Undomestic Diva

I need my own cooking show

All these cooking shows on the various food channels bore the crap out of me. I mean, if you possess the skills to cook/bake/some-other-cooking-adjective-here then I'm sure these shows are super helpful with their fancy, gourmet recipes chock-full of ingredients I've never heard of, let alone own. But for the more... novice chef like myself, watching these chefs chop/dice/some-other-cutting-adjective-here is totally lost on me.

Besides, unless you're a budding chef or a 'foodie' or whatever the new hip term is for people who like to make food and eat it, watching that shit is BORING. You can't smell it, they don't even cook in real-time (ingredients into the pot to simmer and WHAM! they pull out an already simmered sauce to fit the 30 minutes time slot) and worst of all, you can't taste any of it. WHAT'S THE POINT?

I need to be entertained. Yelling BAM! at your salt doesn't do it for me. Cussing out your chefs-in-training doesn't make me belly laugh. And describing your ingredients as textures like they're wallpaper or something doesn't make me hungry.

I know, I know. Who am I to criticize world-renowned chefs when, no, I can't cook... BUT! I can start a mean kitchen fire, explode chocolate with such force it leaves holes in the ceiling and grind up a fork in the garbage disposal until it finally disintegrates.

I forgot what my point was. Oh yeah... that my meals might not always ever turn out, but at least there's some action! and drama! and often, comedy! happening in the kitchen.

Just last night I attempted to cook my husband his dream dinner... filet mignon, brocolli and the only side dish I've ever invented that didn't go horrendously wrong: ranch potatoes and I still managed to fuck that up. AND IT'S MY INVENTION FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. (Turns out I can't even mix some ranch dressing without redecorating the kitchen walls and window with half of it. Note to self: Check that lid is securely fastened before shaking vigorously.)

That's when I realized I could totally host my own cooking show... OK, more like a bloopers show... that has *some* cooking in it... Perhaps I'd call it - and just roll with me here, I'm just thinking aloud - something like "Bitch Can't Cook, Boil or Bake: How to deploy a fire extinguisher" or the more simpler, marketable "Burn, baby, burn" (patent pending). No matter what it's called, I'm CERTAIN you would all be totally entertained. If not by me, then by the firemen of course.

Faking it

What I lack in domesticity, I more than make up for in bullshitability. (New word. Learn it.) Meaning, I can totally fake being the good housewife suburbia compels me to be, nevermind a few fires and explosions.

At Christmas, the neighbors bring their home-baked goodies to my door, generously showing off sharing their kitchen skills and naturally, I feel like I should reciprocate. It's the nice thing to do after all, and lately, I've been trying on "nice" to see if it fits me. (So far... not-so-much.)

But bake? I'd rather do laundry. And judging by the pile of clothes yet to be washed, that sure doesn't say much for baking. Make a nice loaf of bread? Sure, give me the store bought box-o-ingredients and an egg or whatever the hell else you're supposed to add and I can give it a try. I don't want to, but I suppose I could give it a go. But you lose me if I have to make two... because the attention span is just not there.

And cookies? Hell no. Waaaay too much work. My sons once observed my mother-in-law making cookies from scratch (I like to think of "scratch" as in "scratch that, ain't doin' it") and E-man politely asked "Where are the squares you break off and put on the pan?" As in, the only cookies he's seen me make come in convenient little squares you can just break off, set on a baking sheet and in twelve minutes, damn, you've managed to burn them all.

My BFF Tamara in GA mentioned something about a candy thermometer the other day and I was like, "Huh? Wha...? Who?" So. You know. That's sums up that idear right there.

Although, I am now "in" on Wild Bill's Super Secret Toffee recipe that is coveted amongst our family and friends. And you know what? Not only do I have the recipe, I CAN ACTUALLY MAKE IT. I was very proud of this until someone pointed out on Twitter that of course I can make it, BECAUSE IT'S BURNT SUGAR. Ugh. So true.

