I just discovered a little thrill known as "blogging from bed." Generally I'm tethered to my sofa, where I languish and yawn and am frequently distracted by "Frasier" or "Kitchen Nightmares" or other things that make me wish I were watching British TV all the time. Yes, I caught a bit of that at some insanely wee hour of this morning and yes, it's phenomenally creepy. These men are all, "I have the dolls because what woman would want me?" Well NONE, now. Anyway, so now I've figured out that my only-as-old-as-it-feels (52 going on Methuselah at the moment) house has GREATER THAN ONE phone jack. My god, y'all, I'm partying like it's 1976. Go ahead. Envision me lazing gracefully in a sweatsuit and cold cream. I know you want to.

I'm fairly certain that my dwindling fan base, disillusioned by the broken promise of frequent postings, are all asleep now. Even J is all, "the TYPING is a bit MUCH for 11:38, now I shall commence to snoring." To the only one who might be up, as a kindred devotee of both Diet Coke and playing the odds: Riddle me this. What are the chances that, having eaten dinner at 9:47 pm accompanied by an impulsive and ill-advised Diet Mountain Dew, I will be falling asleep at any point in the near future? You know, on a scale of 1 to Never Going to Happen?

The insomnia and the inappropriate cravings are, I fear, symptomatic of some nutritional deficiency. I ran out of vitamins a week ago, and I'm jonesing. Because I'm an anemic oldster. No, really, I tend to silence the "I neeeeeeeeeed something" whine my body produces by throwing cream cheese and bagels the size of my head at it. I have been suffering from a severe case of freezer food/carb fatigue. I think it might make me cranky, too. Don't give me that look, hosebeast.

Or not.

I am delighted to report that—having made my selection of a light salad for dinner, tromped the dog on a suntastic death march, and discovered how to use my iPod FM tuner only 1.5 years after receiving it as a gift—I have been cured. Thank you, Kraft Foods and the Publix freezer section.



I will never eat a bagel again.

I won't even make the obvious observation here, because I'm pretty sure if there are any loyal fans left, my grandma is one of them (hi grandma!). Just know that there is a cinnamon version of this madness, and it looks ... diseased. I think they were going for a clumsy Twinkie knock-off, but the Web site describes the shape as "convenient." Um ... ok.

I love products that insipidly save people from their own laziness. If you can't figure out how to budget the time to put shmear on a bagel (and I think that takes less than the 2 minutes required to heat this up, which is also awesome), you don't need to own a microwave. It's too dangerous for you. In fact, I think breakfast of any kind might be a bit ambitious.

Once I recovered from the shudder-inducing frozen novelties, I made my way to the outer boroughs, namely produce. But a major ingredient of the salad I wanted to make (Stay! Tuned!) is avocados, and the ones at Publix were the color of cucumbers. I was in the market for something more like car tires. They also had the heft of hail. I had a good mind to ping one at the tiny old man glaring at me over the mangos. I don't know why. He just looked like he had it coming.

So! I improvised. I know, can you believe it? I'm the kid who couldn't get past the first math problem on the times-tables test because I didn't think you could do them out of order. I do not like to deviate from a plan. I'd make a great cult member, come to think of it ...



Yeah, that never gets old.

I decided to try to re-create, FROM MEMORY, the ingredients of Ina's hummus recipe. I knew I'd need tahini, because that's the reason I've never attempted homemade hummus before. Yes I have no tahini. I also knew I was craving some fresh veggies. It was a gorgeous and warm day, devoid of the humidity and mosquitoes that will soon drive me inside until November.

I got home and put the avocados in a paper bag to ripen at room temperature. I turned to page 46 in The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook and would you believe it? I had everything I needed.



Garbanzos, salt, lemons, hot sauce, garlic, and tahini. There is going to be a LOT of hummus making in my future, and not least because this turned out to be completely delicious. That enormous container of tahini cost $5.99, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let the rest of it rot in my refrigerator. That's the job of the crusted 2-year-old tube of anchovy paste, thank you very much.

The steps are twofold:

1. Put ingredients in food processor.



2. Process.



Eat your heart out, prepackaged nonsense. I am an utter convert. This was infinitely better than anything you get in a container, and you end up with double the volume for a lot less money. Ah, cheap and easy. You are my bellwether.

I chopped up some tomato, cucumber, kalamata olives, and a tiny bit of red onion and feta.



Then I smeared a whole wheat pita with the luscious chickpeas (note, crazy Bagel-ful gawkers: It only took a second).



