Content
*eating crow.
The mother is going to have a field day with this one. You see, she liked to feed us strange things when we were children. Bizarre things, like ... Well, here's a handy reference chart:
What you ate as a child
Spaghetti with meatballs
Pepperoni pizza
Honey-nut Cheerios
Red beans and rice
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich
What I ate as a child
Spinach linguine with cottage cheese
Whole-wheat crust pizza, extra sauce, no cheese
Rice Chex with orange juice, no milk
Millet and eggs
Apple stuffed with peanut butter
I mean, weird, right? But see, we didn't notice. We didn't really know any better until we got to school and were all, "DERwaitaminnit. This apple ain't no sammich." And I'm sure it was all EXTREMELY good for us and packed with nutrients, and we are abject ingrates for wanting fingernails stained with Cheetos dust, but you can't really depend on a 7-year-old for dietary judgment.
Eventually, we realized this weird-food bit was the kind of currency you just don't always get as a kid. Mother S has endured countless hours of our post-puberty torment on the subject. And neither she nor I may ever live down the Nutmeg Incident, which I think is the moment she decided to screw it and let us poison our bodies if we must, if only to keep her oldest daughter from spontaneously combusting.
So here, mother, for your reading pleasure, is my sweet, sweet comeuppance. There are grains in this recipe that we complained about for YEARS. And get this: It was damn good.
Oh, Mom, pipe down. People are trying to sleep.
I started with lentils, spinach, onions, fat-free plain yogurt (the Pube didn't have low-fat), garbanzos, olive oil, salt/pepper, a bay leaf, cumin, allspice, and turmeric. There in the front, in the pretty teacup (thank you, Grandma!), is some cooked barley, and in the back in the ominous-looking box is the Kasha (buckwheat). I KNOW.
I put the oil into the pot and immediately got distracted, so that I was shoving a handful of pretzels into my mouth before I noticed the smoke.
Oops.
The pot came off the heat to simmer the heck down, then in went the onions. After they'd sweated out a bit, I added the spices. Then T called, so I was shooting the shit and forgot to take a picture. Sweaty, pungent onions, and you missed them. The Kleenex are in the bathroom, if you need a minute.
Then I added the 6.5 cups of water, but that didn't make for a pretty shot at all. I mean, would you eat this?
Me neither. And I was a little worried about that much water. Usually you get the flavor benefit of a stock/broth in a recipe like this. Would it be bland? Would I be throwing away 7.5 servings of it in three weeks? I mean, tomorrow?
Next, I tossed in the beans, spinach, and buckwheat, and let that cook for a minute.
Then I pulled it off the heat for 10 minutes. In the last 5 minutes that it had to sit, I drained the yogurt between paper towels
and frantically threw in the barley, which I realized I'd forgotten to do three steps ago. Not much liquid came out of the yogurt, because it was pretty well dense to start with. But I scooped a tablespoon of it into the bottom of the bowl, and topped with the POTAGE. That's right, it's French. It means, "Big Brother and the Non-reader are going to give you HELL for having eaten and enjoyed buckwheat AND barley because how are we now going to present a united front in the battle to Give Mom a Hard Time due to the great Sugar Allergy Test Double Cross of '85?"
I don't know. But this was delicious. Like lick-the-bowl, no-I-won't-share, spit-on-your-neck fantastic.
I'm going to go eat an Oreo now.
What you ate as a child
Spaghetti with meatballs
Pepperoni pizza
Honey-nut Cheerios
Red beans and rice
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich
What I ate as a child
Spinach linguine with cottage cheese
Whole-wheat crust pizza, extra sauce, no cheese
Rice Chex with orange juice, no milk
Millet and eggs
Apple stuffed with peanut butter
I mean, weird, right? But see, we didn't notice. We didn't really know any better until we got to school and were all, "DERwaitaminnit. This apple ain't no sammich." And I'm sure it was all EXTREMELY good for us and packed with nutrients, and we are abject ingrates for wanting fingernails stained with Cheetos dust, but you can't really depend on a 7-year-old for dietary judgment.
