A Room of One's Own

Lasagna is not a damn casserole!

I have a short list of things that freak me out: anything once it has passed through that hole in my sink and that has become part of the netherworld that is my garbage disposal even if I saw exactly what it was 2 seconds earlier before it went in, hair that has been or is currently stuck in a drain even if I know it is my own hair, the Duggars and casseroles. If you note, the first two are very similar and the last two are very similar.

I don't recall my mother ever having made casseroles for us as kids. I think there is just something a little too WASPy about a casserole. We're Italian. The idea of putting pasta, macaroni, noodles or anything like that in a Pyrex dish with anything other than cheese and a red sauce heebies our jeebies. Those of the WASPy persuasion can suck the ethnicity straight out of a dish. I had a lady at Bunco (I could stop right there, couldn't I?) make a vegetable lasagna. In my house, that means your red sauce you've put in the lasagna does actually have chuncks of meat in it, though they may have been present at another time. See reference below:

This lady, bless her heart, had substituted the ricotta with cottage cheese and added every damn vegetable she could find in the produce section. Carrots, peas, zucchini, broccoli, cauliflower. Bitch took a lasagna and turned the damned thing into a casserole.

Now, there may be some people that would argue that the lasagna is a casserole. Do not even go there. Just back the truck right the hell up. My ancestors could rise up out of their graves and kill me by simply staring at me because of the mere thought of my typing that last bit. Lethal stink eye. Let me give you an easy analogy and activity to test out how furious you can make an Italian woman by calling her lasagna a casserole: go to your local Mexican food market. Go up to some random Mexican woman and ask for her enchilada recipe because you feel like making a casserole. Don't hold me responsible for whatever is thrown at your head as she and anyone else of whom you were in ear shot of, runs you down Aisle 6 trying to beat your sorry ass. You just lumped enchiladas in with this shit:

I will, however, openly note that, like my obsession with the Duggars, I am kind of intrigued by the casserole. It's peculiar. It's a whole meal in one place. That freaks me out. It also screams death and office potluck. Seriously, you can't tell me I'm wrong. If you're eating a casserole, odds are someone is dead or you're comsuming it next to something with Xerox written on it. For as much as they scare me and I feel casseroles are like Reality TV, a dumbed down version of the real thing, I will inevitably place a dollop of casserole on my plate any chance I get. Curiosity gets the best of me. Call me a hypocrite. I don't give a rat's ass.

Where is the Duggar connection? Oh, it's beautiful. I went back to their website and now my uterus AND my stomach are not speaking to me. I'm fearful of my body expelling a picket sign.Knowledge gained: they have recipes. Click. You know you want to. The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you! The first one is my favorite and Jim Bob agrees with me. The second is truly amazing and I'm not sure it actually involves food. I love that the superlative of "Yum! Yum!" has been added. I'm just glad that we have to Duggars to prove that we are what we eat.

I compromised my convictions

I had chosen my Sunday girliest activity I could ever think of doing to be making homemade strawberry jam and successfully canning it. I am an ambitious little thing, ain't I? I had a realtor coming back to take a second look at the house around noon so my grocery store run was timed perfectly.

I head over to Fry's, which I vehemently hate but it's the only store within a 5 mile radius of my house. I need only four things: strawberries, sugar, pectin and jars. And a six pack of beer. This is going to require beer. Nothing like canning homemade jam while drinking beer. They had everything but when I got to the jars, the only 8 oz. jars they had involved the "decorative" lids, meaning the were white with flowers and fruit and other fru-fru shit that I didn't even look hard enough to recognize. They had grapes or something on the actual glass. These would not do. I don't want any sissified jar. Just give me the good ol' regular kind that could double as a glass for Chianti. C'mon now. Off I go to another store.

Next store has neither Pectin nor jars. Albertson's is no longer my store. Safeway had everything but was, apparently, out of the 8 oz. jars. Today must be National "I had a date but he had to cancel so I think I'll jar fruit I've boiled the shit out of" Day. Who knew? At this point I realize what I have to do and it's not pretty. I may need more beer. I buy everything I need, including the beer, and take a deep breath.

I have taken stubborn to a whole other level. I sat in my car pondering in which of my convictions was I stronger: I will NOT go to Walmart or I will not have sissified jam. I decided to go brave Walmart, even though I was unequipped for Walmart as I did not have the appropriate accessory: the requisite child to drag around by the wrist and on whom to practice the fine art of shopping and beating, simultaneously. I try to ignore that the first thing I see upon entering the store is a stack of Goodyear's followed by the pungent related smell of rubber. I have no idea where anything is in Walmart so I just head away from aisles that I know will not have mason jars. Cosmetics, fishing rods, shirts for $5.88. About 30 seconds later I am standing in front of an end cap with exactly what I need. I buy a severe quantity as I am never in my life doing this again and head for the checkout.

