I know it's been awfully flush with Asian flavors around the Woodside lately, but I found myself this weekend confronted with feeding a crowd—seven adults, two almost adults, and one toddler—including two pescetarians.

Immediately I thought of two things: shrimp, and big bowl o' noodles.

There are some spaghetti-haters in the group, so Italian was out. And because so many Asian flavors (fish sauce, sesame oil, chili sauce) are best in small doses, I tend to have a bottomless supply of them at the ready.

I adapted this recipe from one at My Adventures in Food, because it's simple and easy and requires ingredients I can find at my wacky neighborhood grocer. It does not, however, carry pad Thai noodles (I substituted lo mein) nor, on this day, peeled and deveined shrimp (I did the dirty work myself, GOLD STARS). When I'm serving carnivores I use ground meat—chicken, turkey, or pork—which cuts the prep time down considerably. In this case I also cut each shrimp into about three pieces, the better to help things stretch a bit and feed a lot. I love the intensity of these flavors and the unexpectedly delicious, surprising weirdness of shrimp + eggs + peanuts. I doubled the recipe, but that's a lot for one pot to handle; I had to make two separate batches. Truth be told, I usually do—this one disappears fast, and the leftovers are divine. There are lots of ways to mix up the ingredients here—add more sriracha for heat, change up the meat, even leave out it out altogether—because it's basically a stir fry, but don't neglect the lime! It makes all the difference.



Shrimp Pad Thai
8 ounces dried lo mein noodles
¼ cup fish sauce
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup rice vinegar
2 tablespoons hoisin sauce
¾ pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
¼ cup vegetable oil, divided
2 garlic cloves, minced
½ teaspoon sriracha, plus more to taste
2 eggs
4 green onions, thinly sliced
10 oz fresh bean sprouts
¾ cup unsalted peanuts, finely chopped and divided
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
Lime wedges

1. Cook noodles according to package directions. Set aside.

2. Mix fish sauce and next 3 ingredients in a bowl, stirring until sugar dissolves. Set aside.

3. Heat a wok or large, deep skillet over medium-high heat; add 2 tablespoons oil. Sauté garlic and sriracha until golden, about 1 minute. (Stand back; sriracha may splatter.) Add reserved noodles, tossing to coat with oil.

4. Push noodles to one side of pan, and add remaining 2 tablespoons oil. Crack eggs into pan, and cook until slightly set. Stir into noodles, breaking up eggs with a spoon. Toss in shrimp, green onions, most of the bean sprouts, and ½ cup peanuts. Cook 1 to 2 minutes or until shrimp just turn pink.

5. Stir in reserved fish sauce mixture, tossing to coat. Sprinkle with cilantro, remaining ¼ cup peanuts, and remaining bean sprouts. Serve with lime wedges. Makes 4 servings.

I don't necessarily buy the notion that some people are cooks and some are bakers, full stop. Though the vast majority of chefs I see on TV go big-eyed and sputtering whenever someone says the word "dessert" at them, I've just never been able to accept that it's as black and white as all that.

Granted, cooking feels more like ... I dunno, behavioral psychology to me ("OOH! Let's throw this in there and see what happens!"), whereas baking is all physics ("GEEZ, there's math in these here hieroglyphics; what is wrong with you?").

OK, so I might be a little biased. But the anxiety gap between cooking and baking for me is somewhere between "oops!" and "G*DD*MM*T ALL TO H*LL," and I can't figure out why. All of that is belied by these pretty cookies, perfectly round and softly chocolatey and gooey with raspberry-cream cheese filling, but that has everything to do with Susan's recipe from Our Family Eats and absolutely nothing to do with me. I did everything in my power to screw these up.

Luckily, a plague of cabin fever had descended on LSis' house that required an immediate dose of park-going, so I was left unexpectedly alone during my tribulations. Which was serendipitous indeed, because there was so. much. swearing. I really don't want anyone to ever measure my blood pressure while I'm trying to bake.

My first problem tends to be anything in powder form—flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, various and sundry dried spices—which will inevitably end up all over the kitchen and my person. Outside of my propensity to chop onions into the floor, this messiness is rarely as much of a problem when I cook. And yet it is a guarantee that if I am using cocoa powder, 60% of it will end up in the bowl, 35% of it will find its way into the sink/counter/floor/pants/shoes, and I will manage to inhale the remaining 5%. (Does anyone else have this problem? No? Just me?)

It sounds nicer—chocolate-covered lungs—than it actually is.

I can't tell exactly where I went screechingly off track here, but somewhere around "mixture should be thick and slightly crumbly," mine just ... wasn't. The dough was shiny and sticky and (have I mentioned?) there was so. much. swearing.

Rolling the dough out and cutting circles just wasn't happening. The texture was all wrong and soaked with my salty tears. I finally decided to give the whole mess the finger and just plop tablespoonfuls onto the baking sheet, irregular and lumpy.

It was rather disastrous.

And then? Look how they baked up. Like the baking fairies smiled, patted me on my sad, inept little head, and formed perfectly round cookies in the oven. They baked for the full eight minutes, even though the recipe said they'd be done in five, because ... well, because in my world, baking, like physics, is a lot more Murphy's Law than anything else.

If you take a look at Susan's cookies, you'll see that they're much darker than mine (maybe a difference in cocoa powders?) and cut into sweet, perfect heart shapes. The Woodside version is slightly more homespun.

