as we hoped. In retrospect, we're glad we got hot because how bland could the regular be? Seemed a bit heavy-handed with the sage, but I'm not a sage-lover at all. Plus, it's likely that Mr. Bennett's uncle descended from the same bunch of North Carolina Bennetts as my grandmother.

Ian promised to give me Mr. Bennett's phone number so I can call and make inquires into the identity of his people. Then, too, I'd love to meet the uncle, hang out with him through the sausage-making process, and pepper him with questions.

saved by cinnabon, sort of

For once, my appetite for pastry saved the day.

The Atlanta airport has several concourses. Thursday afternoon my flight landed at concourse D and I noted a Cinnabon. I passed it by, naturally thinking that there was one in every concourse. Au bon pain distracted me long enough to make my flight and I traveled on to Philadelphia where I spent several days eating at restaurants of my choice and not of my choice. The novelty of Au bon pain is that there is not one servicing my pastry needs. Surely if it was an everyday thing, I'd not be so enamored of it.

When I stopped at Atlanta again and my flight landed at concourse B I went in search of Cinnabon. The main directory listed Cinnabon at concourse A. My traveling companion and I parted ways. We had about an hour to board our connecting flight to Tri-Cities, and she didn't want to be late to the gate following up my whim.

On to concourse A, where there was no Cinnabon. The directory at A listed D as the home of Cinnabon and our flight was leaving from concourse C, so no problem, they're adjacent. In the interest of saving time, I asked two airport workers which direction Cinnabon was, and they pointed me to the right. I walked and walked. Thought I saw a line, but that was at Burger King.

The Cinnabon counter was strangely free of cinnamon rolls. They were shut down? All out of cinnamon rolls?

[At this point in my story Ian told me that there aren't as many red-eye flights as there once were and as such, many airport eateries have limited their operating hours accordingly.]

I considered writing a nasty letter to the airport and to Cinnabon as well. Didn't even have time to compose it in my mind. Just went on my way, in dismay, in abject disappointment. It was pure luck that as I passed by a gate at concourse D I looked up and saw a flight to Tri-Cities departing at the same time as mine. I checked my flight number against the one at the gate.

They matched. Yup, they not only changed gate numbers, but complete concourses, too. About that time, I got a text message from my traveling partner telling me to go directly to the gate I stood in front of. I approached the gatekeeper and asked her if the flight was boarding. She said yes. I walked down the ramp and onto the plane. My traveling partner arrived about ten minutes later and boarded the plane after rushing to the gate.

The moral of this story is that the tummy knows! My desire for cinnamon rolls endowed me with a form of ESP, thus allowing me to be in the exact right place at the exact right time. How's that for tummy luck?

another holiday potluck

This is the third year I've blogged about our library holiday party, as well as the third year I've written about the Jbo Progressive Dinner; such a year for threes! The party snuck up on me this year. The people who organized it chose to have it early, on December 6, ostensibly so that the student workers were here and could get their grub on. Or so I imagine. The date arrived way too early for me, because I'm slammed with personal and professional commitments that make doing anything extra a major drag.

After an hour at the grocery store, because, really, I love grocery shopping, and I invariably end up with way more in my cart than I went for, I came home and cooked from 7 p.m. until 11 p.m. Anymore, trips to the grocery store are fun-filled because I run into Doug Burgess, a history professor at ETSU who also lives in the same neighborhood as my parents-in-law. Last week Doug and I almost bumped carts several times at Food City. This week, we rolled by each other like two buggies in the night at Kroger.  Then, there were at least two other folks from the university that I recognized at Kroger as well, but don't know personally.

I mention Doug for two reasons. First, I love being connected to the university and my community to the extent that I run into people I know on a regular basis. Call it the small city effect. And second, the reason Doug is always at the grocery store is that he cooks. He compiled "Doug's So You're Over Forty, Can't Cook, and Can't Get a Date Cookbook," but what he's really known for is the hot sauce he bottles and offers to faculty, staff, and students across campus. I've not tried it, but I should. Ian collects hot sauce every chance he gets, and we have gallons of it, an abundance, and so adding another mason jar to the collection is overkill.

