Undomestic Diva

Culinary Genius

Some of you might shutter at the fact that I've never been - or ever cared to go - into a Williams-Sonoma store prior to this past weekend. I mean, it's a store full of kitchen crap. I shall pee my pants now in pure joy and excitement!!

Uh, no.

A lot of people will consider this a sin, but I, missing whatever chromosome it is that makes a woman want to be domestic or kitcheny or subservient or culinary, could care less about kitchen gadgets and pots and pans and dishes... I mean, I just know I'd be an amazing chef if I only knew how to cook. But I don't so I won't and therefore all the kitchen gadgetry crapola is wasted on me.

Saturday night, Candy Ass and I lapped the mall while we were killing time waiting for a table at The Cheesecake Factory. (Note: Try the Chicken Stuffed Tortillas. AWESOME.) Normally, I'd totally skip over the opportunity to peruse the Williams-Sonoma store, but since recently becoming full-on inexplicably addicted to that Iron Chef America show, my ears kinda perked up when I saw the walls of colorful plates and the stacks of modern espresso cups and coordinating saucers within the store and before I knew it, I blurted out to Candy Ass, "Watching all those Iron Chef America reruns has me thinking I might start plating your dinners."

All I got from him was a sideways glance of Are-You-Serious? and then he scurried off to the very sharp knives section. For safety. I might have scared him a little bit with my use of the word plating. I sorta got the feeling he wasn't sure who I was and what had the aliens done with his real wife? The one who favors thick, sturdy paper plates to fine china? I think he might have even started to get excited a little, like I'd turned over a new (fig) leaf or something, so I quickly caught up with him and continued my train of thought, eager to please him. "Yeah, I mean, don't be surprised if you come home one night and I've squirted the ketchup all over the hot dogs I've made for dinner in a fancy design like they do on the Iron Chef show with their magical sauces.

I think his shoulders immediately drooped and a familiar sadness overcame him (you might even call it disappointment) as he realized that in my domestically challenged world, plating still means hot dogs for dinner.

But I don't know... some may laugh at my ill-attempts to put dinner on the table (fires, explosions, WHATEVER), but in all the weird, fancy and unique secret ingredients (read: blue cheese, snails, arctic char) on the Iron Chef America episodes, I've yet to see any of those supposed culinary geniuses make anything amazing using hot dogs. Somebody call the Chairman and tell him I'm the true genius here, bitch.

***

And truly, being in Williams-Sonoma was actually very entertaining for me. They've got all kinds of weird shit that I just had to take pictures of with the camera on my Crackberry...

Now the sign for this thing said something about a pancake filler. But I have no goddamn clue how one gets an effin' pancake out of this very confused pan. And what does a person put in a pancake as "filler" anyway? All the pancakes I've ever made come with their own filler - white gooey, not-quite-cooked-all-the-way batter in the middle AND ALL WITHOUT USING A FANCY PAN.

What the hell do you need a RAKE for when cooking?!

A double mezzawhatta? Huh?

I studied this goddamn device for like ten minutes and am still confused. A potato ricer. Um, okay. Looking at the photo on the packaging, it seems to promise that if you stick a potato in it, the potato comes out mashed... and in a pretty bowl, nonetheless. Well I'll be damned! All this time I thought you had to skin(?) the potatoes and then boil them and then mash them with one of those masher thingys to get mashed potatoes.

Now I know the sign says "Truffle Shaver," but from the looks of it, I think Williams-Sonoma has it all wrong. It looks like one of the tools Candy Ass uses when he changes the oil in my car. And if it really is meant for truffles, well hell, why would anyone go to the trouble of using this thing for whatever it does when the good lord has made See's Candy? I bet for the cost of this do-hicky you could probably buy a whole lotta truffles from See's. Just sayin.'

Now we're talking. COME TO MAMA.

And I have no fucking clue what these things are, but hee, hee, hee and OH MY GOD!! [snicker]

After this exciting field trip into a Williams-Sonoma store, I regret not having gone sooner. You know, just for shits and giggles.

The Explosion of 2004 - A true story of combustible chocolate and a homemade double boiler

We all know I'm no chef. Unless, maybe, it's Boyardee.

In the spirit of Easter, I thought I'd share my most memorable one, which, coincidentally, also doubles as the reason I am not allowed to have holiday dinners at my house. Because no one will come. Without fire retardant and safety goggles, that is.

I remember the day vividly (yawn) - it was Easter Sunday 2004. Normally, we (Candy Ass, little E-man and myself) would be traveling to my grandparent's house for dinner. But this particular year, I put my foot down and vowed to make my own Easter dinner for my own family.

I know, I'm not sure what I was thinking either.

Oh, and my mom let me have it.