And in the end? They were delicious. I fully appreciated every speck of the filling's two cups of powdered sugar, which diminished its cream cheese factor beautifully. (I inexplicably hate cheesecake, cream cheese frosting, and pretty much anything else that is a sugar-cream cheese hybrid of any kind.) The cookies were only very slightly chocolatey, which gave them an elegant subtlety that someone like me can only stumble upon accidentally. And they were a HUGE mess to eat, which is always the hallmark of a fantastic dessert. Every one of these disappeared. There might have been bowl-licking.

So many thanks to the tears, or the fairies, or the idiot-proof recipe. Or the swearing.



Chocolate Raspberry Sandwich Cookies
¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2 cups all-purpose flour
1½ cups granulated sugar
1½ teaspoons baking soda
¾ teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
½ cup vegetable oil
6 ounces cream cheese, softened
3 tablespoons butter, softened
1 teaspoon milk
½ teaspoon vanilla
2 cups powdered sugar
3 tablespoons seedless raspberry jelly

1. Preheat oven to 350. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper, and set aside.

2. Stir together first 6 ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Beat eggs and vegetable oil in a small bowl with a fork; add to flour mixture. Beat with an electric mixer until all ingredients are well combined. (The dough MIGHT BE be thick and slightly crumbly, but ... maybe not.)

3. Drop level spoonfuls of dough onto prepared baking sheets (about 12 cookies per baking sheet). Bake 7 to 8 minutes, remove from oven, and let cool.

4. Place cream cheese, butter, milk, and vanilla in a mixing bowl, and combine with an electric mixer mix. Add powdered sugar, ½ cup at a time, mixing between additions. Stir in jelly.

5. Divide raspberry filling evenly among 12 cookies, top with remaining 12 cookies, pressing down slightly. Makes 12 sandwiches.

It's never all that cold in Alabama (despite my inability to procure any sort of appropriate winter wear); Facebook status updates from my North-Midwestern family serve as a constant reminder. They're all, "BURIED IN SNOW. SEND HELP."

Drama queens.

But last night it was sleeting, for a good 10 minutes at LEAST, and that sort of precipitation means three things in this fair state:

1. The vast majority of the citizenry will temporarily take leave of their ability to drive.
2. Schools will immediately shut down and fling their doors wide, sending all manner of small people scattering, unsupervised, into the streets where the terrible drivers are.
3. Local news anchors will report grocery store shortages of bread and milk, while the Winn-Dixie near my home will mostly run low on buy-one-get-one-free boxes of Cheez-Its and cases of beer.

People need provisions.

There used to be three grocery stores in my neighborhood, the better for choosing according to need: One is new, carrying the nice, clean, orderly items and the highest-quality meats/produce/organic foods; one has terrible produce and questionable meats, and stocks terrifically obscure "ethnic" foods but past-their-expiration-date dairy products; and one had shelves full of almost nothing you needed but was always, at any hour, completely empty, fantastic for when one required nothing more than a bottle of wine and a bag of goldfish crackers for dinner but not so great for business. (RIP, Bruno's.)

It's really more of a toss-up than it sounds; grocery option A is shiny and new but has minuscule aisles (the better to cram all that fancy stuff into) and is full of oblivious people and people who still write checks. Grocery option B, on the other hand, is the fastest route to possible stomach ailments but also has self-checkout and a stunning Asian foods selection.

I usually choose B. I'm tough.

I braved the frozen precipitation last night to procure the necessary items to make my very favorite spicy noodles with spicy shrimp dish, adapted from Evil Shenanigans. I don't know when I first tried this one, but I've made it several times since, and it always delivers. Shenanigans calls it "fancy enough for company, yet easy enough for a weeknight," and I've made it for all kinds of reasons—internationally visiting family, nights curled up in my holey socks when nothing but peanut noodles will do.

It looks like a long list of ingredients, but you're doubling up on most of them to use in the shrimp sauce and the noodle sauce. That's great, because it means you can make the noodles on their own any time you like—for vegetarians, with a different protein, or just because they're that good.

These are some aggressive flavors, which is why I love them so much, but you may need to back off on the sriracha or the curry paste; I like to make it just hot enough so that your face falls off. There's something wicked about NEEDING to have another bite just to take the edge off the bite you had before.

My sense is that the best recommendation you can give a recipe is that just looking at the photos conjures the sense memory of tasting it. This is some seriously mouthwatering, fire-breathing business. And the noodles are even better the next day.

Last night I chose grocery option B, which meant the fish counter was completely, inexplicably empty, like it'd been the victim of some bacterial outbreak, but there was a lone pack of peel-and-eat shrimp that didn't look toxic. They were very small, though (51/60), so this version leaned a little toward the noodley side (all the better). I go very heavy on the ginger and curry paste, because I love it. Do not be fooled into buying spaghetti for this recipe—it will still be tasty, but there's a lightness to the lo mein that's absolutely worth it, especially when you're talking about dunking them in peanut butter. The Chinese noodles are cheaper, too, so get them if you can.

Just as deliciously radioactive as it looks!