This weekend, I managed to get a few batches whooped up:

(We won't talk about the fact that I somehow managed to leave the gas burner a-flame while setting a wood tray on an adjacent burner and then left for an hour-and-a-half to run some errands, only figuring out that the stove was on the whole fuhreakin' time a few hours later. OOPS.)

(Dear Homeowners Insurance Company: Soooo totally joking. No. Really! Please don't raise my premiums! Will try harder next time!)

The other way I impress my neighbors is with these little gems I like to call Chocolate Covered Pretzel Sticks (very creative name, I know). They look festive but guess what? They're super easy, super simple and if when you burn the chocolate, you just try again. No biggie!

While I can't give you the recipe to Wild Bill's Super Secret Toffee, I can tell you how to look damn near domestic via these bad boys:

Unwrap chocolate bars or Hershey's Kisses in a coffee mug and microwave for 40 seconds, stir and heat for another 30 seconds. Put colorful sprinkles, chopped nuts, candy canes pieces (a mallet works FANTASTIC for smashing candy canes, by the way), coconut or whatever you please on plates. Dip pretzel sticks (I used Rold Gold Honey Wheat Braided Twists) in the melted chocolate (not too much chocolate), roll in toppings, set on wax paper. Chill all pretzel sticks in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden chocolate. Put in tupperware with lid and keep chilled.

See? I can totally fake it. Wink.

Cooking with UD - UPDATED

Ladies, hold onto your post-partum bladders as I tell you that this here post may just contain a recipe.

Whether it's edible or not... now that's your problem.

Last night for dinner - and yes I actually made dinner - I made Old School Tacos. They are an old favorite for Candy Ass and I, especially when we're looking to up our cholesterol and pack on a few LB's. THEY ARE GREASY GOOD.

Here's what you need to make the best goddamn Old School Tacos ever:

1lb Ground Beef

1 packet Lawry's Taco Seasoning

1 small can El Pato Tomato Sauce

***Added a photo of El Pato since many of you weren't sure what it is. I forgive you. This time. But this, my friends, is a food STAPLE.***

Either corn tortillas to fry as taco shells OR flour tortillas for soft taco shells

Plus whatever else you like on your tacos (pronounced tay-coes, btw) like refried beans, rice [boil one cup El Pato, add one cup rice, turn off and let stand for ten minutes for super spicy rice] and I also recommend some sort of salsa or pico de gallo... the one thing I can make from scratch. Sorta.

HERE'S HOW YOU DO'S IT:

Brown the ground beef. As you're doing this, start your refried beans, take a swig of a newly opened beer and make your pico de gallo.

Let me tell you a little story. Two weeks ago I visited my not-so-local Ikea and was feelin' fancy and very Iron-Chef-America-ish and bought myself a GARLIC PRESS. It was like $2 and I thought, aw hell, I can totally do this, so I bought it and whooped it out last night while making my pico.

NOTE: Garlic press accepts only one clove of garlic at a time and requires that you remove the skin first.

I was sooo impressed by the way it mashed the garlic right through those tiny little holes, that I immediately eyed my serrano and jalapeno suspiciously... Sure enough, I was able to get a serrano and a jalapeno through my garlic press, small chunks at a time. I also tried a coffee bean, just to see if it would go through, but it didn't. And then it smelled like jalapeno afterward and tasted rather spicy. (FYI, should you get the urge to try a coffee bean like I did.)

In my pico de gallo, I use: Two small tomatoes, two cloves of garlic, one serrano, one small jalapeno, cilantro if I have it, and a little kosher salt. (Truth be known, I have no fucking clue why I use Kosher salt, but all the big time chefs always use it, so I thought I should too.)

GODDAMN IT! You forgot about the meat!! I said brown it not do it cajun-style. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, you people are hard to teach. Drain the now blackened meat and pretend it's cooked perfectly. Add the packet of Lawry's Taco Seasoning, can of El Pato, plus two more El Pato cans worth of water and let it cook on high until the meat has absorbed all the sauce.

