Chirky

Two weekends ago I spent my time re-creating barnyard confections, and this past weekend I spent my weekend crafting an erupting volcano surrounded by steaming lava and primitive species. That's right - my niece and nephew were born a week apart from each other, which makes for me a very busy month. (Note to self: when giving birth to my own children, steer clear of September.)

My nephew, Chase, is at an age where he likes to pick out everything himself (though, honestly, he's been at that age for quite some time). He has his favorite toys, he prefers certain activities, he chooses his own clothes. So it didn't surprise me when he wanted to discuss what type of cake he wanted for his birthday. His FIFTH birthday. We talked about monsters and whales and music, we filtered through snakes and pyramids and treasure chests. And in the end, we settled on a volcano.

A volcano surrounded by an ocean. A volcano surrounded by an ocean inhabited with sharks. A volcano surrounded by ocean inhabited with sharks, and dinosaurs prancing in the volcano's lava. For good measure. And the lava erupting from the mouth of the volcano? Well, that was just for fun.

Click on image to enlarge.

How I did it:

THE OCEAN
The oceanic base is made of an ultra-moist french vanilla cake. I drizzled semi-tinted confection-buttercream on top, for the appearance of a waterfall. It was the easiest part of the cake.

THE VOLCANO
The volcano was created from my go-to chocolate cake, a recipe that requires things like powdered pudding mix AND Ghiradelli chocolate chips, and this cake is divine on its own. It is moist and rich, but not too dense, and it's impossible to eat only one piece. (I know, I've tried. I fail every time.) The volcano is made of three layers: the base (an eight-inch bundt), the middle section (a 5-inch cake) and a cupcake (2.5-inches in diameter). I drizzled a milk-chocolate buttercream over the volcano, careful to cover it fully without pooling it too far into the ocean. And then, after all of that, I added crushed Oreo cookies to give the cake the dimension of dirt.

THE LAVA
I whipped up red- and orange-tinted confection buttercream icing for the lava spilling down the sides of the volcano, which I drizzled in thin ribbons with a knife. The day before, I had melted orange and cherry lifesavers over medium-low heat and spooned them onto foil in haphazard formations. (This can be done up to one week ahead and stored in an airtight container. Note: they break easily, so make a lot of them.) After randomly inserting the hard-candy lava around the crest of the volcano, I sprinkled the volcano center with shimmering, edible red glitter.

Click on image to enlarge.

We placed the sharks and dinosaurs on the cake, et voila! Finished! If we could have done anything differently, I would have waited until we arrived at our destination to insert the hard candy lava. By the time we got to the party, the lava shooting out of the cake had fallen waywardly in some places, and was a bit sunken in others. Still, the kids loved it. (So did the parents, though I refused to admit exactly how much sugar and butter their children were ingesting. I mean, isn't that what birthday parties are for?)

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One of my favorite things about being an aunt - perhaps even my right of passage - is that I can spoil my niece and nephew and then give them back to their respective parents. And that is why this weekend was so much fun. It was my niece's second birthday, which meant that in the two days leading up to her party, I was in my kitchen baking and baking and baking, and then whipping and whipping and whipping, and then mixing icing colors until they were just so. I love baking birthday cakes for my family and friends, but not quite so much as I love their reactions when they see the sweets.

Annabel's birthday party was barnyard themed - totally appropriate since my brother and sister-in-law live in the country - complete with tractors, hay bales, barbeque, the classic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, red handkerchiefs and farm animal-iced sugar cookies. Taking it a step further, Roger and I made (not one, but two) themed cakes to feed the crowd.

The first cake, a piglet, was crafted from a homemade vanilla wedding cake with swiss buttercream icing and filling.

Click on image to enlarge.

Both cakes were built on a double-layer filled base with a six-inch domed cake for the head. The pig's snout and feet are each one cupcake, and the ears are one-half cupcake each. The tail is made from a strawberry licorice pinwheel (the rest of which I devoured). Grapefruit candies gave the ears a little more dimension (sadly, I didn't sample these). The eyes were made from blackberry candies (one of my husband's favorite candies, I wonder who picked out those?), with banana-shaped hot pink eyelashes. (Runts candies, which tasted like banana even though they were pink. Which was sort of weird to me, but I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe strawberry-banana?) The nostrils were Reese's Pieces (chocolate + peanut butter = yum) and the hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos (I think I officially got off my diet after all the "sampling" I did while making these cakes).

The second cake, a lamb, I made from a not-overly-chocolatey chocolate buttermilk cake and chocolate-overdose buttercream icing (which, together, were a perfectly balanced combination, though I think the marshmallows and chocolate chips really took the cake over the top).

Click on image to enlarge.

The sheep was relatively easy just because it didn't matter what the icing looked like since it would all be covered. I smoothed the chocolate-overdose buttercream icing across each layer, then Roger and I set to work applying marshmallow after marshmallow after marshmallow, OMG am I still putting marshmallows on this thing? Yes, yes I was. We took great care to place the marshmallows haphazardly - some standing on end, some horizontal, some vertical - to give it the effect of fluffy wool. The face, ears and feet were covered in chocolate chips. The face was created from blackberry candied eyes and a nonpareil nose. The hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos, just like the pig cake.

Both farm-themed cakes were a hit. Roger asked guests whether they would like mutton or pork, and I countered with dark meat or white meat. Get it? A little black sheep and the other white meat?

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Is it possible to possess symptoms of pregnancy without actually being pregnant? To wit:

On Saturday morning I went to the grocery store, ambled past the deli, and almost hurled when the scent of freshly fried chicken wafted toward me.