Curry Shrimp with Spicy Peanut Lo Mein

1½ (10-ounce) packages dried lo mein noodles
2 cups fat-free vegetable broth
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 teaspoon sesame oil
¼ cup creamy peanut butter
5 teaspoons Sriracha, divided
2 tablespoons red curry paste, divided
4 garlic cloves, minced and divided
2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger, divided
1 small white onion, finely chopped
1 lime
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
24 small (51/60) shrimp, peeled and deveined
½ cup light coconut milk
1 tablespoon fish sauce
2 teaspoons sugar (optional)
1 tablespoon cornstarch
Garnish: fresh cilantro leaves

1. Cook noodles according to package directions; drain and set aside.

2. Combine vegetable broth, soy sauce, sesame oil, peanut butter, 1 tablespoon sriracha, 1 tablespoon red curry paste, 2 garlic cloves, 1 tablespoon ginger, and ½ the chopped onion in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Squeeze in the juice from ½ a lime, and whisk until the mixture comes to a boil. Reduce heat to low, and let simmer 10 minutes, stirring often.

3. Heat 1 tablespoon oil to a large skillet over medium heat; add shrimp, and cook just until shrimp start to turn pink. (Shrimp will not be fully cooked.) Remove from pan, and set aside.

4. Heat remaining 1 tablespoon oil in skillet over medium heat, and sauté remaining 2 garlic cloves, remaining 1 tablespoon ginger, and remaining ½ chopped onion until softened and fragrant. Stir in coconut milk, fish sauce, remaining 2 teaspoons sriracha, and remaining 1 tablespoon red curry paste. Squeeze in the juice from the remaining ½ lime; stir in sugar, if desired. Mix well, reduce heat to low, and cook about 5 minutes or until sauce thickens.

5. Raise heat under saucepan to medium, and bring peanut sauce to a boil. Whisk cornstarch with 2 tablespoons water in a small bowl; whisk into peanut sauce until combined, and let thicken about 1 minute.

6. Meanwhile, toss shrimp into sauce in skillet; cook 30 seconds or until shrimp are just cooked and heated through, and remove from heat.

7. Toss noodles with peanut sauce, and divide among serving bowls. Top each with shrimp and sauce. Garnish, if desired. Makes 4 servings.

I'm finding, as I attempt to make meals that clean out the refrigerator and/or use ingredients I have on hand that are heading toward their death, that I'm extraordinarily inefficient at it. Two days ago, for example, when I was all, "I'm using up the collard greens!" I a) had to discard two separate browning half heads of iceberg and four (!) almost-finished bags of what used to be shredded lettuce but had become an unrecognizable science experiment, and b) I bought more ingredients to supplement the greens in the first place.

Math is hard.

Last night I had similarly noble intentions, and managed to find a perfectly good use for ... three eggs. Oops.

In my defense, I wanted to make something sort of one-pot and easy, something that would fill my belly but not sap my brain. My brain needed a break yesterday, time to reflect and go for a freezing run and laugh and curl up with the dog and hug other people's babies.

(Seriously, people, it's February in the Deep South and it's been gray for days. It's currently sleeting, and every third e-mail in my inbox is a screeching reminder from TurboTax. I'm going to need to be borrowing your babies.)

I just pulled this recipe out of the air, in an attempt to accomplish the aforementioned not-thinking. I'd use Napa cabbage if you can get it. (I couldn't.) My dear friend sriracha features prominently here; I'm forever indebted to JFro for making our introduction. If runny yolks are not your friend, you could easily stir fry eggs into the rice as it finishes cooking, but all that luscious richness helps emulsify these flavors into something they aren't on their own. I did not have just one serving.

And thanks to my inimitable coworker, M, who gifted me with the sake that made this meal, and my evening, just that much warmer. (She will wince at the presence of butter in the rice-making equation, but I've found it indispensible—it makes it impossible for those who tend to forget the rice is even cooking to end up with it glued to the bottom of the pan. Forgive me, father, for I have lazied.)



Pork-and-Cabbage Rice Bowl with Fried Egg
¼ cup soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon fish sauce
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 (2-inch) piece ginger, peeled and minced
Sriracha, to taste
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups basmati rice
1 pound ground pork
½ head green or Napa cabbage, shredded
3 to 4 green onions, chopped
2 tablespoons cornstarch
4 eggs
Garnishes: sriracha, green onions

1. Whisk together first 7 ingredients in a small bowl; set aside.

2. Bring butter, salt, and 4 cups water to a boil over high heat. Stir in rice; cover, reduce heat to low, and cook 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, add pork to a large, dry skillet over medium-high heat; sauté until browned. Stir in cabbage, and cook 2 to 3 minutes or until lightly wilted. Stir in reserved soy sauce mixture and green onions.

4. Whisk together cornstarch and 2 tablespoons water in a small bowl. Add to skillet with pork, cabbage, and sauce, and stir to combine. Reduce heat to low, and let simmer until sauce thickens slightly.

5. In a small skillet, fry eggs until whites are cooked but yolks are still runny. Spoon rice and pork mixture into individual serving bowls; top each with a fried egg. Garnish, if desired. Makes 4 servings.

And guess what? This happened to me yesterday.



I'm OBSESSED with foodgawker, so to me this is the equivalent of being asked to sit at the cool kids' table. I promise to well and truly embarrass myself.

Last night, as I curled up on the couch with a full belly and a sleepy, satiated grin, I ruminated on this cooking business I've been getting into over the past three or four years—I never had any interest in cooking as a child, and my college culinary expertise consisted mainly of cooking a bag of frozen lima beans, pouring them into a bowl, and melting a pasteurized cheese slice on top in the microwave. (Don't knock it till you try it.) But then I got my very own kitchen, doll-sized though it was, and my very own paycheck, doll-sized though it was, and my very own license to stroll the grocery store and pick up whatever my little heart desired.