While the meat is simmering or cooking or whatever other synonym you want to use here, if you are going to fry corn tortillas for taco shells, you had better be pre-heating your oil already. Maybe I should have told you that at the beginning. Sorry.

But I must warn you before we move on about the dangers of cooking with oil.

Let me tell you another little story. The year was 2004 and L-Dub was one week old. Candy Ass had deserted me for returned to work after having stayed home to help me manage E-man and the new baby the first few days and I was desperate to prove that I could handle TWO WHOLE KIDS and put a decent dinner on the table when he got home. There were two problems with this ill-fated attempt: 1) I've never been able to put a decent dinner on the table, kids or no kids and 2) I was wrong, I could not handle TWO WHOLE KIDS by myself.

Anyway, I went all out, making some sort of chicken concoction and like four side dishes, every burner on the stove aglow. Well, long story short, the one burner we normally used to fry taco shells on apparently had some leftover oil residue and basically... WAIT. No. Most definitely caught fire. While it didn't occur to me to call 9-1-1, I did remember something about a fire extinguisher below the sink so I went for it and instantly regretted not having read the directions on how to use it beforehand. Because if there's one thing that makes putting out an emergent fire sorta fucking impossible, it's having to stop and calmly read directions on how to use the extinguisher. And honest to god, I couldn't get the fucker to go.

So now here's where I call 9-1-1, right? WRONG. I called my stepdad who lives around the corner and one street over and screamed into the phone: OH MY GOD MY HOUSE IS ON FIRE I CAN'T PUT IT OUT WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO??? And just as I hear the scrrreeeeeeeccching of tires in record, unfathomable time in my driveway, I FINALLY! manage to pull the damn tab from the extinguisher and WHHOOOOSSSSSSSHHHHH, white dust is EVERYWHERE as Wild Bill is simultaneously damn near busting down the goddamn front door, fire extinguisher in hand, ready to... well... extinguish. I hang up the phone, 'cause clearly he's no longer on the other end of it, and blink my dry, smokey eyes at him. "Did you call 9-1-1?" Wild Bills asks, out of breath. Um, oh yeah. I guess I should have tried them. But no. He just looks at me like JESUS CHRIST WOMAN and tells me to get the one-week-old -oh yeah, remember him?- off the living room floor and take him outside where it's not so smokey.

Crisis adverted.

So where were we? Oh yeah. Oil. Starts fires. WATCH OUT.

Last night, as I went to fry up some taco shells, I couldn't - for the life of me - find where our only pair of kitchen tongs were. I needed them to get the shells in and out of that dangerous! hot! oil! I looked everywhere and called Candy Ass and asked him. He was really helpful with his "How should I know?" So I hung up and got real inventive on his ass by searching the kitchen for something - anything else I could use to somehow grip and hold taco shells.

I found the perfect solution: Chopsticks. OH YES. Now I'm not even going to play games and tell you it was easy; it wasn't. But I found my chi and fried those taco shells right up with my leftover Panda Express chopsticks. Talk about being resourceful! Send THAT hint to Heloise, bitch.

Now when the shells and the meat and the pico de gallo and your beans and maybe your super spicy rice are ready, it's time to shell up, eat and enjoy.

Now that was easy, wasn't it?

(Hey, compared to two nights ago when Candy Ass came home to find our newest fire extinguisher sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor just in case... last night was a complete success!) (Two nights ago it got a little hairy when a small big flame appeared in our gas oven coming from a yet to be determined source. I opened the oven door, stuck my head in and stared it down until it eventually went out and called it good.) (It didn't occur to me until just now that perhaps an open flame + a gas oven might not be a good idea. Huh. Learn something new every day, don't we?)

Happy cooking.

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.

Megaritaville

The forecast is "Hot with a touch of Hell" again this weekend so I thought What better time than to show off my mad kitchen skillz! Actually, you know there are no skillz, just a lot of fires, explosions and blog-worthy moments.

No matter.

It's been a long time since my last UKC installment. Which, I guess, is par for the course since it's been a long time since I've made anything in the kitchen worth laughing talking about.