Eventually, we realized this weird-food bit was the kind of currency you just don't always get as a kid. Mother S has endured countless hours of our post-puberty torment on the subject. And neither she nor I may ever live down the Nutmeg Incident, which I think is the moment she decided to screw it and let us poison our bodies if we must, if only to keep her oldest daughter from spontaneously combusting.
So here, mother, for your reading pleasure, is my sweet, sweet comeuppance. There are grains in this recipe that we complained about for YEARS. And get this: It was damn good.
Oh, Mom, pipe down. People are trying to sleep.
I started with lentils, spinach, onions, fat-free plain yogurt (the Pube didn't have low-fat), garbanzos, olive oil, salt/pepper, a bay leaf, cumin, allspice, and turmeric. There in the front, in the pretty teacup (thank you, Grandma!), is some cooked barley, and in the back in the ominous-looking box is the Kasha (buckwheat). I KNOW.
I put the oil into the pot and immediately got distracted, so that I was shoving a handful of pretzels into my mouth before I noticed the smoke.
Oops.
The pot came off the heat to simmer the heck down, then in went the onions. After they'd sweated out a bit, I added the spices. Then T called, so I was shooting the shit and forgot to take a picture. Sweaty, pungent onions, and you missed them. The Kleenex are in the bathroom, if you need a minute.
Then I added the 6.5 cups of water, but that didn't make for a pretty shot at all. I mean, would you eat this?
Me neither. And I was a little worried about that much water. Usually you get the flavor benefit of a stock/broth in a recipe like this. Would it be bland? Would I be throwing away 7.5 servings of it in three weeks? I mean, tomorrow?
Next, I tossed in the beans, spinach, and buckwheat, and let that cook for a minute.
Then I pulled it off the heat for 10 minutes. In the last 5 minutes that it had to sit, I drained the yogurt between paper towels
and frantically threw in the barley, which I realized I'd forgotten to do three steps ago. Not much liquid came out of the yogurt, because it was pretty well dense to start with. But I scooped a tablespoon of it into the bottom of the bowl, and topped with the POTAGE. That's right, it's French. It means, "Big Brother and the Non-reader are going to give you HELL for having eaten and enjoyed buckwheat AND barley because how are we now going to present a united front in the battle to Give Mom a Hard Time due to the great Sugar Allergy Test Double Cross of '85?"
I don't know. But this was delicious. Like lick-the-bowl, no-I-won't-share, spit-on-your-neck fantastic.
I'm going to go eat an Oreo now.
*fridge id.
Yessir, it's Freudian. Freud, you see, has a theory that there's no such thing as an accident. Which pisses me off, frankly. Is he saying that when I attempted that cookie recipe I ended up with a garbage can full of perfectly useful ingredients because I forgot you can't half 1 egg on PURPOSE? Because that was an accident. It could happen to anyone.
Right?
So I decided, instead of BLOWING. YOUR. MIND. with chocolate wonder, I'd take the Amateur Gourmet's challenge.
And so, without further ado (because ado would imply this would be a much less pathetic insight into my life), I bring you:
My refrigerator. It is very pleased to meet you.
Milk, salsa, soy sauce, cream, more milk, cottage cheese, black-olive hummus (which, YUM), light french onion dip, and Beth's beer. Hear that Grandma? It's BETH'S. She left it at my house when I was at the library. Reading to sick children.
Beneath that? Foil-wrapped bacon on top of a Tupperware of formerly melted chocolate, a tiny wedge of 2% Cracker Barrel Cheddar, and an empty salad spinner.
And then? Eggs and Diet Mt. Dew.
Total percentage of viable foodstuffs? Hovering firmly at 11%. The rest qualifies as questionable, curdled, and possibly poisonous.
Now, drawers. Ooh! Naughty!
Broccoli/cauliflower mix, old olives, a withering cucumber, and red onion. Then some black basil and Parmigiano. What's that you say? Oh, no! Black basil is not a gourmet variety. It is quite simple to make, in fact. Buy some packaged basil, throw it in the refrigerator, and wait one week. Voilá! You, too, have black basil. I recommend you keep it in a crisper drawer. That way it has its very own space in which to liquify.