And THAT, dear reader, is how you take a self-congratulatory, preachy post about the importance of fresh veggies and complex proteins and turn it into yet another sandwich.

and I didn't get the memo.

From an admittedly whiny story by food critic Alan Richman—in Bon Appetit—in which he laments ... being a food critic:

"When I tell [small boys under the age of 12] I eat for a living, they look at me as though I were Superman. Small girls of the same age aren't impressed. They tend to be more interested in boys than in food at that age, not realizing that if they showed more interest in food, boys would show more interest in them."

Well.



Sigh. Hillary never had a chance.

M&M, you're the only ones I'd be that cheesy for. Unless, you know, I was paid a great sum. Or given to bouts of punniness. Which is just wacky. I am acerbic and arched, not lowbrow and pandering.

Just don't say this to me, ever. I can't be held responsible for whatever beverage may come out of my nose.

In case you've been wondering what prompted my latest and long absence, I am prepared to blame Big Brother's wedding. Not because I was required to participate in any way that would preclude me from sharing my latest face-stuffage, but because they are on their honeymoon to Mexico. This makes them a) unable to protest and b) possibly hateable. I'm willing to bet my view of parking lots and air-conditioning units does not compare to their sandy toes and icy brews.

I'm always inclined to say, of weddings, "it went off without a hitch," which cracks me up because of the hitch/hitched paradigm and probably negates everything I claimed in the first paragraph.

The couple's pretty pretty prettiness was presided over by this:



while the ceremony was presided over by T. A lovelier, braver man I have never known, but I have a sneaking suspicion Big Brother is footsteps-following. Moms was gorgeous and radiant and adoring and remarkably composed. If I'd had to watch The Boy get married as the mommy, I'd have been a puddle. (Go download "Better" by Toby Lightman and envision Big Brother and Moms dancing to it. WARNING: It will make you shmoopy.)

I wonder when Americans decided that the best moments in life should be celebrated with cake. Birthdays, weddings, parole ... cakes all around! And they're guaranteed to cause a stampede. M's was yellow cake with buttercream icing and a slightly ominous aura, if these pictures are any indication. Future Sugar Daddy: Buy me a camera, would you? This is getting embarrassing. My only stipulation is that it should be easy enough for a monkey to use.



Big Brother's was a darkly rich tower with peanut buttery accents.



I didn't taste either—an evil migraine was digging a mine shaft behind one eye, so I was focused on keeping lunch down. But I think Zoe's Momma can provide a review of both. The passers from the catering company came out of the room shellshocked and empty-trayed, so I'll take that as an A+. I hope nobody lost any limbs.

I did, however, snag tiny potatoes on tiny forks.



How could I resist? That will be the theme for my wedding (I know, T, not until 2012). Diminutive things in vast quantities. There will be tea roses and piles of these. And herds of Shetland ponies.

Be nice to me, and you may just score an invitation. It will be extremely exclusive.

P.S. I may need a miniature man for the occasion. If you know an available one, have him e-mail onthewoodside@gmail.com.

On what planet is this an appropriate or grammatically sensible abbreviation for jalapeños? Moe's Southwest Grill, where the ingredients are fresh and racially insensitive.



I'm not going to repeat what that green sticker says, because I don't want to use that word and certainly don't want to be found by anyone old/stupid enough to Google it. I'm just going to hope you can squint through the incredible failure that is my photographic talent. That picture is just incredibly awful.

I ordered the Instant Friend, if you must know, nosy. It was soggy—too many sauteed veggies. There was an entire onion in there. And MAN does my breath smell good.

Word to the wise: If you like Moe's, do not, under any circumstances, look at the nutritional information. That section of the Web site is currently "under construction," and I wouldn't be surprised if it stayed that way. I've looked before, and I can tell you unequivocally. You do not want to know.

Tonight I swear on all that is holy (that's not much round these parts, but stay with me) I will cook and post. It is my solitary goal to bring you, my loyal readers/fan club, the minutiae you so desire. With a lot less racism.

Frazzled? Bored? Burned out? Go spell something with Flickr! It's a nice distraction on a rainy Friday.



Big ups to the bro and future sis-in-law on tomorrow's big day. I promise more frequent posting in the wake of the festivities! It took me awhile to recover from the food coma I slipped into after the tomato pie of death. But not to worry! Last night I did the splits at the grocery store, breaking a shoe and swearing at an unsuspecting old woman who remarked, "At least you didn't fall all the way! But I bet you pulled a muscle!"