I thought I was going to exit unscathed until I noticed that the lines in Walmart move in slow motion. Really bad slow motion. I cannot help but notice the lady in front of me that is about 8 months pregnant. Now, I have been 8 months pregnant and it's not bowl of cherries. But there was NO excuse for how she left the house. Periwinkle spaghetti strap top with electric blue bra underneath which was noticeable as half of it was exposed. Long black peasant skirt with lace on the bottom ala Stevie Nicks. Gray sneakers with purple ankle socks. I felt very overdressed and slightly uncomfortable. Yeah, I judged a pregnant woman in Walmart. I couldn't help it. Britney dresses better. Cut me some slack, people.

I made it home safely and I'm sure to destroy my entire morning's worth of kitchen cleaning in the next half hour. I have no real idea what I'm doing but Martha Jean insists it's easy. I'm up for a challenge. Shit. If I can tackle Walmart on a Sunday, everything else is a cakewalk.

Oh sweet gluttony

I am not eating until Thursday. I am not moving until Tuesday.

My best friend and I headed out late morning to go be exceptionally girlie and have brunch at the Biltmore. Let me tell you, they put out quite a spread. They have a buffet that you are to enjoy and THEN order an entree. Seriously, this brunch buffet was a thing of beauty. I think I hogged ALL of the spinach salad with candied pecans. Really, if you come across candied pecans, ever, hog them. Just hoard those bad boys and do not share with anyone. The vast amount of cheeses I also consumed would make Speedy Gonzalez shutter.

To add to the glutton fest, we had mimosas. Usually, I don't partake. Not that I'm opposed to drinking before noon. I just don't like fruit juice all up in my liquor. I'll take the juice. I'll take the champagne. Rarely together. Have I mentioned the fact that the weather was perfect? And that there was dessert? I may have sampled everything.

The actual brunch was good, but what was truly great was the subsequent hour and a half we spent roaming the Biltmore and crashing in really large over stuffed outdoor chairs. We just could not move. I was almost in pain. I finally got home a little after 3pm. I have done nothing since. I have knitted a tiny bit and watched a movie. I still fell no desire to do a damn thing. Gawd, today has been fabulous.

Vanessa 2, Waiters 0

I had a showing of the house today and so I headed out for an undetermined amount of time and to an undetermined location. I ended up in Downtown Glendale. I'd not been there for about 15 years or so and have heard that it's come a long way.

It was lunchtime and stopped in a German place. My waiter was Joe. Let me tell you about Joe. Joe was the kind of guy who when you started chatting with him, he pulled up a chair. During my 45 minute lunch, I learned this about Joe: He is from the Bronx, going through a mid-life crisis, recently divorced, has a 12 year old back in New York, is getting a very large tattoo of just about every comic book character on his back (yes, he showed me), used to eat frozen Mallomars after smoking pot in the 70s., his favorite restaurant is a place called Pisano's, his mother is English and his dad is Puerto Rican. I'm not making any of this up.

I had about the best lunch I've had in ages. Thuringer bratwurst, kraut, spaetzle, a vinegar salad, warm rye bread and a pint German beer. They have live music in the beergarten after 4pm. Who knew? At he end of my lunch, Joe asked if it would be too forward to ask for my phone number. Yes, Joe, that would be very forward. Sorry. Oh my. Can I also say that this is the second time in 48 hours I have been asked out by a waiter while out by myself? I really must get some friends. I'm beginning to this I look horribly desperate. Not good.

I did some antiquing and bought a Creole cookbook of recipes compiled from Creole housewives in 1885. Interesting stuff. I'm now home and safely away from waiters and parked on my couch. It's pouring rain. I have a hot spiked cappuccino and I'm getting ready to go through the massive amount of classic movies in my TiVo, starting with Fellini's La Dolce Vita.

I have a new love

His name is Michael Chiarello.

A) He's Italian.

B) I think the salt and pepper hair is totally sexy. Seriously.

C) His dishes are so far from generic but not anything intimidating.

D) He just knows his stuff.

E) Him chopping onions is a thing of beauty.

Really, I could eat him with a spoon. He is that cute. I only wish I could convince him to use good seasoned cast iron over Le Crueset. No man is perfect.

I'm always up for a challenge, but...

This is just ridiculous! Last week I made a Bundt cake. How totally Stepford of me, I know. But, you know how much I love baking. My co-workers loved it. One, Gary, was telling me about how he loves lemon Bundt cake. But not just any lemon Bundt cake. Lemon Bundt cake with the pudding in the middle and would I please make him one. How could I possibly say no to this?  Ask me to bake anything and I will. And, I'll be damn giddy about it the whole time. I'm beginning to think this is an illness.

I just sat down to try and find a recipe on-line. Nothing. Not a damn thing! I only found weird recipes that involve boxed cake mixes. Seriously, I do not *do* cake mixes. Yes, I am that much of a baking snob. So, now this has turned into a crusade. I am hell bent on doing this if I have to create a recipe to do it and bake 4 cakes until I get it right. Damn, am I stubborn.