As you already know, I'm no Rachel Ray or [insert some other famous tv chef here], but there are a couple things I can pull off, if only barely so. One of them is the perfect summertime strawberry Megarita. It's similar to a margarita, only different and special, because it's made with love by me.

Anyhoo, follow along my dear friends as we whoop this shiat up right.

First, cut and clean fresh strawberries from your local fruit stand and freeze. Or, just go buy the frozen ones at the grocery store you lazy ass.

You'll also need all this crap - limeade, triple sec and my good friend Jose Cuervo, plus some ice.

Once your strawberries are frozen, get out your ghetto blender and add the ice and the strawberries, a lot of tequila...

... did I mention some tequila?

Realize a little too late that you've added waaaay too much tequila because you lost your focus (ha. ha.) whilst attempting to get a photo at the same time. Say "SHIT!" real loud.

Nevermind the almost toxic levels of tequila, and don't forget to add (although less) triple sec. Now you may blend. Or grate. Or liquify. Or all three if you're impatient like me.

Attempt to add more frozen strawberries and ice, thinking you'll even out the alcohol levels and then find yourself in a hell of a pickle when your blender is so goddamn full you can't put the lid on it to actually blend (or grate or liquify) it. Say "SHIT!" real loud.

   

Notice your blender is officially overflowing and (you guessed it) say "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" real loud, realizing that not only do you not know any precise measurements, but you also managed to eff it up your own recipe...

Get out a measuring cup, scoop out the excess and blend. Or grate. Or liquify. Or, all three.

Crap. Realize you forgot to add some limeade and go back and do so, re-blending, re-grating and re-liquifying it again.

Pour a bucket glass for yourself and then pour remaining mixture into containers that you can freeze so that you can just pull it out of your freezer when life gets shitty and you're desperate to drown your sorrows in your waaaay too tequila'd Megaritas anytime for a refreshing adult beverage.

Make a mental note to never try and follow another UKC recipe. Ever. Again.

Peace out.

Look at me, all fancy and crap

All I have to say is:

Hello Luva!

So I may not be able to make a single thing from scratch. I may have a box of blueberry muffin mix in my pantry that expired in 2005. And brownie mix gone bad since 2006. I might not understand the difference between baking soda and baking powder. I could have, possibly, caused more than one kitchen fire. And I might be on my sixth hand mixer. But these bad boys? Oh yes. I made them. And without any explosions, thanks to my handy dandy Rival electric fondue hoochiemagoo.

I know. I should have my own cooking show now that I baked these bad boys.

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.

How to hard boil eggs

It's that time again. Easter egg dying. Unless, of course, you're Jewish - at which point you can sit back, relax and laugh at the rest of us idiots as we permanently color our fingertips purple, orange, yellow, blue, pink (it's never red) and green.

I have to tell you though, I'm kinda nervous about it. I mean, the dying part is really a no-brainer. And so is the hard-boiling of eggs. One would think. But two years ago, I took on the responsibility of hard boiling five dozen eggs and, well, not a single goddamn egg turned out to be completely hard boiled in the end.

Oh yeah, everyone had a good laugh. Except for me. I was reduced to tears because, well, frankly, what the hell? Even I didn't think I was that inept. But apparently I am.

Not only had I failed miserably at hard boiling 60 eggs, I had effectively ruined Easter. There wasn't a single egg salad sandwich to be had that year. And it isn't a legitimate Easter without an egg salad sandwich, BTW. Everyone knows that.

Last year, no one even asked me to handle hard boiling the eggs and frankly, it was too much pressure and still too fresh a wound for me anyway, so I gladly let someone else take on that job. But this year? Wouldn't you know it? I've got ten dozen eggs sitting in my refrigerator, smirking at me every time I open the door, acting all high and mighty like I couldn't hard boil them if I tried.

OK, so maybe that's true. Maybe that was true. But this year, my husband wrote down step-by-step instructions on how to hard boil those damn eggs so I am bound to get it right. God help me if I don't. I won't be able to look that damn Easter Bunny in the eyes and twitching nose if I fail. Again.