Last night I spent four hours cooking. I loved it, but am still wiped out this afternoon. I started with Nigella's Guinness Chocolate Cake.  Once that was in the oven I sliced my squash and set them to cook on the range. Then I turned to my salad. I had ideas for three or four things to make and bring, but it's not until I'm in the kitchen and I gauge my ingredients and my stamina that I decide what to make.

Originally I'd planned on bleu cheese straws, chocolate cake, and Manchego cheese and walnut stuffed dates. And maybe a Vidalia onion and goat cheese pie. But there were no Vidalia onions at the grocery store. I bought a bag of sweet onions, but I'm sure they're not the same. Also contemplated a cardamom-buttermilk pie, but only had one pie crust left in the fridge and forgot to pick up another set of those pillsbury rolled up pie crusts that are almost as good as scratch.

But since I don't have a food processor (Santa, are you reading?), I quickly ruled out the bleu cheese straws. I had picked up a couple packages of Ramen at the store because I still have cabbage left from the first batch of salad/slaw I made and was ready to try a second batch. This time it came out more how I wanted it to. The difference was a lot more Ramen noodles and the  rice vinegar and peanut oil substitution. Plus, I added ground ginger and one of the roast chicken flavor packets from the noodles. And then there were grated carrots. Its taste is much improved. I made notes of the changes I made to the recipe and shall share those later, along with the original recipe. Also chopped the cabbage instead of grating it, and like the latter texture much better.

Seems like the thing that took the most time was the dates. I had that stuffed date at the Jbo Progressive Dinner and its simplicity amazed me. Luckily I found Mancheno cheese at the grocery. I was also worried about dates. The first ones I ever ate were this summer, or maybe last summer when Kellie brought home a bunch from the Middle East. Yum. I love dates. Who knew!?

But Dole sells dates in re-sealable bags in the fruit/raisin section. And walnut-availability is no biggie. I sliced the cheese into tiny bits and sliced open the dates (they were pitted), and tucked cheese and walnut inside. Easy peasy! So good, too. Surely this is a dish that people rave about. I foisted one on Ian this morning. He got home around 4 a.m., peered inside the fridge and thought the dates were something chocolate. What a disappointment for him. Then he asked me about them later this morning. I told him what it was and brought him one to eat even though he said he hates dates.

The trouble was the cake. Normally I use my larger springform pan, but I tried following Nigella's instructions to use the 9 inch pan instead of the 10 inch. Mistake! There was overflow and a muffin top. And after cooling it a good hour or so, I popped the springform latch, and a lot of the cake came away with the tin. Sad, sad cake. I frosted it anyway and thought I'd keep it at home for me and Ian. But really, we cannot consume an entire cake alone. So I brought it, bugs and all, to work for the party. It may look very homemade, which could be a good thing next to all the store-bought desserts, but one thing I know for sure is that it rocks.

Oh, and then I decided after making the squash casserole that I wouldn't bring it. Heating dishes and keeping the refrigerated is always tricky at the library. And so I wanted to bring things that didn't need either. The top of my squash casserole was rather dark. It looked unpleasant. I didn't want to share it. Then, too, I changed the recipe a bit to incorporate a medium-sized sweet onion (of the not-the-Vidalia-kind) and was afraid the taste might be too oniony.  Eighty percent of the time I'll share a new dish with folks without tasting it myself because I'm confident that it's good. This squash casserole I am still unsure about. Might warm it up for dinner and see how it is.

As for all the other goodies at the holiday party, man, there was too much stuff. I tried corn pudding, beef stroganoff, hot german potato salad, sausage balls, deviled eggs, ratatouille, what else? Oh, there was way too much food. Sadly, I was forced to take a break because I worked the reference desk from 12-1. Had to eat quickly, then assume my position. But, that allows for a good hour's break for my food to settle and process and then I'll have room to sample desserts.

Last year there was some talk about compiling our recipes. One of my co-workers asked me to take on the job, but I didn't follow up. So this year, I think I'm following up. It's a shame not to have all those divine recipes at one's fingertips. Come next year, I may be compiling an in-house cookbook.

death of a hand mixer

In a previous post I mentioned how I dread replacing appliances. That was the case with my hand mixer, too. I inherited an avocado-colored hand mixer from my mother when I moved out on my own in college. I had it until a year or two ago.