Last night I had an insatiable craving for Hooters’ Daytona wings. The wings won. So did the fried pickles.

Today I wandered down to the Smelly Deli, an appropriate nickname for the delicatessen on the second floor of my office building, and I had to coax down my gag reflex as soon as I smelled the bacon. Good God, I thought, what is that smell? Is that...is that BACON?

And that’s when I knew that something was wrong with me, the moment that thought entered my mind, because I LOVE BACON. I love the smell of bacon. I love cooking bacon. I especially love EATING bacon. And this sudden aversion to bacon? Well, it’s just not normal.

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Roger and I usually don’t make a big fuss about Valentine’s Day. We keep it low-key with dinner at home, something a little nicer than we generally eat, and we just spend time together. I love it so much more than going out to eat or to some sort of performance, or whatever it is that other people do on Valentine’s Day, because in general I think the holiday is just too commercialized. There’s too much pressure on guys to do something special for that one day, which I think is lame. Guys should do something special because they want to, not because they feel obligated by society. And since Roger does special things for me so frequently throughout the year, Valentine’s Day is really just like any other day. Except with more dishes for me to wash.

During lunch on February 14th, I got a wild hair and decided to make chocolate-covered strawberries. Blame that ad I saw in AmericanWay magazine, if you’d like. Here’s how I did it:

I dropped off some of the chocolate-covered berries at Roger’s office for a sweet after-lunch surprise, and took the remaining strawberries to share with my co-workers.

They’re best to eat the day they’re made. This isn’t usually a problem, since the strawberries don’t last long.

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I climbed in bed Monday night at 2 a.m., after a whirlwind weekend in New York City. This weekend was my first time to visit the city, and it didn’t disappoint. My friend Nicolle and I had one goal: to do as much as we could on a shoestring budget. Better yet, on the fray-of-a-shoestring budget. We had limited time*. The weekend involved a lot of exploring, copious amounts of walking, and several taxis**. Here’s how we did it:

FRIDAY NIGHT
Rockefeller Center
We could see the ice skating rink from our hotel room. I loved the twinkly lights in the trees and watching people glide around the rink. (Well, some people weren't gliding -- they were stumbling -- but it was entertaining all the same.) When planning the trip I thought it might be fun to go ice skating in New York, but once I arrived decided against it, for the sake of time. This ended up being a good decision.

Times Square
Several different people recommended to me that we visit Times Square at night, since the stores and eateries are open late and there’s so many lights there that it’s like daytime anyway. We bought candied almonds for $2 from a Nuts4Nuts street vendor and stood around staring at all the people walking in the streets and all the lights blinking at us from every direction. I mean, even SUBWAY had bright, blinking marquee lights. It was like a carnival down there, minus the clowns. Also, we did not see the Naked Cowboy, which was a bit of a disappointment, but I suppose he probably would have been very cold had he been on the streets.

I loved visiting the shops in Times Square – M&M’s store, Hershey’s store, the Dale and Thomas Popcorn shop - but my favorite was Toys ‘R Us. The toy store has a fully-operating Ferris wheel inside, a life-size Barbie mansion (though it’s just filled with dolls and doll clothes – I didn't see any Barbie chairs or lie in any Barbie beds) and LEGO replicas of the Chrysler Building, Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty, among other things.

Just for the record, Dale and Thomas' Popcorn is a good buy. We got the caramel and the Twice-as-Nice (two half-bags of each, which turned out to actually be full bags, for $6 total). The caramel is not as good as Garrett's popcorn, but the Twice-As-Nice is perhaps the best popcorn I've ever eaten. And that is saying something, since I am such an avid popcorn connoisseur. Twice-As-Nice is fluffy, salted popcorn drizzled with milk chocolate and then accented with swirls of white chocolate. It's perfect in every way, and I can't wait to try to re-create it at home.

SATURDAY

St. Patrick’s Cathedral
One-half block from our hotel was St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is the largest gothic Catholic cathedral in North America. It was just gorgeous inside and out, with its massive arching ceiling and beautiful wooden doors and intricately carved stone. I love the detail of old buildings, particularly gothic architecture, and I wish that we would still erect such statuesque buildings like that today instead of the concrete jungles of corporate America.

Tribeca
From the Cathedral, we took a cab to Tribeca for brunch. TriBeCa (as you'll sometimes see it spelled, means Triangle Below Canal) was one of my favorite areas of NYC. I loved the neighborhood feel and how it wasn't crowded with tourists. It felt livable. We ate brunch and pie at Bubby's Pies (at the corner of Hudson and Moore), and I'm convinced that there isn't a bad dish in the house. We sampled the avocado and spinach omelet, the apple, bacon and cheddar omelet, and the duck hash. Then we chased our brunch with key lime pie (FYI: it's thick and rich, not light and fluffy) and a red velvet cake with cream cheese pecan frosting.

Everything was good, which is all the convincing I needed to buy the Bubby's Pies cookbook. You can expect to eat pie next time you come over for dinner, at least for the next few months.

Irish Memorial to Hunger
It was like an asteroid-sized clump of Ireland had landed in New York City, still fully intact, and was hovering over South Cove. From the top of the Memorial we could see Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty - the islands are not as far away as they appear on Google Maps.

Ground Zero
We walked to Ground Zero from Tribeca. I expected there to be some sort of memorial to September 11, 2001, but there wasn't. Ground Zero is about three stories deep, though I couldn't really tell because it was fenced in and some sort of tarp afforded us a very limited view. There is a small courtyard area where signs are hung showing the timeline of September 11th, as well as displaying the plans for the new plaza. I was intrigued that an Anthropological Forensic Unit is still at the site.