Butter (oh I still love that butter dish!), pickles, pickle relish, more butter (hi Mom!), spaghetti sauce, hot sauce, brown mustard, tamari, yellow mustard, and what i think is a total of three bottles of ranch dressing (seriously, Mom, just navigate away. Look: novelty tees!), bottled ginger, prepared horseradish, roasted red peppers, hoisin, curry powder, grape jelly, mayos, dijon mustard, and wasabi mustard. Ketchups, a never-used eye mask, and cornmeal.
And now, you have seen into my psyche. Turns out it has some rotten spots and a lot of condiments.
Right?
So I decided, instead of BLOWING. YOUR. MIND. with chocolate wonder, I'd take the Amateur Gourmet's challenge.
And so, without further ado (because ado would imply this would be a much less pathetic insight into my life), I bring you:
My refrigerator. It is very pleased to meet you.
Milk, salsa, soy sauce, cream, more milk, cottage cheese, black-olive hummus (which, YUM), light french onion dip, and Beth's beer. Hear that Grandma? It's BETH'S. She left it at my house when I was at the library. Reading to sick children.
Beneath that? Foil-wrapped bacon on top of a Tupperware of formerly melted chocolate, a tiny wedge of 2% Cracker Barrel Cheddar, and an empty salad spinner.
And then? Eggs and Diet Mt. Dew.
Total percentage of viable foodstuffs? Hovering firmly at 11%. The rest qualifies as questionable, curdled, and possibly poisonous.
Now, drawers. Ooh! Naughty!
Broccoli/cauliflower mix, old olives, a withering cucumber, and red onion. Then some black basil and Parmigiano. What's that you say? Oh, no! Black basil is not a gourmet variety. It is quite simple to make, in fact. Buy some packaged basil, throw it in the refrigerator, and wait one week. Voilá! You, too, have black basil. I recommend you keep it in a crisper drawer. That way it has its very own space in which to liquify.
Butter (oh I still love that butter dish!), pickles, pickle relish, more butter (hi Mom!), spaghetti sauce, hot sauce, brown mustard, tamari, yellow mustard, and what i think is a total of three bottles of ranch dressing (seriously, Mom, just navigate away. Look: novelty tees!), bottled ginger, prepared horseradish, roasted red peppers, hoisin, curry powder, grape jelly, mayos, dijon mustard, and wasabi mustard. Ketchups, a never-used eye mask, and cornmeal.
And now, you have seen into my psyche. Turns out it has some rotten spots and a lot of condiments.
*friday frivolity.
Who knew this:
could become this:
could become this?
YES I am supposed to be freelancing and YES I haven't updated in two weeks and YES I feel shame. SHAME! Please don't hit me, I'll be a good girl, I promise.
Updates when I resurface from the abject hell that has been this week.
P.S. On that subject? The hell one? Hugs to all the people I love. You know who you are. I'm not a hugger by trade, so just ... big squeezes. For serious.
could become this:
could become this?
YES I am supposed to be freelancing and YES I haven't updated in two weeks and YES I feel shame. SHAME! Please don't hit me, I'll be a good girl, I promise.
Updates when I resurface from the abject hell that has been this week.
P.S. On that subject? The hell one? Hugs to all the people I love. You know who you are. I'm not a hugger by trade, so just ... big squeezes. For serious.
*gin, say.
Ah, restaurant food. Why must you tempt me with your made-by-other-people-ness and your expensivity? As I'm sure all of you who know me are aware, I am a person with simple needs. A glass of wine, a warm dog, and two strong hands for doing all my vacuuming.
Seriously, why do I like that guy so much?
Oh yeah. Twitter!
Anyhoo. Restaurants. I really think the formula for a great dining experience, whether it's The Cheesecake Factory or The French Laundry (HAR! Like I've eaten there.) comes down to four basic ingredients.*
MENU: I'm inappropriately obsessed with menus. I'm the Goldilocks of menus. I abhor the enormous ones that act like the dividers they used to make you use in elementary school to keep you from cheating. I hate to see some awkward couple cowering behind giant placards, squinting at the tiny type and murmuring, "Oh, I don't know, it ALL sounds so good ... What'd you say? I can't hear you from behind this piece of POSTERBOARD."
