The woodside is running a little low on funds this week. And also attention span. Mostly attention span, although if anyone would like to donate funds, please feel free.

I didn't cook anything tonight, because I let some e. coli peddlers down the street do the cooking for me. Instead, I offer you some of the coolest things I've found in food lately.

This puts Julie and Julia to shame. Much of that has to do with Thomas Keller, who is a genius in his own right, but somehow managed to win my heart with something astonishingly simple.

What could be cuter than these? Everything is better as a gaggle.

There's nothing more lovely than this. Please, Tooth Fairy, bring me one in every color! Preferably in Dune.

Not to pull my ever-so-meaningful readers away, but this may be the most beautiful blog I've ever seen.

But above all, this is the most amazing work of art I have ever seen. It's mind-boggling.


D. Seah

WAIT. Click here.

Shame. I feel shame.

What is it with coffee drinkers? They're masochists, I think. I can't imagine another scenario wherein it's considered completely rational to toss back huge cups of acid. There are times when I love the idea of a steaming mug of black, chewy coffee. But even that is a rare craving. And once it gets all fancified, well then you just lose me altogether.

So to all you devotees, the people who need that morning jolt of life ... this one is for you.

Because I have discovered the CURE for coffee's needless harshness. And that panacea is chocolate. Rocket science, right?

Per usual, the Italians have it all over us. The perfect partner on the coffee seesaw is biscotti. I've always thought these rock-hard cookies were Italy's answer to root canals, but it turns out I've been duped by stale bakery cases. Or at least Gourmet thinks so.



That's everything I needed! Almost. Baking soda was too shy to make an appearance. Either that, or I forgot it before taking the picture. Cocoa, salt, eggs, butter, flour, sugar, and—stealing the limelight—semisweet chocolate chips and walnuts. Then the wet and dry segregated. Yes, that is the fury-inducing, blue pill-needing "whisk."



Señor Sugar and Madame Butter enjoyed some private time with Los Huevos and came back frothy. When the dry ingredients joined the party, everything got really stiff.

Oh dear. Please disregard the rather suggestive nature of the previous sentences. Unless, you know, you like that sort of thing. The chocolate chips and walnuts made a late entrance, and everything got a little crowded.



There was some frou-frou business in the directions about flouring hands and such, but I'm no princess. I formed these logs without fanfare.



YES, I know what they look like. Please refrain from comment. If you're nice, I'll let you try them, and you'll forget what you were about to say. Stop acting like a child.

This is the point when the anxiety sets in. They're supposed to come out of the oven sort of firm-ish, and I always think one person's firm may be another person's ... not so firm (seriously, what is happening? I've hopped the sexy train to Commentaryville, and I can't get out). But I was pleasantly surprised by what emerged from my 350-degree oven after 35 minutes.



I mean, call me crazy, but ... that looks ... dare I say it? Right to me. It sat for 5 minutes, then I held my breath and sliced.



Weird, right? I mean, it actually (hi j-bo!) looks like it's supposed to. Back in the oven for another 10 minutes, and you have the perfect coffee-side treat. And a cameo by my grandmother's china, which always makes me happy.



I'm a little worried. This turned out well. And I think my cynicism took a holiday. Ah, well, I'm sure it shall return. And I hope this makes you happy, too.

I come to you from the end of an infuriatingly low-scoring and entertainment-free game. That I fast-forwarded through. If you're accustomed to zipping through commercials, it can be a struggle for a small brain to stop specifically for commercials. And I won't even dignify those ads with comment. Why wasn't Jessica Simpson eating pizza with Muppets? Where has all the creativity gone?

Oh! But good for the Giants. I'm a sucker for an underdog. And also for this.

Tonight, I needed comfort food. It was a rainy day, I had only had half a sleeve of saltines and a wedge of cheese, and I was sofa tailgating. Or whatever you call it when football is on but you don't actually watch the game. Sofa ... sitting.

This was no time for healthy living. I've taken a break from that the past two days. Are french fries acceptable as an amuse bouche? I think yes. So my heartfelt thanks to the folks at Southern Living, who believe regional food can be tasty without being INSANE.