Central Park
After wandering around Ground Zero, we hailed a taxi and drove to Central Park. We walked through the park, and toward the end we ran (a little), just so we could say that we had been running in Central Park. I mean, it's not like anyone is going to ask how far we ran, right?

At dusk we left Central Park in favor of Magnolia's Cupcakes' newest store at Columbus Avenue and 69th Street. (And lo, the cupcakes were good.) For a Saturday night, the store was surprisingly un-crowded. The cupcakes were significantly better than the dry cupcakes at Sprinkles, just as I suspected. Interestingly enough, the same person who started Magnolia's left to start Buttercup a few years later.

What I really need is one Vanilla/Vanilla from Magnolia, and one Vanilla/Vanilla from Buttercup. And then I need to do a taste-test. I wonder if the cupcakes would survive shipping? Does anyone in New York want to help me out with this task? My undying devotion (as well as full reimbursements) will be supplied, in case there is any question.

Empire State Building
By the time we made it to the Empire State Building, it was dark outside. Visibility was limited to two miles, but we still decided to go up to the observation deck ($19 per ticket, and we opted out of buying viewing guides). It was bitterly cold up there - so cold I could hardly stand to hold on to my video camera - so we didn't last up there long.

Were I to go up again, I'd change two things: (a) I'd go during the daytime, so I could see what I was looking at, and (b) I'd buy a map, so I'd know what I was looking at. Also, I'd go when it was less cold outside. The city is beautiful at night, I just didn't know what I was looking at most of the time, aside from the obvious Times Square, Chrysler Building, etc.

Fifth Avenue
We hoofed it 17 blocks up Fifth Avenue, from the Empire State Building to Rockefeller Center. We window-shopped along the way, and made a stop in H&M, where we made purchases. We don't have H&M in Dallas, so I get overly excited about visiting cities with H&M stores. There are H&Ms all over New York City - there was even one on the corner of the block where our hotel was located.

SUNDAY
Katz’s Delicatessen
We took a cab from our hotel to Katz's Deli for breakfast. In itself, the food was not out of the ordinary. The sandwiches are fairly expensive ($12-$15 per sandwich), but could probably make 3-4 meals each, so the price was justified. Each sandwich has about a pound of meat on it. Katz's Deli was made internationally famous by the movie "When Harry Met Sally". Also, Katz's makes its own all-beef sausage, which is delicious. I brought home a two-pound salami, but haven't tried it yet.

I'm hoping that a warm spell will pass through Dallas, because I think it will make a lovely picnic, paired with Swiss cheese, crackers, sweet red grapes and pear Woodchuck. Katz's is particularly difficult for newcomers to navigate, so I actually made a video of how to order. Once I figure out how to edit that video, I'll post it.

Greenwich Village
I heart Greenwich Village. Nicolle and I wandered through the streets, commenting on the funky European feel. We did a little shopping near NYU, and made another video of me buying a purse. Your palms are sweating with anticipation, I can tell. It'll be online soon. In the meantime, I'll tease you with this: there will be bloopers on the reel. Oh, yes way.

Union Square and Gramercy Park
We accidentally stumbled upon Union Square and Gramercy Park while wandering around Greenwich Village. Well, we thought we were wandering around Greenwich Village. Turns out we were wandering out of the district. Lawyerish has mentioned Gramercy Tavern on her blog before, so I made a mental note to go back with Roger when we visit New York City. Now I'll know where it is.

In any case, these were charming areas filled with both boutique shops and chain stores. I fell in love with a Buddha head somewhere along the way, but knew I couldn't make room for it in my single suitcase, so it's still sitting atop the shelf of a funky little store that I can't remember the name of.

Canal Street shopping
By far, Canal Street made our trip to New York feel complete. Originally we decided to nix Canal, thinking we wouldn't have enough time. Plus, I had already bought a purse in Greenwich Village, which is what I set out to do when I came to New York. Then, while I was pining over that Buddha head, Roger called. He told me I shouldn't leave New York without buying a purse from the Canal Street shops, and Nicolle and I set out with our new goal. Little did I know just how easy it would be.

Before we even climbed out of the cab, a tiny Asian woman approached us and said, "Purses? Gucci, Coach, Prada? Follow me." We hurriedly paid the taxi driver and set off behind her and the other little ducklings she had recruited. We followed her for two blocks, that is two blocks away from Canal Street, all the time glancing at each other, wondering where she was taking us. We crossed a street. Another block. More sideways glances. And giggling.

We maneuvered down a dark, metal staircase and through a cast-iron door. We ducked our heads as we passed under a five-foot opening, raised our eyebrows as we passed the water pipes under a building, and exchanged glances when the room suddenly opened up into a dark hallway with four rooms to our right.

Each room was about the size of a Smart Car and filled with row-upon-row of knock-off purses: Gucci, Fendi, Prada, Chanel, Coach, Dooney & Burke. We tried many of them on, looking for the most believable fake we could find. I found mine almost immediately, fell in love with it, bargained for it, and walked away with it hidden inside a plain black plastic bag. I looked like I was carrying garbage, but I was carrying Chanel. Well, fake Chanel.

I'm not sure how much we ended up spending, but I know it wasn't a lot. The majority of our budget was eaten up by taxis**, but we succeeded staying in-budget in every other area. Even our food budget had the restriction of whether we could eat it at home: If we could buy it in Dallas, we wouldn't let ourselves buy it in New York. Not even Starbucks. There were no chain restaurants involved in our weekend, of which I'm immensely proud. I have a thing against most chain restaurants.