I'd never really listened to my little heart before that.

And today the whole exploit just makes me happy. I love to create something, either by walking in someone else's footsteps or charging wildly down my own path, and I don't know much that's better than having it turn out just as you'd secretly hoped—with every finger crossed and more fervently than you'd ever admit. (I'm a tremendously poor sport when it doesn't. That's the nature of high hopes; their counterpart is nauseating disappointment. Or maybe that's the nature of perfectionism. Ahem.)

I knew last night's dinner needed to be something more wholesome than a gooey mess of cheese and creamy, chickeny goodness. (Praise be to creamy goodness, amen.) There were collard greens in the refrigerator, so that's where this meal began, but the rest just fell together unusually organically. It was one of those rare moments when I knew just what flavors I wanted to taste together. In a way I blame the collards—that greens taste isn't for everyone, and there are a lot of people who swear by cooking them for days to get rid of the bitterness, but me? I know a thing or two about being bitter, and sometimes it just needs a little balance (garlic, spicy red pepper, vinegar, and sweet shallots) and the right partners.

In this case, that meant crispy roasted potatoes and meaty salmon burgers, a throwback to a childhood spent watching the toaster oven, counting down the seconds until my mother's salmon patties were ready. She made them with canned salmon and, because I was a spectacularly odd child, I loved the bones. She always told us that they were full of calcium and other healthy goodness. That way I could convince myself I wasn't just a kid who liked to eat fish bones.

No really, I was very, very weird.

But last night, as I whirred and mixed and assembled, I did marvel at how easy the whole endeavor is becoming with practice. Yes, there are also stunning failures, and I'm not reinventing haute cuisine, and I can't bake my way out of a cardboard box, but it's become something of a healthy addiction. I wondered, after I'd plated my dinner and set up my shots and devoured my plate, how people with lives do it.

Sure, I have my job and my pooper and my family and friends, but workdays end and dogs are kept occupied with backyards and food bowls. Particularly when they are easily distracted. It can't be easy when there are babies and lovers and in-laws in the mix.

So this is my hat tip to you, busy, life-having people. Guess what? You can make this one on a weeknight without breaking a sweat. I promise.

The salmon burger recipe is adapted from a Mark Bittman one, the potatoes are an old Cook's Illustrated masterpiece, and the collard greens are from the back of my brain in a place so dusty I don't remember their origin. But they are delicious. The only improvement I might have made? A dollop of sour cream on the salmon sounds about perfect to me. I just didn't think of it until J wanted to go to the bathroom at 1:43 this morning.



Salmon Burgers
1½ pounds salmon fillets, skinned and cut into large pieces, divided
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 shallots, peeled and chopped
1 tablespoon drained capers
½ cup breadcrumbs
Hot sauce, to taste
Kosher salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 tablespoons butter
Lemon wedges

1. Process about ⅓ pound salmon with mustard in a food processor until it becomes a paste. Add shallots, capers, and remaining salmon, and pulse until mixture is combined with paste and chopped into small pieces (roughly ¼ inch).

2. In a medium bowl, stir together salmon mixture, breadcrumbs, hot sauce, salt, and pepper. Form mixture into 4 large patties.

3. Melt butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Cook patties 3 minutes on each side, or until cooked through. Squeeze lemon wedges over patties just before serving. Makes 4 servings.

Crispy Roasted Potatoes
2½ pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, sliced (about ½ inch thick)
4 teaspoons kosher salt, divided
5 tablespoons olive oil

1. Place a rimmed baking sheet on oven rack in the lowest position, and preheat oven to 450.

2. Place potatoes and 1 tablespoon kosher salt in stockpot with cold water to cover by 1 inch; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 5 minutes or until edges are soft but centers are still undercooked. Drain.

3. Transfer potatoes to a large bowl, and add 2 tablespoons oil and ½ teaspoon kosher salt. Mix well with a rubber spatula. Add 2 more tablespoons oil and remaining ½ teaspoon kosher salt, and toss until potatoes are coated with a starchy paste.

4. Remove the heated baking sheet from the oven, and drizzle with remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Place potato slices on baking sheet in a single layer, and bake 10 minutes. Rotate pan, and bake 15 more minutes.

5. Remove baking sheet from oven, and, using tongs or a metal spatula, flip each potato slice. Bake 20 minutes, rotating pan halfway through cooking time. Makes 4 servings.

Easy, Don't-Take-All-Day Collard Greens
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 to 3 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper, or more to taste
1 bunch fresh collard greens, stems removed
Kosher salt, to taste
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

1. Heat oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat; add shallot, and sauté until soft. Add garlic and crushed red pepper, and cook 1 minute or until fragrant. Add collard greens, sprinkle with kosher salt, and pour over ¼ cup water. Cover and cook 15 minutes, or until leaves are wilted but still green. Stir in red wine vinegar, and serve. Makes 2 to 4 servings.



On a personal note? I'm grateful for many things this Groundhog Day. I hope you all know who you are. Today, I didn't see the shadow.

Yesterday started with a dead cockroach in my shower and ended with the world's most fitful sleep, with plenty of frustration, anxiety, and hard-blinking, slow-aching tiredness to fill the intervening hours.

In other words, I am old, and it was Monday.