Then, should they want to put their menus down and have an actual conversation about the coworker they're both disappointed with for setting them up in the first place, there's no place to put the damn things, because the size of the table is inversely related to the size of the menu. Go to Brio some day and count the number of people with menus in their laps. Or precariously balanced on the corner of the table, with the silverware as anchor, creating the perfect setup for hitting the overhanging edge of the menu and catapulting forks across the restaurant. Unsightly and dangerous.
And too big isn't the half of it. There's too light (If I'm eating outside and you're going to give me a menu with the heft of loose leaf, at least have the courtesy to provide a paperweight), too many choices—and its corollary, spiral-bound—(If I want a burrito, I'll go to a Mexican restaurant. If I want pizza, I'll go to a pizza joint. No, I do not feel giddily enthusiastic at the prospect of a twice-baked potato with my California roll), and too much information—and its corollary, inane description—(I can see that it's a chicken Caesar salad. I don't need you to explain that that means "a classic Caesar salad topped with chicken").
As a personal aside, I've always wanted to get restaurants to adopt some version of this, wherein the fabric between the seat and the floor is a pocket. I want to keep my menu—maybe I'll need to choose another wine, or think about dessert—but not if it's the size of a road map. I think diners should get to HAVE their menus, but be able to keep them out of sight.
SERVICE: Service is a dance of sorts, but it doesn't have to be complicated. Bring me what I order, and have a sense of humor. That's all I ask. You can be a little slow, or a little busy—you're working, I get it. I want my meal to be a leisurely affair, so I'm not too worried about it. If you have to explain what's going on, don't blame the kitchen or the bar. They're not my problem. Just assure me it's on its way and I'll be fine. See how easygoing?
At the same time, know that there is a general pace to a meal. Don't bring the appetizers out before the bread, or bring out the soup with the entrees. And don't be a snot about substitutions. There is a place for the thin-lipped terseness when someone wants eggplant parmigiano without the eggplant. But if I order a double-decker burger and ask if I can get it as a single-decker? It's LESS food. For the same amount of money. And I'm certain the kitchen can do two minus one. I know you'd like people to order directly from the menu without complaint, but ... I don't know. Maybe your menu is annoying. I don't want two veggie patties, OK, and I know it's not a big deal to change. So stop looking at me like I asked for the Magna Carta.
ATMOSPHERE: Simple and private. Not too many TVs. The decor signifies what the food is going to be like, so if you're garish and loud and overrun with children, I'm going to assume the back of the house is harried and loud and heavy-handed with the sauces. No gimmicks or bad art, please. And if your bathroom isn't clean, I'm not coming back.
PRICE: I don't mind paying for good stuff. That having been said, I know portion sizes are making us fat, but they also give us the impression we're getting our money's worth. Serving a sandwich the size of my head is particularly useful if your food isn't terribly good. I'll be all, "Ew, there's a hair in there. But it has a year's worth of calories for only $4.50!" The flip side is that I'll give you my paycheck for something tiny and delicious.
FOOD: Well, der.
*Trust me on this; I come with excellent credentials. I graduated cum laude from the University of Unsolicited and Unqualified Opinion. Go Fighting Trumps!
OK. End Manifesto.
JLB took my broke ass to Jinsei, which happens to be my favorite restaurant in the Woodside's municipality. The sushi will ruin you forever. When I see the rolls in the plastic cases at the Publix now, I cry.
We started with the tempura green beans:
They were perfectly crispy on the outside and hot like molten lava inside, which sounds dangerous but is delicious. It comes with a low-level spicy sauce that is sort of superfluous but keeps you dipping with its seductive mayonnaiseyness.
After that healthy vegetable course, we had the rock shrimp tempura (that's an errant shiitake mushroom mucking up the shot):
They're tasty, but not my favorite (and by "not my favorite" I mean I only ate 14% more than my share). JB always orders them with the sauce on the side, which helps because it keeps the tempura from going chewy.