* Nicolle was already in NYC. I arrived late Friday night and we left Sunday afternoon. But I was flying standby, which meant the flight I wanted to be on Sunday afternoon was full. And so was the flight after that. I got on the third flight out, but by then the plane had to be de-iced, yada yada, our 6:40 p.m. flight didn't depart until 10:30. And we had already boarded, and were already wedged in next to each other. To make matters worse, the woman next to me was eating tunafish. Tunafish! On a plane! And I had to sit right next to her! Whoever did such a thing? Well, besides her, I mean?

** We either walked or took taxis everywhere we went. I'm not sure what the deal was with the subway system -- since I was so excited to try it out for myself ("ride the subway" was on my list of things to do in New York City) -- but it wasn't working. Maybe. Every time we went to a subway tunnel, it was closed off with large, metal, grated doors. No one could get in. I'd love it if a New Yorker could explain this to me.

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Last night Roger and I hosted our Fourth Annual New Year’s Eve Dinner Party. We started at 8:30 p.m., but should have begun so, so, so much earlier. Enough time with good friends is never enough.

We ate. (Menu for the evening: Chicken Saltimbocca, Warm Spinach Salad with Pine Nuts & Prosciutto, and Green Beans with Lemon-Ginger Butter. Dessert: Caramel Toffee Crunch Cheesecake and Chocolate-covered Oreo Truffles. My thighs are only slightly larger than yesterday, but that’s what we have New Year’s Resolutions for, right?)

We drank. (Roger made me a killer Cosmo. I tried to re-create it again for myself, from the same recipe, and it was a disaster. A vodka disaster. So I kept adding cranberry juice, to no avail. And that’s when I started pouring cherry juice into it. It wasn’t bad after the cherry juice -- of course, almost nothing can be bad after adding cherry juice -- but then again I don’t think it was a Cosmo after that, either.)

We were merry. (For Christmas, Roger gave me a digital camcorder. If only I could figure out how to upload and edit videos, you could be merry with us. The laughter, the cigars, the food, the games (a new fave: Loaded Questions). I hope your New Year’s Eve celebration was every bit as lively and fun as ours.)

And to you, a toast to you, Internet (with the cherry-infused Cosmo that I made myself, rimmed in yellow and red sugars):

May this new year bring you closer to those you love; may this new year give you all of the good things and only enough of the rest to remind you how good things really are.

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Have you ever had an advent calendar? Because I’ve never had an advent calendar before, and for the past couple of years I’ve actually been longing for one. It may be a fantasy, but I believe there is something magical about opening the little doors and finding a prize inside. It’s as if a secret Santa wrapped 24 gifts for me to open every single day in December and then bundled each of those gifts into one tiny, concise space. And if those prizes are each chocolate – even better, Lindt Lindor chocolate truffles – then life is just that much sweeter.

So this year, on Black Friday, I marched (well, okay, I drove) to World Market and bought myself an advent calendar. I think it may be the best purchase I’ve made all year, even better than our new coffee table. (Well, that might be taking it a little far. I do love our new coffee table.)

Each night, with giddy anticipation, I look forward to opening the tiny paper windows. I carefully push them in (so as not to tear the box), then brace the outer perforated edge while delicately pulling one side of the window open to reveal a truffle waiting inside. I open the second half of the window, lift out the tiny package, and then partially close the windows again so that I can tell they’re open, but not open too wide.

I carry the truffle to the kitchen, twist the edges of the wrapping, and then flatten the foil around the little candy to form a miniature platter before I cut the chocolate in half. Roger and I each take a half, place it in our mouths and let the creamy texture melt. So far we’ve had Extra Dark Chocolate, Peanut Butter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate and Extra Dark Chocolate (again).

I know it’s only the first week of December, but I’m already kind of dreading Christmas Eve – only 20 days from now! – because that will mean that I won’t have any more paper windows to open, and I won’t have any more excuses to eat half a chocolate truffle every single night.

I’m trying to decide if it would be overboard to take the Advent Calendar one step further by purchasing twelve more. That way, instead of counting down the twenty four days before Christmas, I can count down the three hundred sixty four. (Although, hmmm...my math isn't quite right on that. It seems that I would need to buy at least fifteen more boxes.)

I think I could justify that, don’t you?

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While washing dishes this morning, something inside the disposal caught my eye. A lemon! I love lemons, especially in my disposal, because when I grind them up the entire kitchen smells citrus-y clean and fresh.

I wasn’t sure where the lemon had come from, since I don’t have any on hand, so I assumed that it must have been in a take-out glass of tea or water. I thought that perhaps someone dumped the leftover ice and lemon down the drain. Without giving it a second thought, I turned on the water and hit the disposal switch.

When the disposal began grinding, an odd smell wafted through the air. A fleeting memory of something that had fallen down the drain the day before flashed through my mind. It wasn’t lemon. It was garlic.

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I can always be bribed with food.

The Latin team brought in authentic tacos – the real kind, not the variety from Taco Bell or Dairy Queen (no, seriously: a friend swears by Dairy Queen tacos) for breakfast this morning. Homemade white corn tortillas. Homemade hot, hot, hot salsa. Limes. Steak. Marinated pork (al pastor).

Have I mentioned that I love my new job?

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My in-laws arrive today from South Carolina, which means that for the past several days I've been in a list-making frenzy.

I've made chore lists (clean, clean and clean, because we're turning our study – remember all the boxes? – into a proper bedroom). And I've made grocery lists ($141 later, I think I can feed an army. Albeit a very small one. Maybe just a platoon.).