I adore myrecipes.com, and that's not just a shameless plug. It lends access to recipes from eight different magazines, all in one place. I chose Mexican Vegetarian Casserole. The casserole is second only to sandwiches in my food favorites. This one had the added benefit of being ridiculously easy. Step 1: Mix shit together. Step 2: Bake. It's cooking for dummies. Or the hungover. What? Who said that?



RoTel, black beans, rice, sour cream, salsa, cheese, black olives, whole-kernel corn, and scallions. It came out a little runnier than I expected, but the mixture fulfilled the Joey Tribbiani quotient: Only good stuff went in, so how could it be bad?



Using the instant rice really made this a quick process. The RoTel, beans, cooked rice, sour cream, salsa, and corn went into a lightly greased baking dish, then got topped with the scallions, olives, and cheese.



And yes, that is a lot of cheese. I did go with the 2% because it's an old habit not to buy full-fat anything if I can help it, but if I were making this for a discerning crowd, I'd go whole hog (ouch). The 2% kind of formed a rubbery sheet instead of stringy, gooey tastiness. It was still delicious, but kind of the texture of fruit leather.



It bakes at 350 for 50 minutes, which tests the boundaries of my patience. But at least I didn't take a nap on the sofa and wake up three hours later with 9 by 13 blackened mess. Not that that's ever happened before.



Yum! Make this when smiles are in short supply.

I love:



and I'm not ashamed. Look, even Jesus loves it! He gave it that lovely light to bask in. Four bottles, preserved in a foil bag—so it lasts, if you're not a lush. Ahem. It lacks a certain ceremony ... It is, after all, wine in a box. There's no glass bottle, no ritualized uncorking. But it tastes just as good as a $7 bottle of wine, at about $4.75 per bottle. That's $3.25 to buy yourself something pretty. And there's no pressure to finish the whole thing in one sitting. Ahem.

I loathe:



What IS that? That makes me irrationally angry. It's an offense to the South that this is supposed to be some sort of regional delicacy. And banana? That's a partially hydrogenated torture device. I saved my coworkers from them and put them in the garbage from which they came.

My one experience making risotto prior to tonight involved my spending 14% of the time paying attention while trying to make arancini, which I had no patience for. They came out tasting sort of like what you'd get if you flash-fried a hush puppy and it was completely uncooked inside. Yum?

Tonight, the woodside hit the road. JLB was kind enough to host the cookstravaganza, to bank roll it, and to make ZERO snide comments about the number of dishes I dirtied. It's good to have friends. The main event? Smoked Gouda Risotto with Spinach and Mushrooms. The setup wasn't labor-intensive, but it was a lot of stuff. I had to photograph it in two shifts! First string:



Black pepper, arborio, creminis, chicken stock, button mushrooms, smoked gouda, and parmesan. That contraption in the front makes an appearance to honor Ermie. A terrific lady, and the passer-on to JLB of what I like to fondly call her "can't opener."

Second string:



That's butter, garlic, thyme, rosemary, and the delinquents in the back row: spinach and shiitake mushrooms (FYI, de-stemming those babies is a bitch. Hi grandma!)

Risotto is something that's never terribly intimidated me. There are a lot of techniques that boggle the mind ... anything involving a piping bag comes to mind. But pour and stir? That I can do. Into the pan went butter to melt, then arborio to toast, along with a little white wine. Then the add-broth-and-agitate progression began. It only takes about 20 minutes, which is taxing for an attention span like mine. But the transformation is sort of ... transfixing. Only a few broth additions in, the whole thing looked like it was riddled with cheese, despite the lack of any dairy whatsoever. The rice is promiscuous with its starchiness, giving it up almost immediately.



It thickens quickly, but that carby goodness is calorically counteracted by stirring. Twenty minutes of stirring. That's exercise, ladies! When the liquid is absorbed and the rice is silky and pourable, in goes gouda and spinach. Instant velvety wilting melting. Big Brother, pay attention. There's some vegetarian Valentine's potential here.



In another pan, three kinds of mushrooms join the herbs, garlic, sweet onion (in lieu of shallots), and white wine. That, my friends, is some deliciously fragrant stuff. And it cooks for a grand total of seven minutes.