Oh my yes. It was graceful, indeed. There will always be clumsy crazy to keep me (and you) occupied.

Before I tell you the story of how I turned a perfectly nutritious vegetable (sorry, Reagan, fruit) into a saturated-fat bomb, I have an announcement to make. BIG news. There's been an invention you all should know about. This brilliant idea is useful at retail establishments, theme parks, and gambling venues, as well as providing a tool for tithing or creating permanent plastic record of your friends' hideously ill-advised facial hair. Also, you can memorialize your beloved rodent.



Has there ever been a more useful tool? Swipe, PIN, done. OR, you could write a check. But I'll be standing behind you in line, giving you the K-stare whilst you load 11 types of red meat (plus deli turkey, but only because you have a COUPON, which is another piece of paper I could do without. Either it's on sale, or it's not. Why require proof you read the ad? It's merchandising, not a scavenger hunt.), a gallon of milk, and nerve pills onto the conveyor belt. I'm thinking maybe if your nerves are shot you should consider eating less cow. Not that I have anything against bovines, per se, I just figure general health might mean mixing a few ingredients in with all the ... flesh.

But I digress. Always. The rambling POINT is, why why WHY write a check? Because that's just going to mean the first-timer at the register is going to need managerial assistance, and you're going to ask who to make it out to even though you're STANDING INSIDE THE WINN-DIXIE, and the infuriatingly unattended children behind me will decide that's just long enough to put all the Trident in their basket, which ... well, when "mom" came back, that was kind of funny. Banshee children were very proud. But then you're going to have to painstakingly REWRITE the check because first-timer can't understand how to make the coupon work and he's going to have to call for the 17-year-old manager again and OH MY GOD NOW THE COUPON WENT THROUGH AND YOU JUST SAVED ONE GODDAMN DOLLAR AND I'VE SPENT 23 MINUTES STIFLING THE SILENT SCREAM. I just wanted to pay for my double-volume bottle of wine and get the hoo-hah out of there.

Because I'd just spent my last $12 on hooch, I had only the contents of my kitchen to sustain me. And by that I mean a couple of big tomatoes and old tofu curry. No, I don't really still have that in my fridge. That would be gross.

The tomatoes weren't exactly August fresh, so I decided to look for a baked tomato tart recipe. But every one I found called for refrigerated or frozen dough. So I decided on a Southern Living-endorsed tomato pie. I had Bisquik! AND, the expiration date was only ... oh. 2005. Now I have two questions.

1. Was that really the last time I made sausage balls?
2. When I became a homesteader on the Woodside, did I really move a mostly empty box of baking mix?

Yes. And so it would seem. But a true Renaissance woman, a culinary MacGyver such as myself, makes do. So I decided to do the unthinkable: make pastry.

Oh, pick your jaw up off the floor. I had an almost-successful cookie baking experience. I'm practically Sara Lee.

That recipe, the pastry one, came from the Joy of Cooking.

It started simply, with flour, salt, ice water, and enough butter to make my mother cringe.



I was halving the recipe, because the JoC one is for making fancy-pants pies that have tops and bottoms. I was making a topless pie, and you KNOW that means math. I added the butter to the flour, mixing it with my fingers until the bits were around the size of peas. Or until the bits were random and I was bored.



I managed to keep things straight until it was time to add the ice water, but then ... I was absentmindedly around six tablespoons when there was supposed to be three.

My bad.



I buttered and floured a pie plate



and rolled out the dough.



This was actually dough-rolling attempt #2. The first time it became the consistency of paste, at which point I had to scrape the whole thing off the cutting board with a knife, add more flour, and start over. I guess those extra tablespoons make a difference. So my apologies to my neighbors. I don't usually talk like that. At least not at that volume.

The dough went into a cake pan (I don't own a pie plate), and got poked with a fork, lined with foil, and topped with another pie plate. This, it seems, is called "blind baking." Or, in my case, the blind leading the blind.



Into the oven for ... oh, I don't know. Ten minutes? Give or take? The heat from my oven kinda warped Henrietta the timer. She's no worse for the wear, just a little coqeyed.

I SLAY ME.

When it came out, it got a sprinkling of Parmigiano.



And then it was time to assemble the insides.



Mayonnaise, dijon (homemade Dijonnaise!), sliced tomatoes, Parmigiano, salt, pepper, and chopped onions. I mixed the mayo, mustard, and cheese, then layered tomatoes, dried basil and onion. Topped with more tomatoes, basil, and onion, and then smeared with the fatty cheesiness.