Caddo Lake

I've made activity lists (including picnicking at and paddling around Caddo Lake). And after planning meals, I'm fairly certain I'll need an elastic waistband after this weekend. I'm most excited about the meals and have appropriately hung the final list on our refrigerator. I'm a little obsessed with good food and excited that their entire stay with us is going to be a culinary delight. To wit:

We're planning on tender, juicy steaks that will melt like butter in our mouths, spicy Tex-Mex, because there's no better place than Texas to get good Mexican food (except maybe Mexico itself), Roger will be barbequing ribs that are robust and tangy and fall off the bone, but still have little crisps around the edges (we got the recipe from my brother-in-law, and believe me: they're well worth the hour-long wait), and then there's my most recent cuisine infatuation, Indian. I've sacrificially sampled three new Indian restaurants in the past couple of weeks, just to be sure of our selection. Granted, there are dozens more to try, but I figure they can wait until next month. (Good news: next month begins in only four days.)

All this to say, we have a very full weekend ahead. One that I hope will not involve the tipping of canoes. (I'm looking at you, Dad.)

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Some of my favorite childhood memories involve baking goodies with my mom, or decorating tins upon tins of Christmas cookies with my grandmother. It's no wonder that I've turned out to be the sort of cook that I am: the sort of cook that rarely bothers to measure ingredients, the sort of cook who'd rather wing it and pray for the best. I watched as they whipped up silky batches of mashed potatoes and juicy, fall-off-the-bone roasts and perfectly salted homemade popcorn, the kind made in the iron skillet that burst from under the lid as it grew more and more fluffy, begging to be released into the giant wooden bowl for our consumption.

For the past few years I have been making birthday cakes for my family and friends, a tradition passed down to me by my mom. I've taken it a step further, incorporating candies for texture and dimension and dominating the icing, bending it to my will.

Both my niece and my nephew celebrated birthdays over the past two weekends, and I commemorated their special days with special cakes of their own.

My mom with Annabel

Annabel, my niece, turned one. Her motor skills aren't exactly fine-tuned yet, so I thought cupcakes should be the order of the day. That way she could eat her cake – face first or fingers first, it didn't matter – and we could, too.

Each cake was double the width of a traditional cupcake
(Click to enlarge)

I made butterflies, dragonflies, bumblebees and ladybugs. I used icing for decoration, sour straws for texture, M&Ms candies for the ladybug dots, licorice rope for the antennae, jumbo sprinkles for the eyeballs, edible glitter for a little shimmer and giant sugar crystals just because I could. Who doesn't love giant sugar crystals?

CLICK THUMBNAILS FOR LARGER IMAGES

Bumblebee


Butterfly


Dragonfly


Ladybug

Chase, my nephew, turned four. For the entire month leading up to his birthday, all he could talk about was a shark cake.

Chase, The Birthday Boy

I scoured the Internet and didn't turn up much, so I created the shark myself. Or, I should say Roger helped me create it, since he drew up the blue prints for the shark. Something about being a guy and watching too much of the Discovery channel made our shark a little fearsome.

Snaggly-toothed shark
(Click to enlarge)

For the shark, I decided to make two separate cakes: a white cake for the ocean, a red velvet cake for the shark's body. That way, when you cut into the shark, it would look like blood. And if there's anything a four-year-old boy wants to see, it's blood.

Bloody!
(Click to enlarge)

I made the red velvet cake in a loaf pan, so that we could carve it into the shape of a shark. I used the white tips of candy corns for its teeth, and smoothed icing over its body for a sleek look. Roger cut a licorice wheel into the shape of a fin, which we connected to a toothpick and then covered in icing before attaching to the shark's body.

Leaping out of the water
(Click to enlarge)

All the cakes took a loooong time to make, but it was so worth it to see the reaction of the guests at each party when they stole their first glance at dessert. It was so worth it to watch Annabel grab her dragonfly by the handful and squeal in delight when her fingers pressed through the mushy icing. It was so worth it to see Chase's eyes light up and turn to me in wonder when the first cut was made into the shark's body.

These are new memories in the making, not only for the younger generation of my family, but for me as well.

Comments and questions regarding these cakes and others can be directed to jes(AT)chirky(DOT)com.

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This weekend I finally worked up the nerve to tell my best friend about two of my recent food finds. I was kind of nervous about it, like confessing them would suddenly mean that grocery stores everywhere would have empty shelves whenever I visited.

I imagined driving from store to store, calling locations in other cities in a lame attempt to get my hands on the products before finally calling the manufacturer and asking if any boxes were left in the warehouse. And when the manufacturer offered a sympathy coupon, I'd take it but never use it, in an odd sort of protest. I feel kind of bad about how possessive I am, and thought that if I present my grocery store food finds on a grander scale, maybe I can cure myself of this sickness. [Though, so help me God: if stores everywhere start running out of these products, I'm blaming you, Internet.]

Sugar Free Popsicles. At 15 calories each, they make the perfect snack. This works well if you're like me and you discover that your snack includes no less than 10 popsicles in one sitting, because even then it's only 150 calories, which equals roughly 10% of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's totally justifiable. The grape-orange combo is the best, exactly in that order. I always let the Popsicles thaw a little before inhaling them, which works well when you're eating several in succession. That way one Popsicle can be thawing while the other is being consumed.

Vanilla Scones. Since it's a fact of life that you overspend when you go to Target anyway, do yourself a favor and throw a box of Archer Farms (Target brand) vanilla scone mix in your basket. (Also needed: whipping cream.) Next time you need a fancy-but-easy breakfast, follow the instructions on the side of the box to make the scones. Add extra vanilla (pure Mexican vanilla is best), approximately 2 tablespoons. Just before baking, sprinkle sugar on triangles of dough. [Confession: I almost did it again. I wasn't going to tell you to use the extra-large sugar crystals, because it totally makes the scones gourmet and I wanted to have that title all to myself. Gah. I think I may be incurable after all.] Whip remaining cream (adding sugar to taste) and serve with sliced strawberries. Everyone will think you are a baking god(dess).