Six seconds later, when we'd devoured the popcorn shrimp, we ordered JLB's favorite: the Kadoma tuna ("Cut into small pieces," natch. The wedges are pretty big, which is never a problem for someone with a mouth the size of mine, but JLB is dainty. And likes to make things difficult for the kitchen. Hi JLB!)
A crunchy rice crust surrounds spicy tuna, topped with avocado, jalapeño, and a smattering of roe. I adore spicy, but I'm not a huge jalapeño fan. I prefer fill-your-head spicy to burn-your-taste-buds spicy. Here, though, it's ideal. It offsets the sweet sauce and gets cooled by the avocado. JLB turns into a 3-year-old when it hits the table. She just stares at it reverently and whispers, "It's my fayvritt."
After that, JLB decided she wanted "some of those cone thingies." For unknown reasons, the chef wasn't quite clear on that apt description, so he sent out the nikko roll:
I can't really remember what's in there, but I know there was cream cheese and that the white sauce tasted suspiciously of mayo. I wouldn't order it again, but the worst menu item at Jinsei is better than the best menu item at a lot of places.
JLB proceeded to gesticulate wildly enough to communicate what she had been trying to conjure:
To her credit, it does have a complicated name: "hand roll." I'd never had them before, and they were transcendent. The fish was amazing, and that leathery fruit-roll-up texture you usually get from the seaweed wrap? Totally nonexistent here. I didn't so much eat mine as I gobbled it. Which is attractive, let me tell you.
Jesus, ladies, aren't you full yet?
What's full?
I had to save the best for last. We finished with hamachi nigiri:
That yellowtail, my friends, tastes like heaven. Like someone teaching you how to French kiss (thanks, Pelham!). Not that I've done that, of course. Hi Grandma!
There's a perfect layer of wasabi holding that fish to the rice like Polydent. Ruth Reichl says the Japanese never dip their rice in the soy sauce—it should go into the dish fish-side first. I follow their mandate, because I'm pretentious like that. And trust me when I say you do not want excessive brininess assaulting this fish. It is unlike anything I've ever eaten.
Sigh. This is an exercise in futility. Anyone want to go to Jinsei and buy me dinner?
VERDICT!
MENU: Not ideal. Two small pieces of wood hold the pages in (sometimes), connected by bolts. The clunkiness makes it hard to turn the pages, but the tininess makes it unobtrusive on the table. Which helps when you're hanging on to your menu and ordering item by item. Most dishes come with no description at all. It can seem intimidating, but ... well, see below.
SERVICE: So. Nice. And helpful. I'm sure when you're answering the same questions night after night it can get old, but you'd never know it by the waitstaff. Management makes a point to visit tables and check in without pecking on your shoulder and shouting "HOW IS EVERYTHING TONIGHT?" every four and a half minutes (peeve!).
ATMOSPHERE: Vibey. The restaurant is small, and things are close together, but the food makes people so happy that you won't hate your table neighbors. Except when they stop talking for 48 minutes because they're listening to your conversation and oh my god it's so obvious you're eavesdropping get your own lives. Ahem.
Know that the bathrooms sport pocket doors, or you may find yourself mortified. Unlike other things I deny on this site, that did NOT happen to me. But it has happened, so be aware! Your netherregions and your pride will thank you. My only complaint is that the banquettes are too low. Grab a chair, or you may have to sit with your chin on the table.
PRICE: So massive, and so worth it. Start kissing up to cranky rich people, STAT. The cocktails are inventive and tasty, but if you're a wine drinker, start at home. You'll double your tab fast in alcohol alone. Or you could be less of a lush, geesh.
FOOD: The best.
Jinsei
1830 29th Avenue South
Suite 125
Homewood, AL 35209
205.802.1440
Seriously, why do I like that guy so much?
Oh yeah. Twitter!
Anyhoo. Restaurants. I really think the formula for a great dining experience, whether it's The Cheesecake Factory or The French Laundry (HAR! Like I've eaten there.) comes down to four basic ingredients.*
MENU: I'm inappropriately obsessed with menus. I'm the Goldilocks of menus. I abhor the enormous ones that act like the dividers they used to make you use in elementary school to keep you from cheating. I hate to see some awkward couple cowering behind giant placards, squinting at the tiny type and murmuring, "Oh, I don't know, it ALL sounds so good ... What'd you say? I can't hear you from behind this piece of POSTERBOARD."