A pillowy bed of cheesy risotto, studded with greens and topped with meaty mushrooms and a smattering of parmesan. Clean Eating, THIS is how it's done.



Damn, my stirring shoulder is going to be sore tomorrow.

Ali and Foreman. Kerry and Bush. Lohan and Duff. The opponents are legendary. The battles, hard-fought and hard-won. The legacy? One fat-busting indoor grill, one aw-shucks disaster, and some tremendously awful pop music.

But I introduce to you a new rivalry: Cooks Illustrated vs. Gourmet. Bear with me; it appeals to a niche audience. The outskirts of Vegas, we'll say. Cooks is considered "America's Test Kitchen," and the reputation is deserved. G is the domain of nouveaux foodies and Ruth Reichl devotees ... the NKOTB, if you will.

The dispute? How best to hard-boil an egg. What's that? "Easy," you say? A "no-brainer?" HA! I scoff. This is science. There are always loopholes. So here's how the cookies crumble:

CI
Cover eggs in cold water in a saucepan.
Bring water to a boil.
Remove pan from the heat.
Let eggs sit 10 minutes.*

Gourmet
Cover eggs in cold water in a saucepan.
Bring water to a boil.
Reduce heat to moderate/high, and cook eggs at a gentle boil, uncovered, 10 minutes.
Pour out hot water and cover eggs in cold water.
Let eggs stand in cold water 15 minutes.**

*This is America's TK version. According to the American Egg Board, the eggs should sit 15 minutes. Fun with variables! We'll attempt one of each option.

**Why? What if you peel the eggs and don't let them sit 15 minutes (who has the time)? Let's allow one to rest 15 minutes and peel one right away.

The gloves are up, the bell has rung, the spit buckets are in place. The eggs go in:



Then ... there's some waiting. The first batch are CI eggs. They get all excited until the water boils, but then the fun is over. They move to a back burner to wait out their 10 and/or 15 minutes.

The second batch are G eggs. They have a big time. They bounce around in the (gently) bubbling water for the requisite time.

And then? Every egg is down for the count. The contestants rest, and the judges deliberate.



At the risk of complicating things, the above photo portrays (clockwise from top): 1. CI eggs left to sit 10 minutes. 2. CI eggs left to sit 15 minutes. 3. G eggs immediately removed from boiling water and peeled. 4. G eggs left to sit in cold water 15 minutes and then peeled.

The most vital point about the variables is that, in both cases, the "sit time" made virtually no difference. #1 and #2 were almost identical, as were #3 and #4. The CI versions looked like this:



and the G versions looked like this:



The first was orangey, soft, and creamy yolked. The latter was light yellow, dry, and firm. Both ways managed to elude the dreaded green-gray ring around the yolk, but the verdict lies with personal preference: How do you like your eggs? I prefer the softer (#1 and #2) versions, but that's if I'm having a hard-boiled egg for breakfast (and I think I will). If you're making egg salad, you probably want something more sturdy.

But the real surprise was the trouble factor. The first two eggs, while delectable and moist, were HELL to peel. Like are-you-kidding-me hard. The second two, chalkier and more "cooked," shed their shells like hermit crabs. Despite the trouble, though, I still give this one to Cooks Illustrated. I prefer smooth, yielding egginess to dissolving styrofoam peanuts. Even if it is encased in steel.

And now I really want these. If only because I absolutely must make this.

I know, I know, I've given you a lot of "glamour." A lot of "epicurean delight." A lot of "room" for "improvement." But there's only so much a single lady (even one with an appetite for life like mine) can accomplish in terms of eating. Over the past week I have accumulated a LOT of leftovers. Some of those dishes will get reinterpreted (please, anyone, give me some ideas for that mushroom pasta dish. But before you comment, you should know J is less than thrilled about fungus). In the meantime, I introduce you to my breakfast.

Given my druthers, I really want this for breakfast. But they're not always available in the myriad Woodside grocers' freezer cases, and when they are, they aren't generally on sale. They taste DELICIOUS, though, and I highly recommend. I'll just say on a scale of 1 to IHOP, these are decidedly Waffle House hash browns. And for 1:15 in the microwave, that's not much to sneeze at.