[See, here's the part where I pass all the blame for my shortcomings as a domestic goddess onto my mom who is what we will call an enabler. She loves to do, do, do for others to a fault and I, as a consequence (and an advantage), always count on her to be the holiday cook.]

My mom was, shall we say, disappointed that I wanted to venture off on my own and not partake in the traditional family get together. "Why don't you just come with us? Then you don't have to make your own Easter dinner." And, "Well, then we'll just stay home so you guys don't have to eat alone."

No mom, this time, it's cool, we're just doing our own thing. I AM CAPABLE, you know.

I organized a menu, which included a ham (never had cooked one, but hell, how hard could it be to re-cook a pre-cooked ham?) and all the fixin's. I even planned on making chocolate covered strawberries for dessert. I did my homework too. I used the handy-dandy internet to research how to make the most perfect chocolate covered strawberries via a homemade double-boiler. I was set.

While little E-man (just one year old at the time) and Candy Ass laid down for naps, I played the part of Susie Homemaker ala Peggy Bundy and put the ham in the oven. While it cooked, I got out my two sauce pans which, when stacked on one another, formed my homemade double-boiler. The website I had learned this from said to fill the bottom pan halfway with water and heat to a boil. The chocolate pieces went in the top pan and melted via the heat of the boiling water below it.

See! I was capable of cooking my own Easter dinner. I know, I was surprised too.

I leaned over the "double-boiler" and used my wooden spoon to try and stir the few remaining chunks of chocolate to help them melt.

And that's all I remember.

Apparently, that handy-dandy website left out one minor little effing detail: Never, EVER stack the pots, which will (take it from me, people) prevent the steam from the boiling water to escape and then, what-do-you-know? it will explode. (The smaller pot should be able to fit within the larger pot, with room for the steam to escape.) (On second thought, buy a goddamn fondue set and never attempt to make your own homemade double-boiler. It makes for a lousy "scar story.")

There was some sort of POP and I recall trying to scream for Candy Ass, but nothing, not the slightest sound could escape my lungs. Fortunately, Candy Ass heard the apparent explosion and came running like a mad man into the kitchen.

Next thing I know, Candy Ass has me leaning over the bathtub, cold water running to splash onto my face to soothe the relentless burning while he quickly gets E-man in his car seat. Feeling the worst pain of my life (OK, except maybe childbirth... but apples and oranges, you know) I'm crying, "Please, please! Just call an ambulance. It hurrrrrrrrtssss!" Candy Ass, currently the more logical one of us, tells me he's loading up the baby so he can take me to the emergency room as fast as he can.

Somehow we make it before I completely melt, but just barely. I lie on the hospital bed, unable to open my eyes, feeling like the skin on my face must have peeled off. Nurses and doctors come in and out, changing ice cold bandages on my face every twenty seconds to stop the burning. All I can do is repeat over and over, "I'm pregnant. Ten weeks pregnant. I can't have any pain medication. I'm pregnant. Don't give me anything."

Of course, in typical emergency room etiquette, Candy Ass is told he can't come back to see me because he has E-man with him and policy states that children are not allowed in the ER unless they're being treated. Bastards.

Hours later, after countless ice cold bandages have been removed and replaced, removed and replaced, and I have repeated my now shameful account of how I managed to burn myself with, yes, a homemade double-boiler, the doctor coats my face and arms (up until this point, I was completely unaware that I had burns on my arms too) in a thick paste of a Vaseline-like aloe substance and wraps me in gauze.

It's way past dinnertime by the time we get home. But the idea of dinner isn't even appetizing at this point. As we walk into our house, still in awe of what had happened, we both stop suddenly, horrified at the sight we see. In all our angst to get to the hospital, neither of us had actually understood what happened.

Apparently, there was an explosion. To put it mildly.

Apparently, I was really, really lucky. To put it mildly.

This is where one of the pots landed, approximately six feet from the stove itself. The thick metal pot was dented and the handle broke loose. Damn it, not only did I now have a nice fat ER bill coming to me, I was going to have to buy a new sauce pan too.

This is just one of the pieces remaining of the wooden spoon that had been in my hand at the time of the.. explosion. There were another three or four pieces scattered around the kitchen and living room.

This gives you an idea of how big of an explosion it was. Let me tell you, Candy Ass still has nightmares about scraping chocolate off the ceiling... and the cabinets... and the floor... and the appliances... We Candy Ass had to re-paint the ceiling a few dozen times to get rid of the stain.

 

The sheer force blew the burners off the stove. Hey, when I blow stuff up, I do it BIG.

One of the pots actually hit the ceiling and, depending on your resolution, you may be able to see the  hole where it hit. It was a big selling point when we put the house on the market later on. Kind of like a famous landmark. Only different.