Baked for an oddly specific 24 minutes at 400.



Then I held my breath, cut into the pie, and ...



yums! I just lost three years off my life. But I only had a small slice. I couldn't justify any more, it seemed too decadent. I think if I made it again I'd put the dijonnaise between the layers and then top the pie with the cheese. There was something just a pinch unappetizing about the consistency. But it tasted like heaven. Heaven with the promise of triple bypass.

They say red wine is good for the ole ticker. Serving suggestion: a nice Barolo and insalata di Lipitor.

Every so often an event comes along that changes the way you look at the world. Maybe it's something terrific, like Olean (FDA-mandated warnings aside, that stuff is fat-free fat. Possibly the greatest invention of all time, aside from Bovinity Divinity may it rest in peace.) Or maybe it's something utterly disillusioning that tests your faith in humanity, like



or



Tonight was neither of those. It was more of a serendipitous stumble, a scenario that very well may prove that I am a terrific cook when I'm ... not cooking.

I knew I wanted a sandwich, because really, when do I not want a sandwich? I was also, BELIEVE IT OR NOT, tired of pasta. And also, frankly, of cheese. (I KNOW. Look for the horsemen.) Tomorrow I'll probably make a grilled cheese with a side of pasta salad, but tonight was light. I couldn't decide between soup and sandwich or salad and sandwich, but I had a strange hankering for chopped salad. Specifically cucumber.

The sandwich search was harder than you might think. Without meat or cheese, a sandwich isn't much of a sandwich. Although! It occurs to me. I do love a pb&j. But it seems, particularly when you take meat out of the equation, people don't think much beyond the tomato soup/grilled cheese combo.

And then I found this. Granted, the title is muy dorky, and there's something I inherently don't trust about Ellie Krieger. She's always telling me I can have all the foods I love and be thin. She has some agenda about "portion size" or something. What a nutso. I mean, look at her. That's not an honest face. That's the face of a woman who sucks down half a bag of Oreos in the bathtub. Not that I know that face.

Then, finally, I unearthed this gem. All my favorite things, and not a hot stove in sight!

Wait. Gotta boil the eggs. Sigh. Luckily, though, I am an expert. While the eggs boiled away (I let the chill come off them first as recommended, JLB!), I assembled the salad ingredients:



I diced up a cucumber, drained and rinsed a can of cannellini beans (perhaps my favorite among the canned beans), chopped red onion, crushed a clove of garlic, and gathered salt, pepper, white vinegar, olive oil, and a pretty red tomato. I had to toss the soggy black basil because it was wet. And sort of the color of charcoal. I stirred together the cucumber, beans, and onion with some dried basil.



Then, I whisked together the olive oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, and crushed garlic clove.



Once I tossed the cucumber and beans with the dressing, I peeled the boiled eggs. They joined the other ingredients:



Lettuce, red bell pepper, red onion slices, dijon mustard, mayonnaise, and a multigrain wrap. Those wraps are disappointing to me. I thought the problem was with the variety I tried before (spinach), but it turns out they all sort of taste like the third ingredient is recycled paper.

I diced up the eggs (4 whole, 4 whites) and woke Rip Van Puppy



for a treat: the extra yolks. They're a bonus food—he thinks they're delicious, and I think watching him try to master the texture of them is hilarious.

The boiled eggs, mayo, mustard, salt, and pepper (is it weird that Ellie doesn't define the amount of salt? It doesn't seem very health-conscious to let us crazy Americans loose with the sodium) get mixed together and spread on the wrap.



Topped with the vegetables, and swaddled up.



Yeah, that's how CL tells you to present the salad. It's prettier than it is practical, and I think I'll just chop the tomatoes into the salad next time. The flavors of both recipes were spot-on, though. Weird, right? I didn't burn anything or slice any body parts, and I only dropped two of the boiled eggs in the floor.

I am going to fall down a lot tomorrow.

You know, lately I'd really been worrying over the Woodside. I made that horrid curry, and then I loved and loathed with universally lackluster passion (it was Mediocre Monday, a study in my "i suppose"s and "who cares" ... s.).

Which is not to say I don't love that chicken, cuz I do. Anyone who's seen me make late-night oven fries can attest. That'd be 17 minutes on the ole coq, according to Manuel. Call J, he'll vouch.

I hope you've all been keeping up with my sporadic checking-in, because if not that sentence is going to seem really strange. And yes, that is a direct indictment, L, for whom it seems 50% DNA sharing is not enough incentive to keep up with my myopic ramblings. HM.