This list will likely continue to grow, but I'm curious to know what YOUR favorite grocery store food finds are.

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I've been mulling over for a while what to say about BlogHer. I kind of feel obligated to talk about it, obligated because you know I went, obligated because it was the second time I've attended, obligated because I can't ignore the fact that I was there and choose to simply talk about the real reason I stayed a few extra days in Chicago: Garrett's popcorn.

BlogHer was … big. I met lots of bloggers I don't already read, as well as many bloggers that I already do. I have oodles of business cards stuffed in my laptop bag, and a sincere hankering for another piña colada. I already miss spending time with women who get me, who understand why I write online before I even have to attempt to explain it, who don't think twice about lining up on the floor of our hotel hallway to have a race doing The Worm. Those are my type of women.

Photo by Heather

The sessions I attended were not what I had expected them to be, and that was disappointing. Some were funny. Some were tense. Some were dry. I didn't walk away with as much practical know-how as I had hoped for from one session. In another I felt annoyed as I sat through an hour and a half of fluff to get five-minutes-worth of solid information. And still, another session had me laughing so hard that I'm heading out tonight to buy a book written by one of the panelists.

The golden egg of BlogHer, in my opinion, is the way it has created community among bloggers. BlogHer has become the conduit through which women (okay, fine, and some men, too) who might not otherwise connect have an opportunity to hole up together for a weekend, squeeeeeee! with excitement over meeting each other and then hug their new friends goodbye when the weekend is over. And somewhere in the middle, they might harvest several nuggets of wisdom from the expert panelists that BlogHer recruits for the event.

Sure, there's tons of swag. Sponsors swung in with copious amounts of free alcohol, a tote bag with a rather cute, asymmetrical design (but I wasn't fond of the two giant logos, so I didn't bring it home) that was filled with all sorts of goodies.

Items that made their way into my tiny little carry-on:

-- a chocolate brown, faux alligator (Wait - was that alligator? Does anyone know? Do I have my reptiles confused?) storage box filled with a spa kit (though I'll admit that the W Hotel in Chicago stocks the fabulous bliss line, and I might have borrowed a few extra samples from the housekeeping cart)

-- a journal from Wiley (I'm always on the lookout for journals, and free is totally in my budget)

-- the casauri tote from AOL Body ($85 retail, perfectly padded for my laptop, with enough pockets for all my carryables, and something that even my husband might like, plus it was hand-delivered to my room)

-- a mini box of cereal from Curves (which is kind of weird considering they're in the fitness business. Does this mean I'm soon going to find a box labeled 24 Hour Fitness in the cracker aisle of my grocery store, or Gold's Gym yogurt in the dairy section? In any case, I brought it on the plane in case I needed a snack, which I did since my flight was diverted from Dallas and stuck on a tarmac for two hours in Oklahoma City, but which I also forgot about when I needed it most. Now it's in my desk drawer at work, just in case.)

-- several CDs (I've not listened to them yet, but I brought them home anyway. I have high hopes.)

-- a purse organizer from the good folks at Real Simple (who sewed their brand name to the tag inside the organizer, rather than painting it onto the outside. That action alone made the purse worth keeping. Bonus points: it fits in my other purses, so I just move it from purse to purse whenever I switch handbags, which is like every day, and also? Pockets. Like, gazillions of them, perfectly sized for my cards and phone and wallet and most importantly, LIP GLOSSES. Yes, plural. Why do you ask?)

Items that made their way into the nearest trash receptacle:

-- a sweat towel (for the gym, I suppose, but the "get sweaty" logo was enormous and scratchy, and since I glow rather than sweat, it was left in the hotel room)

-- a plastic martini glass (I later learned that it glows in the dark, and now I wish I had it just so I could have a glowing cup for at least one drink, though I won't comment on how well it would work out for me to drink in the dark)

-- a Butterball oven mitt (it looked sturdy enough, and like my fingers might not get too hot if I held a heated platter for too long, but again with the giant logos!)

All in all, I would call the trip a success, though that's probably because I've got a gallon of Garrett's Caramel Crisp popcorn waiting for me at home.

Technorati: blogher, blogher07, women, conference, blogging, bloghercon, blogs, weblogs,

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This weekend I hopped on the scale for the first time in several weeks. Three weeks, to be exact. Three grueling weeks of eating less food on a daily basis than I've consumed in maybe the past twenty years of my life. And what I found wasn't all that surprising.

The scale displayed a three pound weight loss. That's only one pound a week, though somehow I was expecting an average of five pounds a week – that's how little food I feel like I've been eating – regardless of how absurd that expectation might be.

I suppose a pound a week is not horrible, because my track record could have been a pound a month. Which, let's just say, wouldn't get me to my goal until the year 2011, and by then I'd probably have already given up and started wearing muumuus.

Of course, that tiny little drop in weight was expected, considering that my clothes are still fitting just about the same, and considering I really haven't exercised all that much. Unless you consider the five flights of stairs I take to work each morning, which takes less than two minutes. I guess. I haven't actually timed it, but if you see a girl heaving in the stairwell tomorrow morning and staring at her watch?

Say "Hello." It'll be nice to meet you.

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You know how they say men think about food and sex – and nothing else? I’d say that I’m the same. Almost.

Any given day, I’m either thinking about food or travel. I subscribe to a variety of food magazines and blogs, but my favorites are the travel sites and publications. They’re the first I check in my feed reader, even before I check my email. (And for those of you who know my addiction to email, that’s saying something.)