In the end, my mom was actually mad at me. "How could you do this when we're out of town?? See!! You should have come with us! I knew we shouldn't leave you home! We're never leaving you guys again!!" And they haven't. Every Easter, we're together. And every Easter, without fail, someone has to mention the chocolate covered strawberries gone awry.

My grandmother, whose house we stayed home from that Easter, promptly sent me an electric fondue set. It took about year before I could even open the box and touch it. About six months later, I actually used it... cautiously. Baby steps, you know.

In the end, the only real good news was that I, being a burn victim and all, didn't have to clean any of it up. (Score!) Although I did feel kinda bad for Candy Ass who literally spent hours trying to remove hardened chocolate from every surface in the house.

For those celebrating Easter, I wish you the best... I also remind you not to try anything stupid - or seemingly innovative at the time - because take it from me, the emergency room charges extra on holidays. No joke.

UKC: Super Secret Lunch for Two Recipe

Since everyone seemed to love my Gourmet Breakfast for 4 recipe, I thought I'd get crazy and tell you my Super Secret Lunch Recipe for Two. But sshhhh! If word gets out, it will be no time at all before finding Lunchables at your local grocery store could prove impossible.

Prep: None

Ingredients: 2 Lunchables Stackers (I use Bologna and American), one bunch of Parsley

Directions:

1. Clear off a space on the kitchen counter, throwing this morning's Poptart wrappers in the trash can and emptying the last third of your coffee from your favorite mug with your kid's picture on it into the sink. Don't bother rinsing it out. It's just coffee.

2. Remove two Lunchables Stackers from fridge and place on counter.

3. Peel back wrapper. This can be tricky. Try finding a corner that has the most to grip for your fingers and pull back.

4. Grab two paper plates, or "fine china" as I like to refer to it, and place the Ritz Crackers from the Lunchables onto each plate exactly as I have done here, fanning out the crackers in the utmost elegant design. (Any other arrangement may not result in the intended outcome.)

5. Yell at the kids to "watch cartoons and leave me alone!" while you work to complete this masterpiece.

6. Mathematically dividing the bologna (ba-log-na) into two stacks, add it to each plate as I have done. Take special care to ensure the distance between your Ritz Crackers and your bologna is precise and accurate.

7. Next, add cheese stacks to each plate, taking special care to ensure that the fresh "stinky" cheese (as L-Dub refers to it) does not crumble.

8. After hearing SpongeBob screech "I'm ready! I'm ready!" one too many effing times from the TV in the living room, let out a much needed "Aaahhhh! %*$#!" in frustration, drop what you're doing to go frantically look for the remote control so you can turn down the volume about 8 clicks and concentrate on the task at hand. Return to kitchen annoyed. 

9. Try remembering your breathing exercises from Lamaze and attempt them now in an effort to lower your blood pressure and get back in The Zone. [Hee hee whooooo. Again, hee hee whoooo. One more time, you almost got it, hee hee whoooo.]

10. Take the chocolate chips cookies from the Lunchables packages and balance them delicately on the edge of the paper plate, introducing Feng Shui into your children's lives.

11. And now, for the finishing touch, add the parsley to each plate. It's well known that Parsley is indicative of fine dining, fine taste and being freaking fancy, so don't be frugal... add a fair amount.

12. Wa-laa! Serve within 5 - 10 years, as MSG and other preservatives are only potent for so long.

Helpful Hint: Lunchables are a great item to put in your underground bomb shelter thanks to their abnormally long shelf life.   

This has been another installment of UKC - Undomestic Kitchen Corner. All recipes are one-of-a-kind and good results cannot be guaranteed. Food poisoning and botulism are quite possible, if not certain. Oh, and perhaps it's best if you do not try this at home.      

Will the real turkey please stand up?

Don't know about you, but I'm not going far this Thanksgiving. And by not going far, I mean less than a sixth of a mile, literally around the corner, via wagon and foot, to my mother's house for the big feast. It's one of the perks of living so close to my mom, we can travel to and fro via the Radio Flyer.

Of course, I won't be cooking the actual dinner, which should not surprise you at this point. For the last few years, my husband has wished aloud that I at least attempt to make a Thanksgiving dinner at our house, but I know better. He should know better. I'm not particularly good with kitchens and fires and explosions and Thanksgiving is not a meal you want to mess up. Why he would still even have such fantasies is beyond me. I guess it's one of those "wouldn't it be nice?" theories that ain't never gonna happen, buddy.

It's not like I just don't want to make my own Thanksgiving dinner (besides the fact that, well, I just don't want to), I have my good reasons. And I'm not even talking about my fear of touching a raw turkey which, come on people! far too closely resembles a naked baby. [shutter] Instead, take for example, Easter of 2003. We were invited to my grandparents house a few hours away for Easter dinner. Normally, we'd go. But this time, I thought I'd live up to my husband's foolish expectations and make our own Easter dinner at home. I was feeling all nesty being a whopping 10 weeks pregnant with what would be our second son, L-dub.