Trying to decide what to have for dinner was a Goldilocks venture—too rich, too blah, too bland, too weird, too much like last night, too many ingredients, too few ingredients, too small, too big, too boring.

I was cranky.

But, boys and girls, do you remember what the word of the day (week, month, year) is on the Woodside?

That's right, TRASHY. I have a strong fondness for trashiness, of the creamy goodness and hearty homeyness sort (but not of the Ke$ha variety). I've been accused of being a "food snob" before, but I'm really not. I mostly suffer from a crippling lack of attention span that can sometimes cause food fatigue and requires me to try new things all the time, but I absolutely believe in the power of American tradition, the foods that are old faithfuls for a reason: Meat. Potatoes. Peanut-butter-and-chocolate ice cream.

I'd been lurking around a blog called Mogwai Soup for a while now, in part because Daniela, its Croatian author, seems so informed by her geography, and that bittersweet, far-from-home philosophy is all over her food—meals meant to conjure old memories and treasured tastes, please foreign and new (but beloved) palates, and generally create that sometimes-elusive feeling of "Home is where my kitchen is."

Feeding is believing.

I decided to adapt her Enchilada Lasagna, which I figured would mean plenty of yummy leftovers and just enough warmth and comfort to ease my Monday mind. (In a perfect world I would have made my friend JHB's insanely delicious chicken casserole, which is mind-mollifying to the max, but she stubbornly refuses to part with the recipe.)

I went the Ro*Tel route in place of the green chiles—in my world, spicy = comforting, and all ills can be cured with the addition of tomatoes. I lightened things up just a touch, too—a little more chicken (getting a nice brown crust on this is a must), a little less cheese—because while I'm sure the original recipe is wonderful as-is, I have a tendency to eat 12 servings at a time of almost anything, and I wanted to feel satisfied and overstuffed, not Violet Beauregarde. Those who know me well know that I am a charter member (and president) of the Anti-Wet Bread Alliance, so it was a bit of a stretch for me to make and eat something that requires dipping tortillas in water. But they melted into the finished product to create luscious pockets of earthy corn flavor with none of the afeared wheaty sponginess.

Still, keep your stratas over there, please.



Enchilada Lasagna

1½ pounds boneless, skinless chicken cutlets, trimmed and chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 (10.5-ounce) can 99% fat-free cream of chicken soup
1 (10.75-ounce) can cream of celery soup
6 ounces (about 1½ cups) low-fat sour cream
1 (10-ounce) can hot green-chile-and-habanero Ro*Tel, lightly drained
12 small corn tortillas
8 ounces sharp Cheddar cheese, grated*
8 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, grated*

1. Preheat oven to 425. Sprinkle chicken with salt, pepper, and cumin. Heat oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat until hot, add chicken, and sauté until browned and cooked through.

2. Meanwhile, mix soups, sour cream, and Ro*Tel in a medium bowl until combined.

3. Spoon ½ cup soup mixture into bottom of a prepared 9- by 13-inch baking dish. Dip 4 tortillas in water, and layer over soup mixture. Top with one-third of the soup mixture, then half of the cooked chicken, and then one-third of the cheeses. Repeat with 4 more tortillas, one-third of the soup mixture, the remaining chicken, and one-third of the cheeses. Layer with the remaining 4 tortillas and then the remaining soup mixture; top with the remaining cheese.

4. Bake 15 minutes; broil 5 more minutes or until lasagna is bubbling and cheese is melted and golden brown. Makes 6 to 8 servings.

*Seriously? Do not buy pre-grated cheese. Yes, it is a pain to wash your cheese grater, but doing it yourself makes all the difference in terms of meltability. All the difference, I swear on J. Come back here and thank me later!

This weekend was a flurry of activity, a nonstop exercise in ... well, exercise, both accidental and not. (Some people run marathons; I spend four hours cleaning the Woodside. This is the natural consequence of only attending to your household mess quarterly.)

Friday night I sat on a top-notch baby.



We sang the ABCs and read thousands of books and played ring around the rosie until her tía decided it can be injurious to all fall down that many times. Her tía's joints are not what they once were.

Saturday, we went for a big breakfast and a trip to the park.



She was way happier about it than that!



There we go.

We climbed stairs.





We played peek-a-boo.



We walked, big steps in our favorite shoes.







And, of course, we sat. (All that walking can be very tiresome.)







We showed off our very best manners. (This move, thumb of one hand to palm of the other, is how Dat Booger says "please.")



After that, it was time for a nap, so I returned to the Woodside to vacuum the dust off the vacuum and otherwise have a serious self-intervention on the subject of slovenliness. Let's just say I put away some Christmas presents. Ahem.

I scrubbed as many inches of the homestead as possible before my body saw fit to remind me of just how old I am, which is somewhere between not-getting-carded-anymore and menial-household-tasks-will-result-in-partial-paralysis.

And then I bought myself flowers.



A big bunch of 'em.



Just because.

I. am. so. funny. SO funny, in fact, that I stole that joke from someone else. Rather unabashedly, in fact. Miso shameless. Miso ridiculous. Miso hilarious. If mido say so miself.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

It's Friday. You didn't expect sanity here, did you?

Today's bout of absurdity is sponsored, though, brought to you by my lovely coworker M, who trekked to the furthest reaches of our fair suburbs to bring me white miso. I needed 4 tablespoons; I now have 2 pounds. You're probably going to see it show up here a lot as I attempt to work my way through the remainder.