I've had this recipe for ages (according to Cooking Light, almost five years. Which, frankly, is far longer than I thought. Ah, 2003. I was a single woman without a dog then. Really, ponder ... ). I adore any mathematical equation that involves y = x(tomato + basil), where x =mozzarella. And y = goodness.

But first, back to my original point. Just when I was beginning to despair that anything interesting would happen to me (I was more in the market for "record deal" or "lottery winnings" than "broken clothes dryer" and "stressful work week"), I had an epiphany.

There is GOOD crazy to be found nearish the Woodside (for all you nerds who are watching—I see you, J-Bo and Mom!—according to blogger, "nearish" is a word). Here's a rough timeline of events:

6:10 pm: K departs the Woodside, almost sideswiping a biker in a chartreuse, ergo quite visible, jersey despite having a backup camera in the Prius.

6:17 pm: K arrives at Brunos.

6:17:05 pm: K exits the Prius and heads toward the potted plants.

6:17:39 pm: The skirt of K's dress flies, blown-out umbrella style, STRAIGHT over her head, exposing embarrassing panties borne of the lack of clothes dryer mentioned above, as well as thighs that haven't seen sun in a decade.

6:17:42 pm: K stands, paralyzed, in the grocery parking lot. She mistakenly believes, like a dumb chimp about to get a shot, that standing very, very still and clutching her knees will keep store personnel and sundry customers and possibly the entire dinnertime-rush patronage at Milo's from noticing.

6:18 pm: K realizes she has been spotted.


Sorry, Ollie.

6:27 pm: K determines that, with one hand around a bunch of leeks and one hand around the neck of a $6.99 bottle of Chardonnay, she has checked her shame at the door.

6:32 pm [scene: exotic-cheese case. players: K, and a floral-dress-clad grandma wearing white tennis shoes and a trench coat buttoned up to her neck. temperature: too warm for soft cheese and chilled wine.]:
Grandma in sneakers, barking: What IS that?
K, startled by inappropriate conversational distance: Oh! Leeks.
GiS, suddenly calmer: I've wondered what those were!
K, desperate for stranger contact to be over: Yeah ...
GiS, suspicious: What do you use them for?
K, curious as to why her "that's enough, lady" signals seem to be scrambled: Um, basically they're like a mild onion.
GiS, suddenly delighted and coquettish: Oh! Well I've wondered what they were for, but I never knew. A mild onion, you say?
K, growing desperate, as the confab has moved past pet supplies and into the 10-items-or-less lane: You see them a lot in soups.
GiS, giggling: Ha! I've seen that. I always thought it was a bean, to be honest. HAR!

I inadvertently picked up an elderly girlfriend at the grocery store.

BUT! Good things ensued when I was safely ensconced back at the Woodside with my man J. First, I gathered my ingredients:



Vegetable stock, balsamic vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, white wine, arborio rice, fresh mozzarella, salt, basil, and more tomatoes than the recipe called for. I would probably give my kingdom, or at least a chair (I just did a quick count, and from where I sit in the Woodside I can see no fewer than 13 chairs), for a tomato. I know they're not in season now, which is why these tiny ones work so beautifully. And look how I found my stove light! My photos are so happy for the backlight! And it only took me two years to find! To be fair, it was hiding. On ... the front of the stove hood.

SHUT UP. I'M SHORT.

There were also the girl-getting leeks, which I chopped and separated into a bowl of cold water, so that all their sundry grit could sink away.



The balsamic vinegar went on the stove to reduce from this



to this,



which, because I halved the recipe, only took a minute or so. And I did have to rotate that photo so the smiley brightened your Thursday. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Note to JB: I lurve this pot. It conducts heat perfectly, it cleans like a dream, and it's enamel, so it works equally well as a nonstick pan and an intruder deterrent. Unfortunately, it's the size of a coffee cup. But I love it anyway.

The leeks sauteed until tender, about three minutes.



Then the rice went on to toast, the wine went in—to the pot and the cook—and many dousings of broth ensued, which led to



The recipe says to set the balsamic syrup aside, but by the time the risotto was done, the syrup had hardened. So I reheated it and did the drizzle.



Dear Hillary, was it worth it. I stirred in the tomato, basil, salt, half-and-half (skim milk, if it's all you have in your refrigerator next to a doomed curry experiment wherein the fat solids and liquids seem to be separating just to taunt you). But that balsamic reduction made it a totally different flavor experience. And pretty, too!