Then, should they want to put their menus down and have an actual conversation about the coworker they're both disappointed with for setting them up in the first place, there's no place to put the damn things, because the size of the table is inversely related to the size of the menu. Go to Brio some day and count the number of people with menus in their laps. Or precariously balanced on the corner of the table, with the silverware as anchor, creating the perfect setup for hitting the overhanging edge of the menu and catapulting forks across the restaurant. Unsightly and dangerous.
And too big isn't the half of it. There's too light (If I'm eating outside and you're going to give me a menu with the heft of loose leaf, at least have the courtesy to provide a paperweight), too many choices—and its corollary, spiral-bound—(If I want a burrito, I'll go to a Mexican restaurant. If I want pizza, I'll go to a pizza joint. No, I do not feel giddily enthusiastic at the prospect of a twice-baked potato with my California roll), and too much information—and its corollary, inane description—(I can see that it's a chicken Caesar salad. I don't need you to explain that that means "a classic Caesar salad topped with chicken").
As a personal aside, I've always wanted to get restaurants to adopt some version of this, wherein the fabric between the seat and the floor is a pocket. I want to keep my menu—maybe I'll need to choose another wine, or think about dessert—but not if it's the size of a road map. I think diners should get to HAVE their menus, but be able to keep them out of sight.
SERVICE: Service is a dance of sorts, but it doesn't have to be complicated. Bring me what I order, and have a sense of humor. That's all I ask. You can be a little slow, or a little busy—you're working, I get it. I want my meal to be a leisurely affair, so I'm not too worried about it. If you have to explain what's going on, don't blame the kitchen or the bar. They're not my problem. Just assure me it's on its way and I'll be fine. See how easygoing?
At the same time, know that there is a general pace to a meal. Don't bring the appetizers out before the bread, or bring out the soup with the entrees. And don't be a snot about substitutions. There is a place for the thin-lipped terseness when someone wants eggplant parmigiano without the eggplant. But if I order a double-decker burger and ask if I can get it as a single-decker? It's LESS food. For the same amount of money. And I'm certain the kitchen can do two minus one. I know you'd like people to order directly from the menu without complaint, but ... I don't know. Maybe your menu is annoying. I don't want two veggie patties, OK, and I know it's not a big deal to change. So stop looking at me like I asked for the Magna Carta.
ATMOSPHERE: Simple and private. Not too many TVs. The decor signifies what the food is going to be like, so if you're garish and loud and overrun with children, I'm going to assume the back of the house is harried and loud and heavy-handed with the sauces. No gimmicks or bad art, please. And if your bathroom isn't clean, I'm not coming back.
PRICE: I don't mind paying for good stuff. That having been said, I know portion sizes are making us fat, but they also give us the impression we're getting our money's worth. Serving a sandwich the size of my head is particularly useful if your food isn't terribly good. I'll be all, "Ew, there's a hair in there. But it has a year's worth of calories for only $4.50!" The flip side is that I'll give you my paycheck for something tiny and delicious.
FOOD: Well, der.
*Trust me on this; I come with excellent credentials. I graduated cum laude from the University of Unsolicited and Unqualified Opinion. Go Fighting Trumps!
OK. End Manifesto.
JLB took my broke ass to Jinsei, which happens to be my favorite restaurant in the Woodside's municipality. The sushi will ruin you forever. When I see the rolls in the plastic cases at the Publix now, I cry.
We started with the tempura green beans:
They were perfectly crispy on the outside and hot like molten lava inside, which sounds dangerous but is delicious. It comes with a low-level spicy sauce that is sort of superfluous but keeps you dipping with its seductive mayonnaiseyness.
After that healthy vegetable course, we had the rock shrimp tempura (that's an errant shiitake mushroom mucking up the shot):
They're tasty, but not my favorite (and by "not my favorite" I mean I only ate 14% more than my share). JB always orders them with the sauce on the side, which helps because it keeps the tempura from going chewy.