In the interest of heart health, though, and acknowledging that I generally rouse myself 17.5 minutes after I need to be out of the shower and drying my hair, I know that my oatmeal will always be there for me.



A little water over a half cup of oats (just enough to cover):



And into the microwave for 1:00. One! On your average Monday, that's enough time to half-heartedly apply your makeup. Or, at the very least, time to spit-clean the mascara from your bottom lids and blink the whites back into your eyes.



For four years, I didn't have a microwave. In fact, I didn't think I needed a microwave. JLB bought me this one for my birthday, and I lurv it. Yes, all microwaves do precisely the same thing. But don't you wish you had one this pretty?

So here's where it gets questionable. The trick to oatmeal that is healthy, stick-to-your-ribs, not cloying, and not rubber cement is ... trust me, here ... cottage cheese. I know, I know! I blame mother superior. She used to make us spinach linguine with cottage cheese, and its transformative taste has stuck with me. Look:



Yeah, OK, that looks gross. But it tastes really good. Throw away the raisins and cinnamon and sugar! Plus, half a cup of oats and half a cup of cottage cheese will keep you full until ... February 12. Give or take.

There are selfish motives here, I admit. Papa T says commenting isn't necessarily intuitive, so click on "0 comments" or, god willing in the next few minutes, "116 comments", and berate me for my questionable first-thing-in-the-morning taste. I court controversy. Happy Super Duper Tuesday!

Oh premiere issue of Clean Eating magazine, why have you forsaken me? It should have been a sign, really. All those white-flour admonitions and too-good-to-be-true parsnip promises were bound to be hazardous to my health.

It all started so well. "Penne with Creamy Wild Mushroom Sauce," it whispered. A rustic pot of tender pasta, earthy fungus, and sharp green thyme stared back at me. "Cost per serving: $1.59," said the cocky little rag. And I swooned, I admit. I mistook that arrogance for culinary confidence, and all I was left with was a growing belly and the lingering aftertaste of acid and regret.

I didn't have any wild mushrooms in the cupboard, but no matter. We all got along so well at first: meaty creminis, dried whole-wheat penne, low-fat ricotta, garlic, vegetable stock (in lieu of the dried-mushroom-rehydrating liquid) olive oil, dried thyme, salt, Parmigiano, and an egg.



It seemed so simple. I laughed, I cried, I threw mushrooms and garlic and dried thyme (a single girl who can't get her pajama pants into the hamper when playing laundry-ball really can't be expected to have fresh herbs on hand) into a pan.



And there was heat, people. The smell of garlic and mushrooms on a flame fills the senses with longing. Whole wheat pasta went into boiling water, and the synergy was electric. The ricotta, the vegetable broth, a pinch of salt, and an egg yolk joined forces in Tiny Cuisinart to complete the love triangle.



That velvety goodness poured over the mushrooms ...



then thickened over medium-low heat for about five minutes, until it coated the back of a spoon.



The creamy mushroom sauce stirred beautifully into the pasta, and was apportioned into a bowl, certain to seduce with hearty deliciousness. And yet, it consistently disappointed. With each bite the promise of a bright future dissipated. There was no spark. No connection. No ... salt.



It did look pretty. I really wanted to take it out, and let it meet my friends. Alas, it was cardboard. One-dimensional and certain to humiliate me when the conversation turned to literature. I'd like to say I dumped it. But I was afraid of what it would cost me. Apparently my dignity comes cheap. $1.59 per serving.

It's Saturday night at la casa de K, which means two things: I bailed on appropriate 20-something weekend activities because I'm basically a grandma, and I'd snacked all day long. So I knew I wanted something light but satisfying. Preferably something that would distract me from the disintegration of my social life.