Aw, shucks.

I adapted this from a recipe I found at Momofuku for 2, which refers to chicken ramen as "my kind of trashy comfort food."

A note to my legions: Trashy is swiftly becoming a theme around the Woodside.

It's ultimately a breeze to put together, but there are elements that need individual attention, so it requires more focus than I'm generally known to assign a task (read: any). Here they are in finer detail:



What you can't see, at the bottom of the bowl, are the ramen noodles. I used pre-packaged dry ramen, the kind that comes molded into a brick with the foil packet of poison (also known as the "seasoning mix," responsible for ramen's bad reputation, which contains—wait for it—1,200 mg of sodium). That went into the garbage. Spooned on top are shreds of rotisserie chicken, quite tasty but looking awfully pallid here, blanched spinach, buttered corn, a (too-)soft-boiled egg, thin slices of raw onion, and pretty rolls of green onion—because they make everything look lovelier, and because there were some in the refrigerator.

The miso had an earthy smell I didn't expect; one of the listed ingredients is, sort of ominously, "alcohol," and the best way to describe it is that it made my chicken broth smell a bit like beer. The original recipe suggested tasting the broth for seasoning and adjusting accordingly because not all miso is created equally, apparently. Not having a firm idea of what my miso broth was supposed to taste like, I mostly blundered along blindly. I was instructed to soft-boil the eggs for 6 minutes, but as you can see that wasn't really long enough. I love a silken, runny yolk, which in this case partnered up with the buttered corn for some terrific richness, but these were definitely collapsed centers as opposed to wobbly ones.

(Note: I did as directed and ran the eggs under cold water for a few minutes directly after boiling, and they did peel more dreamily than any other boiled egg I've ever attempted. It must be said, though, that not-quite-firmly-boiled eggs are a delicate business.)

This recipe didn't really have a failure potential, because it combines so many of my favorite things—soft eggs, chicken, noodles, and deep, can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it flavor—but the real surprise for me was the effect of the raw onions. There are people in my life who will run girl-screaming from the room if they catch sight of a raw onion, but these added necessary crunch, that beloved bite, and a really unexpected sweetness.

Still, as I've wandered this culinary labyrinth lately, like the unmotivated mouse I am, I do find that I'm accidentally learning a thing or two. And as I prepared to make this meal, there was something nagging me in the back of my brain: The flavors seemed a little too mild for me. Delicious, yes, and variously sweet, salty, rich, and bright, but something fell flat in my first virtual taste. And my first real taste confirmed it. This recipe really doesn't need any improvement, and it would be just right for many people, but for me, it needed a squeeze of sriracha to tie it all together. A spritz of lime juice might do it, too, if you don't like spicy foods, but there was just a tiny voice in the expanses of my tangled brain that whispered, "acid."

At least I think that's what it meant.

This really is comfort food at its best, which is trashy, and I know I'll think of it the next time I'm sick, or cold, or tired, or just craving a big bowl of my favorite things.



Chicken Miso Ramen

8 cups fat-free, low-sodium chicken broth
4 tablespoons shiro miso (white miso)
2 (3-ounce) packages ramen noodles (any flavor), seasoning packets discarded
4 eggs
2 cups frozen whole-kernel corn
Kosher salt
4 cups spinach leaves
2 tablespoons butter
3 cups shredded rotisserie chicken
1 small white onion, thinly sliced
2 green onions, chopped
Sriracha (optional)

1. Place broth in a stockpot or Dutch oven over medium heat; stir in miso until thoroughly mixed and heated through. Reduce heat to low, stirring occasionally.

2. In a medium saucepan, cook noodles according to package directions. Drain, and divide among 4 serving bowls. Add water to pot, and bring to a boil. Place eggs into boiling water; cook 6 to 8 minutes, according to preference. Drain, and run under cold water until cool; peel and slice in half.

3. Sauté corn in butter in a small skillet, stirring until kernels are heated through.

4. Meanwhile, add water and kosher salt to medium saucepan, and bring to a boil. Cook spinach just until wilted and bright green; drain.

5. Arrange chicken, sliced onion, spinach, and corn over noodles in serving bowls. Top each serving with miso broth, and then eggs and green onions. Stir in sriracha, if desired. Serves 4.

As a rule, 23.99 out of the 24 hours in a given day my mind is moving 100 miles an hour—as evidenced by last night's non-sleep, which left me with my shoulders possibly permanently attached to my ears—tackling the urgent problems of the second: will I ever pay off my credit card debt, did I remember to leave water out for the dog, does this odd eyebrow twitch signify some dread disease, am I really wearing yoga pants (with a hole in them) to work?

Things like that.

The exception to this rule is when I'm asked what I would like to receive as a gift. "What do you want for your birthday?" "What do you want for Christmas?" These are the questions that bring my tiny brain to a screeching halt. And yes, I do think it's because I have much and want for little, and because I have a clinical aversion to clutter (which does not extend to my ability to tolerate mess). So I do understand that not being able to think of something one wants/needs is not high on the list of World's Worst Problems.

It's not a big bowl of fun for the momster, though.

But this year, I had a notion—that if I am not going to ever learn how my camera actually works, it might help to have some help. I asked for the Lowel Ego lights, a setup that can roughly approximate pretty ambientness even in the dead of night. Remember this disaster from two days ago?