Yes, I'm pretty. Just ask GiS.

I love:



Gack! Oh, this one was love at first sight. It's a kitchen timer shaped like a chicken who appears to be screaming. And it's inexpensive, too, thanks to the genius that is Books-A-Million.

And I would like some credit for not making the "it was cheep" joke that originally occurred to me. To be fair, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night because watching a movie that started at 11:00 pm seemed like a terrific idea. Turns out I'm 104 and I need 12 to 15 hours of sleep per day. I'm a 104-year-old cat. Needless to say, I wore my cranky pants to work.

GD it, it's 11:00 pm again. HOW does that keep HAPPENING?

So thank you, T! I adore my screechy hen. Although I suppose some credit is due to Manuel.



Gracias, darling. Your instruction is illuminating. I'm sorry J stole your thunder. He was determined to stoically make an appearance in that shot. He finds my crouching in the floor rather curious.

I loathe:



Children's menus. I know I don't have any children, so I don't have any grounds to have an opinion, but I'm a huge fan of groundless opinions. I absolutely appreciate that items on the youngsters' menu cost less and mean smaller portions, but take a gander at this one, from an upscale Mexican restaurant near the Woodside. Hamburger and chicken fingers. What the hoo hah is that ABOUT? Why don't we ask kids to eat the same things grownups eat?

I mean, I get it—palates change. Ask 12-year-old K if she wanted an olive, or sushi. And some things never do change (witness the parsnip furor). But kids will eat more than we give them credit for. You know what pops up on almost every kids' menu, from Ruby Tuesday to California Pizza Kitchen? Buttered pasta. Butter. With Pasta. GROSS.

If I were a kid, I'd be offended.

As it turns out, I am offended. By the fact that in 25 minutes that's the best I could post. That's not even loathing. It's mild irritation at best.

Sorry, lovers. There will be mucho blogging this week, scout's honor. I'm going to collapse now.

Ladies and gentlemen, today ... I cooked with tofu. And then I had a thought: What is tofu, exactly? Soy, yes, which I think there's a decent chance I'm allergic to in large quantities (seriously, vegetarian failure), but what sort of soy?

Apparently, "tofu, also known as soybean curd, is a soft, cheese-like food made by curdling fresh hot soymilk with a coagulant". Oh, tofu. It was fun while it lasted.

What'd you have for dinner?
Curried coagulated curd. You?
Oh, you know, food.
Damn.

The ingredients were unusually fresh and tasty looking considering the produce purveyors on the Woodside.



Limes, cilantro, red curry paste, lite coconut milk, green beans, extra-firm tofu, and the white potato's bastard cousin. Brown rice was a-steamin' on the stove, and there was also some vegetable stock lurking somewhere out of frame. 'Twas shy.

Coag-curd in the pan!



PAUSE.

Sis, you were such a dear to give me this pan when you upgraded post-matrimony. It's my only nonstick skillet. It has terrific surface area. But I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate it. Abhorrence. Oil gathers in the circumference ditch, where it promptly loses heat, so food that drifts into the oil boils instead of browning and the more I shuffle the food back to the center the more the oil pops and I curse louder and louder until J is inspired to leave the Angry Fence and make sure I haven't dropped anything tasty. Long story short: For only 10 cents a day, you can buy me some beautiful cookware. It gives us something to aim for in 2010.

RESUME.

The stuff was slow to brown (see uneven-heat diatribe), although the attempt to sauté my face was just peachy. Slowly, though, things started to look sort of crunchy and golden-crusty.



The sweet taters (MISNOMER! There's nothing sweet about a tato tasting like that.)



Sugars ...



caramelized.

Then, coconut milk and broth and the curry paste go in. I'll admit I was liberal with the curry paste, both because I suspect it was old (I think it may have been born before some of my friends' children) and because I love me some spicy.



That simmers for a bit, and then the tofu, green beans, and brown sugar join the fun. If the sugar had any effect on flavor, I didn't notice it.



OK, that might be a smidge judgmental for someone who put half a jar of curry in the pot. The sugar never really had a chance, did it?



Does anybody have a lot of experience with tofu? Because I'd decided the chewiness was a failing of mine, but now that I know it's coagulated ... I'm at a loss. There's sort of a mouthfeel problem I couldn't overcome. The textures were all really great—tender potato, creamy rice, crunchy beans—but something was missing.

Oh my heavens. You know what tofu is? It's unsweetened marshmallow.

NOW I know what it needed. Chicken.

Sigh.