That said, I was feeling pretty lazy. So I needed to concoct something with the contents of my kitchen. And that meant Mark Bittman. I love him from his New York Times "101" articles here and here. His recipes in the HtCEV cookbook are uber-flexible, which makes them easily adaptable to whatever specific ingredients you may have on hand. Here's what I had:



The bean burger recipe, for example, calls for canned or dry beans of almost any variety. I had chickpeas (I always have chickpeas) in the lazy Susan. And I wouldn't be my mother's daughter if I didn't have rolled oats always at the ready. One medium onion, an egg, salt, pepper, and a tablespoon of chili powder make things flavorful but simple. Falling in step with my new love affair with all things Cuisinart (or, in this case, Black & Decker), everything went in for a chunky chop.



It rests for a moment whilst you ready the buns. I know! Kinky! then gets formed into patties. Which is made easier when you're working with vegetables, because there's no ... erm ... shrinkage. A couple of three minutes on each side in a spritz of olive oil ...



And you have a veggie burger. I'll never go frozen again! The whole thing, start to finish, took probably 16 minutes. Eight of which were spent searching for the can opener.



And yes, those are the evil potatoes of doom you see there on the left. I can't throw away perfectly acceptable wallpaper adhesive masquerading as a side dish. Now, I'm off to sleep. It's way past grandma's bedtime.

I love:



I tried desperately, and failed majestically, to take an in-focus picture of this. But I'm officially in love. It's a terrific idea (and oh-so-necessary in small and/or badly ventilated kitchens), has adorable retro styling, and manages to make people utter words previously unheard outside of communes: "mmmm ... patchouli ... " Get one!

I loathe:



Don't get me wrong. I know there's something reprehensible about instant potatoes generally. But every so often they make for lovely comfort food, in the way only foods that are "instant" and "embarrassing" can. Stay far away from the generic brands, though. I'm a loyal cheap-choice adherent, but these have the consistency of paste, and when you open the container of leftovers, you will be assaulted by the faux-garlic stench. Which is a shame, because if they didn't smell so bad, I'd caulk my tub with them.

To me, there's nothing better than a sandwich. And ever since I wrote a teensy little story about them, there are some who consider me an expert. A title I accept under any auspices, without question. I don't look a gift horse.

So tonight I was hosting a get-together, which threatened to host a vegetarian, a diabetic, and two standards. Unfortunately, the diabetic had to bail for mechanical reasons, so the door was open for ... well, virtually anything. And herein lies my dilemma: How in the world does one formulate a menu? Seriously, if any of you out there have clues/tips/expertise to offer, I'm all ears. And I'm not talking in a how-to-please-everybody sort of way. I mean ... how do you even start? Or, if you have a specific recipe in mind, how do you round it out? And how do you plan for certain numbers of people? All ah-ha moments are welcome in the comments.

The best news about the recipe I chose for tonight is that it gave little TC (tiny Cuisinart) a chance to regain his honor. No less than 8 ounces of cheese, PLUS dijon mustard PLUS butter PLUS garlic was pulverized by the motor that could:



Beautifully whirled, you old dog. That gets spread on bread slices and topped with deli turkey, then thrown on my new Krups panini press, which I swear to you seems like a frivolous kitchen appliance but ... is. In the way the best frivolous kitchen appliances are. You will think, why does this thing take up so much cabinet space? Why did I get something they keep telling me skillet + foil-wrapped brick can do (and come on, who has a brick laying around?)? Could my seven-year-old Foreman have done the trick? Have I been duped? The answers are, respectively, I'm not sure, because it's not the same (no one), no, and maybe. It seems I'm an independent.

Truly, though, this is something I put on and took off my Christmas list. I was impressed by the machinery, but unsure that I was getting any real pay off. I've been making panini on a George Foreman for a while, and it totally works! But there's certain satisfaction that comes from having the right tool for the right job. I think all Italian panini makers would disagree that this is necessarily it, but it's easy to use and easy to clean and produces even, perfect heat.

I went with Giada's Venetian Panino recipe, because it's simple and trustworthily Italian. Unfortunately, the Publix (greenmarkets, right?) didn't have any Gruyère, so I bought Monterey Jack. I know technically some sort of fancy Swiss is the appropriate substitution, but MJ is a nice, mild cheese that appeals to everyone, so I knew it would please, crowd-wise.