That was my dinner under kitchen lights. This is my dinner on Ego:



RIGHT?! Like midday in July.

Last night's dinner was an invention of sorts, though I obviously don't take credit for the concept of the twice-baked potato. (That was Einstein's idea, clearly.) I used Alton Brown's rules for the perfect baked potato, though I usually find it takes about 15 minutes longer than he suggests to get crispy skins and fluffy, yielding insides. He recommends canola oil, which I didn't have, so I used sunflower oil, which I inexplicably did. I liked it because it does the job—making that peel cracklingly delicious—without imparting any real flavor at all. That's the job of the kosher salt, which you'll notice I sprinkled liberally.

The beef portion is a hodgepodge—the seasonings change based on what I have in the larder, the broccoli stays the same. (Because broccoli and cheese and potatoes are so very, very fond of each other.) The recipe is based on what's pictured here, but the first time I whipped these up they were altogether different. Both delicious, though, which is a testament to flexibility! and versatility! and fearless abandon! Just don't put anything weird in there, and you'll be fine. I think black pepper would have been a nice addition, but alas, my grinder is broken and I didn't have any of the ground stuff on hand. This recipe serves two, but there will be plenty of beef-and-broccoli mixture left over. Just cook up some rice the next day, et voilà! Tomorrow night's dinner.

The salad was K's Trashy Salad, minus the trashiest aspect (the bacon) because I forgot it. My guest for the evening, J, doesn't eat tomatoes, so hers was really just K's Trashy Bowl O' Lettuce. To each her own! The important thing is to keep the ingredients coldcoldcold until serving, for maximum crunchyyumminess.



I hesitate to even give a recipe for it, because it's abjectly absurd, but as this is undeniably the home of abject absurdity, I will. And because I'm just giddy with d'lights. (HAR!)



Beef-and-Broccoli Twice-Baked Potatoes

2 baking potatoes, washed and dried
Sunflower oil
Kosher salt
1 pound lean ground beef
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon ground mustard
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 tablespoons flour
1 (14.5-ounce) can fat-free, low-sodium beef broth
Hot sauce to taste
¼ cup ketchup
1 (14-ounce) bag frozen broccoli florets
½ tablespoon butter
Milk
½ cup shredded Colby Jack cheese

1. Preheat oven to 350. With a fork, poke 8 to 12 deep holes in potatoes. Place in a bowl, and lightly coat with oil. Sprinkle with kosher salt. Place directly on oven rack, in center of oven, and bake 1 hour, 15 minutes or until skins are crispy and insides are cooked through.

2. When potatoes have about 20 minutes left to cook, season beef with kosher salt, garlic powder, mustard, and cumin. Brown in a deep skillet over medium to medium-high heat until no longer pink. Sprinkle beef with flour, and cook 1 minute. Stir in beef broth, hot sauce, and ketchup; bring to a boil, and stir in broccoli. Reduce heat, and simmer until broccoli is heated through.

3. When cool enough to handle, cut potatoes in half lengthwise, and scoop out flesh, leaving enough of a border around sides and bottoms so that skins don't become flimsy. Transfer skins to a baking dish or baking sheet.

4. In a small bowl, mash potato flesh with butter and enough milk to get a fluffy, creamy consistency. Stir in kosher salt.

5. Spoon beef-and-broccoli mixture into potato skins, and top with mashed potatoes and shredded cheese. Bake or broil 5 minutes or until cheese is melted and golden. Makes 2 servings.



K's Trashy Salad

1 small head iceberg lettuce, coarsely chopped
1 medium tomato, chopped
4 bacon strips, cooked and crumbled
Light ranch dressing to taste

Combine first 3 ingredients, and chill. Stir in dressing just before serving. Makes 2 to 4 servings.

If you whip these up in your own kitchen, let me know how it goes!

Sometimes a photo is bad, and it makes you cranky. I haven't stopped thinking about that awful picture from yesterday's post since, well ... yesterday. I'm irritated by the focus (or lack thereof), the light (or lack thereof), and the color (or lack thereof).

It didn't capture anything I wanted to capture, or communicate what I wanted to communicate, and so it is a photo PHAIL.

But then sometimes a photo is bad, and you love it.



It's blurry and dark and gray, and it took this moment—when that mom rolled her love for that baby into a big bundle of giddily giggling fun—and snagged it right out of the sky. I could look at it all day.

Oh, and this one, too.



For similar reasons.

Yes, you heard correctly! I'm back, though tentatively so—I don't like to put "pressure" on "myself" to be "not lazy"—and I mark my triumphant return with:



Well, a really terrible photo. That's just incredibly disappointing, isn't it? Note to self: Find way to make new photo lights received for Christmas portable.

All the more so because, frankly, this was one delicious dinner. LSis was suffering bitterly from the latest bout of childborne illness. (I did not get it, because I have the immune system of a vegan triathlete, and/or am pickled by tequila.) She requested something comforting (Mexican), flavorful (Mexican), and spicy enough to clear her aching head (Mexican).

When cooking for the J family, there are certain considerations that must be weighed. (Note: This is namely LSis and the BiL; the equation shifts if I also want to feed the sometimes-adventurous but also sometimes-unpredictable 15-month-old, the sometimes-suspicious but almost-always-game 11- and 13-year-olds, or the vegetarian 19-year-old.)