Six seconds later, when we'd devoured the popcorn shrimp, we ordered JLB's favorite: the Kadoma tuna ("Cut into small pieces," natch. The wedges are pretty big, which is never a problem for someone with a mouth the size of mine, but JLB is dainty. And likes to make things difficult for the kitchen. Hi JLB!)
A crunchy rice crust surrounds spicy tuna, topped with avocado, jalapeño, and a smattering of roe. I adore spicy, but I'm not a huge jalapeño fan. I prefer fill-your-head spicy to burn-your-taste-buds spicy. Here, though, it's ideal. It offsets the sweet sauce and gets cooled by the avocado. JLB turns into a 3-year-old when it hits the table. She just stares at it reverently and whispers, "It's my fayvritt."
After that, JLB decided she wanted "some of those cone thingies." For unknown reasons, the chef wasn't quite clear on that apt description, so he sent out the nikko roll:
I can't really remember what's in there, but I know there was cream cheese and that the white sauce tasted suspiciously of mayo. I wouldn't order it again, but the worst menu item at Jinsei is better than the best menu item at a lot of places.
JLB proceeded to gesticulate wildly enough to communicate what she had been trying to conjure:
To her credit, it does have a complicated name: "hand roll." I'd never had them before, and they were transcendent. The fish was amazing, and that leathery fruit-roll-up texture you usually get from the seaweed wrap? Totally nonexistent here. I didn't so much eat mine as I gobbled it. Which is attractive, let me tell you.
Jesus, ladies, aren't you full yet?
What's full?
I had to save the best for last. We finished with hamachi nigiri:
That yellowtail, my friends, tastes like heaven. Like someone teaching you how to French kiss (thanks, Pelham!). Not that I've done that, of course. Hi Grandma!
There's a perfect layer of wasabi holding that fish to the rice like Polydent. Ruth Reichl says the Japanese never dip their rice in the soy sauce—it should go into the dish fish-side first. I follow their mandate, because I'm pretentious like that. And trust me when I say you do not want excessive brininess assaulting this fish. It is unlike anything I've ever eaten.
Sigh. This is an exercise in futility. Anyone want to go to Jinsei and buy me dinner?
VERDICT!
MENU: Not ideal. Two small pieces of wood hold the pages in (sometimes), connected by bolts. The clunkiness makes it hard to turn the pages, but the tininess makes it unobtrusive on the table. Which helps when you're hanging on to your menu and ordering item by item. Most dishes come with no description at all. It can seem intimidating, but ... well, see below.
SERVICE: So. Nice. And helpful. I'm sure when you're answering the same questions night after night it can get old, but you'd never know it by the waitstaff. Management makes a point to visit tables and check in without pecking on your shoulder and shouting "HOW IS EVERYTHING TONIGHT?" every four and a half minutes (peeve!).
ATMOSPHERE: Vibey. The restaurant is small, and things are close together, but the food makes people so happy that you won't hate your table neighbors. Except when they stop talking for 48 minutes because they're listening to your conversation and oh my god it's so obvious you're eavesdropping get your own lives. Ahem.
Know that the bathrooms sport pocket doors, or you may find yourself mortified. Unlike other things I deny on this site, that did NOT happen to me. But it has happened, so be aware! Your netherregions and your pride will thank you. My only complaint is that the banquettes are too low. Grab a chair, or you may have to sit with your chin on the table.
PRICE: So massive, and so worth it. Start kissing up to cranky rich people, STAT. The cocktails are inventive and tasty, but if you're a wine drinker, start at home. You'll double your tab fast in alcohol alone. Or you could be less of a lush, geesh.
FOOD: The best.
Jinsei
1830 29th Avenue South
Suite 125
Homewood, AL 35209
205.802.1440
*hummus serendipitous.
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.
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.
*it's 1954.
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.
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.
*melts in your heart.
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.
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.
*welcome to moe's.
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.
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.
*fried day.
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.
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.
*you say tomato, i say coronary.
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.
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.
*cuke fluke.
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.
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.