I had it all planned out. I was going to make a ham, mashed potatoes, green beans and crescent rolls. I had never even attempted to make a ham before, but hey, we were being optimistic, weren't we? Following my mom's "always make dessert" rule, I decided to go all out and make chocolate covered strawberries. I did all the research. I mean, screw the ham. If it didn't turn out, who cared? As long as the strawberries were covered in chocolate, we had food.

I didn't have a fondue set so I searched the internet for the best way to melt the chocolate. I found a website that showed me how to make a double-boiler out of two pots I already owned. Easy enough, I was ready. I put the baby down for a nap, my husband headed off to take a snooze of his own, and I set out to be mother and wife of the year, beginning by melting the chocolate in my homemade double-boiler.

The rest is very blurry. All I remember is trying desperately to scream OUT LOUD for help and nothing came out. My husband came running out of the bedroom and into the kitchen like there had been an explosion or something - and well, there had indeed been an explosion. Or something.

It seems making your own double-boiler is not just a no-no, but a STUPID, STUPID what-were-you-thinking?? type of idea. That is, according to the ER doctors who spent the next few hours replacing ice cold rags on my facial and arm burns every few seconds. My face covered in icy cloths, I remember saying over and over again, "I'm pregnant, I can't have pain medication. I'm pregnant. I'm 10 weeks pregnant. Don't give me anything. Damn it, IT B-U-R-N-S. GIVE ME SOMETHING!!!"

Since the Chocolate Explosion of 2003, I have not attempted a holiday dinner of my own. The thought of even trying makes me break out into a cold sweat and see hallucinations of our old ceiling where chocolate was splattered in unfathomable amounts, chunks of ceiling missing where one of the sauce pans hit, the shredded wooden spoon I had been holding suddenly in fifteen pieces on the floor and the dented cast iron pot teetering all wibbly wobbly on an opposite counter.

I wish I could say this was the only, uh, incident I've had in the kitchen but then I'd be lying. There's also the grease fire when L-dub was one week old. I had felt compelled to prove my ability to be a mother to two boys and still be able to put dinner on the table for my husband when he got home from work. Instead, I learned that a fire extinguisher is, apparently, quite messy. And not as easy to use as one might think. Oh, and I also learned that when I panic, I don't always use logic. In all my "oh crap, the house is going to burn down" thoughts, I forgot to call 9-1-1 and instead called my stepdad who frantically asked, "You already called 9-1-1, right???" Oops. I knew I was forgetting something...

By the way, my husband not only immediately replaced our used fire extinguisher with another, but also with, well, another. Ya know, just-in-case I get all domestic-y on him. (Not that he has to worry about that!) And I've since received an electric fondue set and a fountain fondue set from two sets of grandparents who love me and want to see me stay far, far away from the stove.

So this Thanksgiving, I'll be at my mom's, nice and safe from... myself. I'm in charge of the green bean casserole. And by in charge, I mean, I'm allowed to mix all the ingredients and put them in the dish, but someone more responsible will be actually cooking it in the oven. And that right there makes me feel like, well, I should get a gold star for my efforts.

Told you I'm not any good at this cooking stuff.

Watch me fake it

I can fake it like nobody's business. (Get your mind out of the gutter... we're talking domesticity here.) I'm no Pioneer Woman, and I may not actually be all that domestic - especially when it comes to cooking - but I can fake it pretty well... when I have to.

Take my middle guy's (LW) 3rd birthday tomorrow. Party at the park - the usual circus with way too many kids running amok fueled by sugar and Doritos. Nothing all that unique, that is, until you get to dessert. This here is my specialty in a very homemade, Betty Crocker rocks, kinda way.

I usually do some sort of fantastic (and yet horrible looking) cake that embodies the theme of the party. For Big T's first birthday, we went with a pirate theme and a pirate ship for a cake. For the E-Train's 4th birthday, we had a Willy Wonka theme and did an entire factory with candy stations instead of cake.

LW is all about Spiderman these days, so I knew I'd be slinging up something to that affect. Rather than do a big fancy cake, I thought I'd do something more manageable like cupcakes. If only my obsessive personality recognized the word "manageable."

The cupcakes started off pretty benign, but my dreams of having red spiders on top went from "oh this should be easy being so close to Halloween and all... just pick up some spider-looking candies and toss 'em on there" to "well, those aren't really what I was envisioning... what if I made spiders out of three different types of candy?"

Three hours, two very messy chocolaty frosting-covered butter knives and several annihilated Twizzler ropes later, wa-laa, we've got 60 cupcakes with spiders on top. Look out Rachael Ray.