1. There must, without exception, be meat. No one will be fooled by other proteins, such as beans, eggs, or cheese. If there is no dead animal, there is no dinner.
2. There must never, ever be mushrooms.
3. It helps if there is an element that is eye-wateringly, mouth-searingly spicy.
4. If there is soup, it is imperative that there is a carbohydrate—bread, crackers, tortillas—for dipping.
5. If possible, dinner should be hot. Salads are side dishes, not entrées.
6. The cook must make allowances for salt, ketchup, and ... other surprises. (I discovered this the hard way when I made Frank Stitt's Bottega Café macaroni and cheese, and BiL ate it between Triscuits.)

But having a framework is helpful, I find, particularly when one's approach to menu planning is to stare at foodgawker while her brain turns into a pinball machine. I've been experimenting a lot more with Asian flavors lately (fish sauce, sesame oil, my beloved sriracha), but—though a coworker has been kind enough to offer to bring me some miso tomorrow (squee!)—I find that when it comes to what-one-can-find-in-one's-regular-Winn-Dixie, Mexican foods never let me down.

BiL, he of the Triscuits, loves absolutely nothing more than a bowl of soup. It is without fail, and in any flavor, his favorite food. When it comes to the classic tortilla soup, he has a proclivity for the inclusion of arroz (rice, mixed in) and plenty of lechuga (lettuce, tossed in on top in intervals until the bowl is empty and the belly is full).

BiL, it turns out, has stumbled onto something genius. The cool lettuce plays well with the jalapeños and spices, and because the elements of the soup are smooth and silky, it adds a welcome crunch. The rice makes things hearty and satisfying, without any of the did-I-just-drink-my-dinner? conundrums that follow a liquid meal.

The fun part about the soup recipe (adapted from My Gourmet Connection) is the inclusion of toasted crushed tortilla chips, which give a thicker, richer consistency and also have the distinction of being among my favorite indulgences. (I recently discovered that these Hint of Lime Tostitos have no more salt than the regular variety, and while I have a hard time believing that, it fits quite neatly into my things-I'm-happy-to-blindly-trust paradigm.) I didn't have dried oregano so I opted for dried "Italian seasoning," and while things took a scary olfactory turn for "pizza" rather than "enchilada" in the beginning, it all mellowed out just fine in the end. I also omitted the lime zest because my Microplane was safely at home in the Woodside kitchen; it was delicious without, but I imagine it would add even brighter flavor. I sprinkled some black pepper in at the end, but I found this needed no additional salt. All a matter of preference, but even BiL didn't pull out the table shaker. The Winn-Dixie was completely out of cilantro, but it would be a nice topping if you're into that sort of thing and, you know, don't think it tastes like soap.

The rice (adapted from the genius that is Homesick Texan)is a revelation of sorts—so few ingredients, such rich flavor. I was sorry LSis and BiL didn't get to taste this on its own, because there's a simple intensity that made me do a small, nerdy kitchen dance. The original recipe calls for cilantro, which of course I didn't have but would be a nice addition if you're spooning it out with simple grilled chicken for a weeknight dinner. Also, Homesick Texan says you can adjust the amount of cumin to taste, but I really recommend going with the full tablespoon. It's just such a good friend to the tomato paste. I used basmati rice, because that's what was in the cupboard.

Oh and try this with chilled iceberg on top—I promise you it's worth it. (Thanks, BiL!)

Chicken Tortilla Soup with Mexican Rice

1 tablespoon olive oil
1½ cups chopped onion
2 tablespoons minced garlic
2 jalapeño chiles, seeded and minced
1 cup finely crushed Tostitos Hint of Lime tortilla chips
4 cups fat-free, low-sodium chicken broth
1½ cups tomato sauce
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning
½ teaspoon Frank's Red Hot or other hot sauce
¾ pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts/cutlets, cut into bite-size pieces
1 cup frozen whole-kernel corn
⅓ cup half & half
1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
Mexican Rice (recipe below)
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1 small tomato, seeded and chopped
Sour cream
Lime wedges

1. Heat olive oil in a stockpot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, and jalapeños, and sauté until softened. Add the crushed tortilla chips; toss and lightly toast until fragrant.

2. Add chicken broth, tomato sauce, spices, and hot sauce, and simmer about 5 minutes. Stir in chicken, and simmer 5 to 7 more minutes or until chicken is cooked through.

3. Add corn and half and half; reduce heat, and stir in cheese. Add lime juice and salt and pepper.

4. Spoon ½ cup Mexican Rice into serving bowls. Ladle into serving bowls. Ladle soup over rice, and top with a dollop of sour cream and a few pieces of fresh tomato. Serve with lime wedges. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Mexican Rice
1 cup rice
2 cups fat-free, low-sodium chicken broth
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small onion, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
¼ cup tomato paste
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon lime juice
Salt, to taste

1. Place first 3 ingredients into a medium pot; bring to a boil on high, stir once, and cover. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes.

2. Remove from heat and keep covered 5 to 10 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, heat oil in a skillet over medium heat; add onions and cook, stirring occasionally, 10 minutes or until just about to brown.

4. Add garlic, and cook 1 minute. Stir in tomato paste and cumin, and cook 1 more minute. Mix into cooked rice.

6. Stir in lime juice and salt. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

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It strikes me as suddenly very clear that I need to find out how to format fractions for this forum. I'm on it; I swear! ETA: Done!

Hey, guess what?



I'm back.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com