And it got raves! But frankly, I can't judge. My friends are pretty darn nice. Here's what the result looked like. I got the board for $2 at a prop sale at work, so I wanted everything to look suitably retro. Thanks to iPhoto ...



Oooh! Bring out the fondue and tube socks!

Anyhoo, a night with the girls always involves a few things from bags and a few things from the freezer, so it's not always a culinary decathlon. But a few days ago, I stumbled upon something I couldn't ignore. Something so amazing, so oblivious, so wonderfully stupid that I could not, despite my fever, pass it by. This is the kind of marketing idiocy that warms my heart. Most of you will read this post on Friday and so I say to you all: When you raise your glasses, please raise them on behalf of Dale Jr.



And all the Big Mo's in your life.

What does a sometime cook do in times of stress? She eats! Well, first, she makes a pan of Ore-Ida Extra-Crispy from the freezer. More specifically, she throws the rock-hard potato sticks onto a sheet pan with huffy tears. Then she sits on her sofa and sees this:



You may not be fluent in dog, so let me translate. This face says, "Factory spuds? Won't help. Can I have some?" Seventeen minutes later, when the sad little frites emerged, I could not but agree. And deny the pooch the taters. Sorry, J. They joined the blackened doodles in the heap. But what? What was it I craved? I wandered the vast expanse of my 6-square-foot kitchen, and stumbled upon this. Or, more specifically, this:



That's "Crunchy Fried Eggs on Darphin Potatoes with Spinach." I didn't realize that was the title of that recipe until now, and good thing! Crunchy eggs. Blech. This helpful (and most of all, incredibly photographed) book is full of the basics of egg-doings. Which reminds me: My sincerest, most heartfelt apologies to M@rtin Brigd@le (that's the google-can't-find-me spelling) for the awful rendering of his photo above. I'm pretty much just trying to keep the shadow of my head/arm/camera out of the shot. You will see, momentarily, that I do not always succeed. Anyway, I'm not trying to win any photography awards. I know you were wondering. But back to the crunchy eggs. All I could do was look at that crispy potato cake with the sharp greens ... and think of the pungent vinegar with the smooth, silky egg, and ...

I fled, like the histrionic gal I am, and got me to the Winn-Dixie (the Woodside is flush with greengrocers). Their greens were DEVASTATING, however, so I grabbed a potato and a box of wine and scooted back to the waiting arms of J (he loves when I come home smelling of carbs). The first step was to peel the Idaho. Just my luck, papa F had bought me the World's Best Peeler for Christmas. If you think all vegetable peelers are the same, you are wrong. Imagine if George Clooney asked the potato to take its clothes off. THAT EASY. Slutty little spud.



Utilitarian and authoritarian. Vegetables obey. Now the second step was to julienne Madam Potato Head on a mandoline. But I don't have a mandoline. Oh, wait! Yes I do! Thank you S!



Verdict? I need practice. In the space where clouds of white ribbons should have been lay a sort of pinkish-brown mush. Something to do with someone not shredding fast enough to beat oxidation. And being a little afraid of the blade.

Into a small skillet went some oil, and onto the oil went a potato cake.



Whose head is that in shadow? Sheesh. The oil was starting to smoke, but clearly wasn't hot enough for the potatoes, which instantly leeched it up like a thirsty sponge. That limited browning and crisping.



A lighter, stouter vegetable oil (peanut? canola? run o' the mill?) probably would have worked better. The plus side? A fat-soaked potato is, on its worst day, more appetizing than a lot of other novelty food items. Drive past McDonald's with your windows down. You'll agree.

And THEN, I had to poach an egg. A first and, thanks to Monsieur Roux, so easy. This easy. Boil water, throw in some white vinegar, spill in a golfball yolk, and let the milky clouds swirl for a minute and a half. Ninety seconds, I kid you not.



The recipe calls for a quick vinaigrette of extra-virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, and pepper (for the spinach). I kept the potato cake warm in a low oven, swirled some romaine in the vinaigrette and had tomato slices on standby. You'll know the poached egg is ready when it seems ... totally not ready. The minute that hot egg hit that pretty stack, it burst with happiness.



And that beats stress and chemicals any day. J agrees, don't you?