Food has always been a symbol of community for me: growing up, it was where my family spent time together each evening. Food was a foundation for me as I bonded with my mom and my grandmothers while they taught me how to cook. I love being in the kitchen -- after all, the way to my husband's heart is through his stomach, right? -- crafting recipes and trying new finds on eager (and hungry) friends.

I'm fascinated by the way people interact with each other and with food when they are in public. There's little better than visiting a gourmet restaurant and observing those around me while filling my belly with lime-infused pozole, or grilled mimosa shrimp, or fresh tomatoes drizzled with pesto and topped with grilled provolone.

Lately I've found myself making snap judgments when I watch a group of people walk into a four-star restaurant wearing t-shirts and dirty jeans. It's like a punch to the gut -- whether the maitre d's or my own, I haven't decided -- and I watch with a furrowed brow and careful eye as the party is seated.

I make snap judgments based on one's style of eating, whether someone loads up on their first go-round at the salad bar or if that person takes a modest amount and returns for seconds (and often thirds) later. I've watched as couples and families sit at a table and scarf their meal, leaving the establishment less than an hour after they were first seated. I've stolen glances at others who linger, enjoying their conversation and savoring each morsel.

When I’m not eating or thinking about food, I’m mentally planning trips around the world, taking note of foods I want to eat while I’m there or places that I simply must visit. I have tons of travel clippings related to my long list of domestic and international "some-day" destinations. I busy myself with imagining everything from the flights and train rides to those places to the ways of life of the locals.

Mental images of busy streets dance in my head, giving way to boutique shops and outdoor food markets with flies buzzing near the raw meat. I don’t even mind those flies, whether real or imagined. They represent new cultures and experiences and the very mores of a society.

My mind invents the beaches and the waves and sailboats and hammocks and lovers wandering hand-in-hand, clutching fruity, tropical drinks as they pick their way through rocks and kelp. With my mind's eye I watch the local children playing in the alleys, sticks and balls strewn about, stopping only to wave at passers-by or to cuddle the kitten that crawled out from beneath the pier and beam footprint of its home.

This weekend, between bouts of gawking and glancing at others, I watched myself. I watched myself gnaw on Cajun-rubbed ribs at a Renaissance Festival while managing to massacre my mouth, cheeks and chin with bits of meat and seasoning. I watched myself satiate my craving for veggies with marinated artichoke hearts, Swiss potato gratin and crisply steamed green beans and carrots from a salad bar. I watched myself celebrate my love for garlic picanha, savoring bite after bite, discussing the recipe for the steak's rub with the server.

And as I headed out the door, I watched myself gaze at a clock and realize that our party, while dressed the part, had eaten three courses, paid and left the restaurant in precisely one hour. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become like a typical American diner, not lingering over the meal with good company, savoring every bite and hanging onto every word.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become a scarfer.

I've been mulling over this atrocity for the past few days, and now I'm curious: what do you do? How long do you spend preparing a meal versus eating it? By and large, how long do you linger in a restaurant? Are you good for a quickly turned table, or is eating out an affair for you?

Personally, I'll be disappointed if my next meal isn't fueled by great food and great conversation. And only then, perhaps, will I return to my obsession with traveling.

(This will be soon, I hope, because I just read an amazing article about a restaurant in Spain, El Bulli, which has me salivating over my passport. Considering the establishment has been voted several times over as the Best Restaurant in the World, and since the meal is served over six hours and 35 courses, I think I'll have plenty of time for conversation, don't you?)

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What is it about sea salt and malt vinegar potato chips that makes me feel like I am sweating?

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It is never a good thing when you've sucked all the chocolate off of your miniature Heath Bar and pushed it as far out of your mouth as possible, while carefully balancing it between your teeth, in an effort to see the color of the bar's innards* without having to touch it with your fingers. Because right at that moment, your boss will walk up to your cubicle door.

* Was toffee-colored, as suspected.

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Some people's lives just seem too perfect. I have an acquaintance who loves to cook (and is good at it!), loves to decorate (and is good at it!), loves to paint (and is good at it!) and gives classes on gift-wrapping (and is good at it!). On top of this, she is a Harvard MBA grad, extremely successful business owner and, in general, just a nice person.

She recently gave me two of her prized recipes for Sangria, and as I read over the list of ingredients, it occurred to me: (a) I don't have this liquor in my cabinet and (b) if she hadn't given me exact brand and flavor names, I'd have no idea what to buy.

This is the thing: while I do enjoy a good Midori Sour, I know relatively little about mixed drinks. Embarrassingly little. I go to a bar and start fumbling around like a high schooler with her older sister's ID, trying to act like she knows what she's talking about, when really? No clue.

This weekend, while perusing the latest Williams Sonoma catalog, I had an epiphany: I should create my own cookbook of mixed beverages. I don't know why it's taken me this long to arrive at that conclusion, considering I spend an exorbitant amount of time in the cookbook aisle of Half Price books, and that time always includes at least half an hour staring at the pages of 1,001 Martinis and Mixed Drinks Your Friends Will Beg You To Make* and then feeling overwhelmed, replacing the book on the shelf, and moving on to the pastas.

I get maybe a bit too excited when I find easy recipes, like the Pineapple Greyhound (featured in the Williams Sonoma catalog I was reading – yes, reading – this weekend), or Shawnee's Bourbon Slush (via LittleBirdie.net) or the JN Intoxication Engineering Project (courtesy of hoards of Jurgen Nation readers who obviously know more about alcohol than I do, because most didn't even bother to include the measurements for each ingredient).