Granted, the occasions that called it out from the drawer were rare. Most mixing is done with the Kitchen Aid my mom gave me for Christmas the first year Ian and I were married. That was, and still is, my favorite kitchen appliance.  And then other mixing is usually split between my Braun hand blender or the regular old blender that most of us grew up with.

Somehow mixing butter and garlic in with the mashed potatoes is easier with a hand mixer, though often as not I grab my old-timey potato masher first. Potato mashers don't work on whipping cream. That's just a guess. I've not tried. But I'm too lazy to whip cream by hand.

Eventually that dear old avocado-colored hand mixer died. Mid-mix.  It struggled, emitted a dainty cough, and then died. I overwhelmed it's twenty-to-thirty year old motor with cookie dough, as I recall. Cookie dough is usually best left to the KA stand mixer, but I had not cleaned its bowl or mixer. The more utensils I dirty while cooking, the better I like it. Our arrangement is that Ian does most dishes and runs the dishwasher. I return clean dishes and utensils to their homes. And also do the majority of the cooking, lest you think this division of labor unfair to Ian.

While looking at toaster ovens we came across the hand mixers. I wanted to wait on purchasing one, after all, I've held off for almost a year on this already, but Ian pointed out there were only two pink ones on the shelf.

That's right. He said pink. And now, I'm the semi-proud owner of a pink hand mixer. Pink is way down on the list of colors I like. But its purchase supports breast cancer research. And it's different. It won't match the deep red walls of my kitchen, but it doesn't have to, since it'll be relegated to an over-full drawer.

Upon seeing the mixer out of the box Ian's main complaint was that its beaters are so fine. Not much lickable surface, not much batter will cling to those anorexic tines. And that means he'll lose out on batter.

My main complaint is it's digital control. Long gone are the days of controlling speed by moving my thumb up or down a notch. With that old button, I could take the mixer from zero to whip in no time flat in one smooth motion. But the digital control means I'll have to bump the speed up seven times with my finger to get from zero to whip. Progress is a bitch. And, it's regressive.

woe is my oven

For months now, getting the broiler to work on my wall oven is tricky. One night last week I decided on breakfast for supper. I fried my eggs, over-easy. I buttered my toast, put the slices on a cooking sheet, and opened the oven door. No heat. No light. No nothing. I over-cooked my eggs. And by the time I made toast in the skillet, they were cold. Not the most successful breakfast ever.

Fiddling with the thermostat resulted in more frustration on my part. Mostly the broiler doesn't work for Ian. He grumps about the problem, I walk over, flip the dial around a few times and the broiler works.

Not this time. My wall oven hates me. I love it though. It's original to the house. Think 1962 or 1963 24 inch stainless steel Fridgidaire wall oven. Nothing digital on it. Nothing fancy about it. I've baked, broiled, and roasted with it for almost ten years now.

Like all foodies, I melt at the sight of double wall ovens and viking ranges and perfectly constructed cabinets. But that is not my reality. My kitchen takes me back to the sixties each time I step inside one of it's doorways. And I wasn't born until 1971.

Ian and I went in search of a replacement part. FYI, the model number is: RBE-G94-1-CH. The thermostat is part number 5307522594. After all the visits to appliance shops and phone calls to appliance parts dealers in the Tri-Cities area we were told that the part isn't made anymore. But we knew that. We hoped that a used appliance dealer might have a circa 1960 Fridgidaire wall oven buried under a few Maytags, or something.

Neither of us want a new wall oven. I'm very curmudgeonly about my kitchen. If it isn't broken, I see no reason to buy something shinier and newer because it's available. And because that shows how upwardly mobile we are, or how much we wish to impress people with our cash outlay on stainless, high-end appliances.

Last night we looked at toaster ovens. We've wanted one for a while. We found one we like. We may buy it eventually. But spending less than $200 for a fabulous stainless toaster oven beats the pants off buying a completely new wall oven. Honestly, I LOATHE digital controls and displays. None of the new wall ovens do a thing for me. And we cannot afford another debt for a $1K to $2K wall oven. And our space is minimal, twenty four inches wide. Replacing the cabinets is completely out of the question. Practicing kitchen triage is so painful and filled with misgivings.