Straight from the inside of my kitchen cabinet door to you:

So let this just be a lesson to all you out there who are thinking of hard boiling eggs. It ain't as easy as it looks. Allegedly, there are precise steps that must be followed or the end result is, well, a little runny. Don't be fooled. It looks simple... but oh, you miss one little step and you are the laughing stock of suburbia.

(You know what? Screw suburbia and all the "Super Moms" who are all fancy and shit with their super deluxe perfectly hard boiled eggs. I don't need this kind of pressure.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

PSA: In case of emergency

The more I thought about it, (and I thought about it - for three hours last night, precisely) I think it's my duty as your fellow citizen (and internet BFF, we've established) to teach you how to make a proper iced carmel macchiato in case of an emergency, as it was last night when Starbucks closed its doors for three whole hours for some training.

Whatever.

Next time, with this knowledge I am presenting to you, things will be better. Smoother. Calmer. And tastier.

Obviously, this requires an espresso machine which I realize is not a common household appliance. But if you're in the market for one, I highly suggest the Via Venezia from Starbucks which, from time-to-time, goes on sale.

(I also recommend becoming BFFs with your local Starbucks barista so that he/she can get you a great deal, via an employee discount, on one of these bad boys. It damn near makes it affordable.)

Aside from the espresso machine, you will need all of the above. Plus some fat free milk and ice. My local Starbucks kindly gave me an extra cup, lid and straw so I could make this authentic for you. Now if only I could buy them... You know I would. I'm not ashamed.

 

You can, however, buy any and all of the syrups they use. And they are surprisingly inexpensive. For a carmel macchiato, you'll need the Vanilla syrup. Be sure to ask about their sugar-free syrups as well.

Of course, Starbucks sells espresso beans for your espresso machine and the BOLD here is my favorite. (Like I would go anyway but BOLD.) Ask them to grind it for you (for free) at the store if you're too damn lazy to do it yourself. Lazy.

The first thing to go in your cup are the 3-5 pumps of Vanilla syrup. I say 3-5 because it totally depends on your taste. I like my iced carmel macchiatos stronger, so I put less vanilla and milk and more ice and espresso.

Next, add the milk. In a GRANDE cup, I add fat free milk to just-below the first green line. Again, if you do not like it as strong, then add more milk. But just a little.

Add your ice. I like a ton of ice because I actually cannot stand the taste of milk and so whatever milk I do consume (via an iced carmel macchiato, of course) must be extremely cold.

If you've got an espresso machine, you already know how to use it and since each one is different, I'm going to skip the step-by-step and get right to the good stuff... the heart of the matter, the shots themselves. My machine does two at a time and thank god, because we're making a GRANDE size which requires two shots.

 

Add your two shots on top of the ice.

[God, doesn't that almost seem sexually explicit in nature? It's... it's... spectacular.]

Lastly, you're going to add the carmel. Sometimes, around the holidays usually, Starbucks sells their carmel in small sizes. STOCK UP. Because the rest of the year, you're stuck using whatever you can find, even if it means Smuckers sundae toppings... I re-used this handy-dandy ketchup? mayo? dispenser from a Subway sandwich order we made a while back and it's just like the real thing. But different.

Put on your lid, add your straw and WA-LAA!!! A GRANDE iced carmel macchiato IN YOUR OWN HOME. Another trick that I soooo love: Freeze your iced carmel macchiato for about 30 - 45 minutes for a slushier, ice cold, refreshing drink. It's like a dessert. With caffeine.

This, I think I can safely say, has been a Public Service Announcement. Because apparently, Starbucks has to close at some point. (I know, I don't understand it either.) And I don't want us all to be stuck in that What Do I Do? What Do I Do? hell again. So write this down, print it out and have it tattooed on your forehead (backwards of course) so that you never, ever lose it.

Or, I guess, you could always refer back here to my blog. Whatever.

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.