I'll keep you posted...

The art of caring. or not

Yesterday was it. It was perfect. It felt good. It had meaning and it made me happy. I could have lived without horribly burning my hand but you can't have everything.

Yesterday was a long lesson in what to care about and what not to. I did a significant amount of cooking. I loved it. I had planned to make homemade raviolis and a chocolate pound cake. Toward the end the cooking process for the filing and 3/4 the way through mixing the cake batter, my sister and brother-in-law called and demanded I join them for dinner and drinks. Demanded. There was NO request for my presence. And, I was to leave just then.

So there I am, in my kitchen, a total mess. Both ovens going and a bowl full of cake batter. Kitchen totally destroyed. Plans to go out at some point with Levi and Sebastian. It was almost 6 o'clock. There was a beautiful moment in which caring just stopped. It just ceased to exist.

I put Saran Wrap over the cake batter and shoved it in the fridge. The cake might not work today but I didn't care. In the few minutes it took me to not care, I burned the ravioli filling. I did not care about that either. It was only ravioli filling. I turned off all the ovens, threw on my shoes and was out the door in 10 minutes.

I just went with it and it felt good. I had a great time. We had good drinks and great food and hilarious conversation. I felt very loved and well taken care of. That is what I want to care about. Not burnt food. I knew I had made plans already for the evening and I also knew they were going to fall through. I knew it. And they did. And you know what? I don't care about that either. I went out not caring that I was going to be totally blown off, again. In that, I made good choice.

I'm trading in caring for living.

I need to feed the masses

It's just something I need to do. I am an Italian woman who cannot cook for less than a small army of people. It's just NOT possible. Unfortunately, it seems I'll not be doing this soon.

I am not making Thanksgiving dinner. I am not making Christmas dinner. I would love to have friends over on the weekend so that I could feed them. Jambalaya came to mind today. Or some homemade ravioli with a good thick meat sauce. Maybe some soup. Whatever. Sadly, I won't be doing this either for I still live with a supremely crabby man known as ex-husband who is not much fun for company to be around.

But, rest assured, someday this house will sell. And there will be food. Lots and lots of food. Food like you have never seen.

Everyday is like Sunday

I wish this were true. I can't tell you how much I love Sunday. I firmly believe in the Sunday as the day of rest philosophy. I'm really good at Sunday. Really good.

I sleep in. Get up and immediately fill the house with soul shaking gospel music. Make a kick ass latte in the large mug you could imagine. It's like a bowl. I made one for a friend once and he called is cake in a cup. Yummy. Today, I fried up a stupid amount of bacon in my new cast iron. It's looks just pretty and happy now. Had that with eggs and toast. Set my Fantasy football line up. Sit down and read every section of the Sunday paper. Play with the crossword. Straighten the house up, take a shower and then it's football all day long. If there's not an afternoon game I particularly care about, I'll comb the TV for a good sappy romantic comedy. Never fails. There's always one.

When it gets colder outside the whole thing gets even better. That's when I get to add lighting a fire in the fireplace, making some kind of soup or comfort food, baking something way tasty and blankets on the couch. This winter, I'm hoping it gets even better. As soon as I'm in a place of my own, I hope to add friends to the mix. I want to do this with a bunch of people around to enjoy it as well. Go on my need to feed people and have them happy.

I could kill someone with this!

Today, I braved the Cabela's Superstore for Lodge cast iron. My intention was a dutch oven. It's fall and soup needs to be made for lazy Sunday football watching. I've lost the Le Crueset dutch oven in the divorce, damn it. Soup requires a dutch oven. Period. I'm always wanted cast iron. My mom has her mother's cast iron skillet. I tried to steal it once. That didn't go over so well. She's not handing that thing over until she's six feet under. I'd rather have my mom than the skillet, so I'm going to have to suck it up and buy my own.

I see the 7 qt. dutch oven and it's just gorgeous. Heavy as hell with the lid and the wire handle and everything. I am purely in love with it instantaneously. I start poking around and see a nice looking skillet. It's only a 10 1/4 inch. This darling gentleman goes and gets me a 12 inch. Then, and this is the glorious part, I ask how much this stuff is going to cost me. It's so dirt cheap I nearly kiss the man. Dutch oven is $39.99, 12" skillet is $14.99 and the 10 1/4" is $9.99. Needless to say, I bought all of it.

And it's not the preseasoned stuff. You can't buy that. It's just bad practice. So both skillets are in my ovens right now coated in lard and getting happy and seasoned. The dutch oven is going in next. I'm downright giddy about it. I am dying to fry something. Anything. Probably chicken. Soaked in buttermilk and all floured up. My Gawd. Nothing makes me quite as happy as new cookware.