Eventually I'd love to redo our kitchen. Sure, I'd like to fill it with high-end appliances because I'll actually use them; they won't be just for show. I don't want to spend $500 on an okay-for-now oven that I may want to replace with something else down the road.

The worst part was visiting an appliance store and seeing all the fabulous kitchens on display. They reminded me of cooking show sets: Fabulous, immense, and tricked out to the max. At least we got estimates on how much a new ventilation hood costs. It works okay, but it's also circa 1962. One of its fans falters frequently.

adventures in vegeterianism

Since Ian is sticking to his Weight Watcher's plan he's all about getting the most bang for his points. Traditional proteins like chicken, beef, and pork, since he doesn't do fish,  rank too high in the scheme of his daily point allowance. After my return from DC last month I talked up the Morningstar products that I'd eaten at Fiona's. We picked up a box of black bean burgers at the grocery store. I grabbed a box of portobello mushroom burgers as well.

Both patties were good, but frankly, I preferred his to mine. Mine wasn't Morningstar. Perhaps that's where the fault lies. Or does it lay? Usage and tenses of that word always befuddle me. Really, I'm quite thrilled with Ian's openness to new foods. He's too picky. There are dozens of items on his list of things he won't eat. So, it's like he's turned over a new leaf. Or reached a certain level of culinary maturity.  It's likely that I'd be vegetarian if I was married to one. And yet, I love beef and pork. Can totally do without chicken. But life without bacon seems so very wrong.

So the other night we dined on the black bean burgers again with a side of noodles. The burger was so good. Much better than the portobello mushroom one. Now I must think of some way to get rid of those frozen portobello patties. Thaw and feed to the spaniels? There's a thought.

And we got their hot dogs, too. Morningstar, that is. Fiona raved about them. Said that at a cookout she took them to, that all the carnivores craved her dogs. Ian boiled them. Their texture was dense. He bit into his first. "They taste like corndog batter," he said. I nibbled mine and agreed. While they were okay and very low on the points totem, I'd much prefer my all-beef frankfurter, thank you very much. And most of the challah you see in the photo I fed to my dogs. Still picky as ever, I prefer to eat the fleshy inside of bread and leave the hard crusty parts to others.

cupcake carrying case

Despite my last bad experience in the world of cupcakes, I saw this cupcake carrying case at Awesome! and had to have it. One of the reasons I didn't share my last batch of cupcakes with anyone was because I had to split them into two or three plastic storage pieces and maybe you could say that looking at them in those containers depressed me and I couldn't bring myself to remove them from the house looking so boring and unloved. No doubt, I'll not have that problem with this lovely carrier that I ordered  tried to order from Crate & Barrel, except their website is all mucked up. Maybe I'll try later, or just call the 1-800 number to order the old-fashioned way.

take the pickle

Leave it to John T. Edge to report on the newest thing going in Mississippi Delta roadside food attractions:  Kool-Aid Pickles.  You'll find them at filling stations and convenience stores shelved next to the other pickled items like eggs, pig's feet, okra, etc. Their bright colors make them super-appealing to children but the new market is adults.

I'm fascinated.

And the process is simple:

“They’re easy to make a gallon,” Ms. Williams said. “You pull the pickles from the jar, cut them in halves, make double-strength Kool-Aid, add a pound of sugar, shake and let it sit — best in the refrigerator — for about a week. The taste takes to anything. A while back I made a mistake and bought a jar of pickle chips instead of halves or wholes. Came out fine. This whole Kool-Aid pickle thing is going so good, you wonder why somebody hasn’t put a patent on them.”

Also, someone is pursuing the trademark Koolickle. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.

photo problem

I have a problem. Maybe it's not a problem. I carry my camera everywhere. There is so much loveliness in the world and I feel compelled to capture and preserve and possibly share it. This is especially true when it comes to food. When I'm shopping at the grocery, I pull out my camera. When I make something in the kitchen, it takes longer than normal because I must capture the way the light plays on the vinegar in the glass measuring cup.

All of that to segue into a few things I shot at Fresh Market last weekend. I tried to be nonchalant about it, but several of the stock boys gave me a second look to see what I was up to. I try to shoot from the hip, and not have the camera near my face, that way I meet some self-imposed guidelines of surreptitiousness.