Since I know that my readers are totally hot, ultra-savvy and wickedly intelligent, I figured you may know a thing or two about alcoholic beverages**. And since I love running contests, the best two recipe submissions for an alcoholic beverage will win a prize***. The most awesome part? I already know what those prizes will be.

* Not actually a book, though it probably should be.
** The recipes submitted will (a) be added to my personal collection and (b) be submitted to JN's Intoxication Engineering Project.
*** I like to share the love, so I'm instituting the policy that one individual cannot win both prizes.

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When I was in seventh grade, my mom brought home a jar of capers from the market. I had never heard of capers, which look like pickled peas – and ironically, they are pickled, but they're not peas. Capers are tiny flower buds from a caper shrub (either pickled in vinegar or brined in salt), and when you think of it that way, don't the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? My mom always taught me not to eat berries off of bushes, LEST I DIE – and as I rotated the jar in my hands I realized why she had purchased them.

Attached to the jar was a small fluorescent sticker that advertised the product for only seventy-five cents.

I can see myself now: hand on hip, hip cocked out to the side, impossibly frizzy hair. I laughed, teased my mom, and then asked her what she would cook using the capers. She didn't know, she said, which only instigated more teasing.

For that, I would like to apologize, Mom. I finally understand the joy you take in grocery shopping, and even more so, I identify with the exhilaration you feel when you find items not only on sale, BUT ON CLEARANCE.

I understand this because the genes I inherited from you have matured, and I am the same. I am you, and it is not my worst nightmare, like my twelve-year-old mind used to believe it would be. It is a privilege that I'm like you. And one day, I am sure my own children will release high-pitched giggles and tease me incessantly when I purchase a container of corn smut, or whatever new food I find at the store and decide to bring home.

Since then, my mom has always kept a jar of capers in her pantry. Maybe it is a reminder to herself to always be on the lookout for new, exotic foods to try. Perhaps it serves as a reminder of my brother and I. Or maybe she's still trying to convince me that she actually cooks with capers. (Maybe I'll just stop speculating and call her to ask.)

Jes: "Mom, do you remember the time you bought those capers?"
Mom: "What? No. What are you talking about?"
Jes: (exasperated) "Mom. You can't not remember."
Mom: "…"
Jes: "Mom!! I've teased you about that for the past fifteen years! How can you not remember?"
Mom: (playfully) "Maybe the teasing was so painful I blocked it from my memory."
Jes: "Whatever."
[Refresh her memory. Laugh.]
"Mom, why do you keep buying capers?"
Mom: "I keep thinking I'll figure out something to do with them."
Jes: (clickety-clack, clickety-clack)
Mom: "Are you typing? Jessica Lynne…"

I've eaten capers in several dishes, all prepared by an executive chef and not by my mother, and lo: they were good. So, for my mom, who taught me to love all types of food from every different culture, I give you this recipe: Buca di Beppo's Chicken Saltimbocca, quite possibly the best dish on the restaurant's menu. (And finally, a recipe that involves capers!)

About: THIS DISH
The word "saltimbocca" means "jump into the mouth." This recipe is aptly named, because this delicious dish (pounded with Prosciutto and massaged with sage) seems to fly from your plate to your mouth.

About: CAPERS
The flavor of capers is piquant and lemony. Capers add pungency to Mediterranean dishes like pasta sauces, pizza, fish, meats and salads. They go well with olives, arugula, anchovies and artichokes.

CHICKEN SALTIMBOCCA

INGREDIENTS
4 (5 ounce) chicken breasts
4 thin slices Prosciutto ham
1 tablespoon fresh sage
3 ounces (1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp.) olive oil
1 ounce (2 Tbsp.) all-purpose flour
5 ounces (2/3 c.) artichoke hearts, quartered
1/2 ounce (1 Tbsp.) capers
4 ounces (1/2 c.) white wine
2 ounces (1/4 c.) fresh lemon juice
2 ounces (1/4 c.) heavy cream
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon salt

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Lightly salt chicken breasts.
2. Sprinkle chicken breasts evenly with chopped sage.
3. Place sliced Prosciutto on top the chicken and pound it into the breast until the thickness of the chicken measures approximately 3/8-inch.
4. Heat olive oil in a saute pan.
5. Lightly flour chicken pressed with prosciutto.
6. Place chicken in heated oil, Prosciutto side down.
7. Brown one side, turn and brown the other side.
8. Drain off excess oil, and deglaze with 4 ounces of white wine.
9. Add artichokes, fresh lemon juice, cream and butter and cook until sauce is thickened.

On a large platter, place chicken breasts topped with sauce and garnish with capers.

Serves: 4

Source: Chef Vittorio Renda, Buca di Beppo

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Someone just popped a bag of popcorn.

My manager is out of town and I am holding down the fort.

The temp just told me she has an allergy to the scent of popcorn.

(?)

She needs to leave, and asked if I mind whether she leaves for the rest of the day.

(?)

::I met her question with a blank stare::

(?)

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Turkey Meatloaf Recipe
Image taken from a delightful site called WhatWereEating.com

I have a confession to make: I've never liked meatloaf.

(Whew. There. I said it. Now doesn't that feel better? My heart can intrepidly race ahead, no longer confined by the knowledge that I have a secret, and the Internet doesn't know what it is.)

Though I love cooking, and would consider myself a foodie in a heartbeat, I only cook about three or four nights a week. I haven't figured out yet how we subsist the rest of the time, but my thighs are telling me that we're not in danger of starving.

If I had an intern to follow behind me, someone who didn't mind wiping my spills and washing my dishes, I'm convinced that I'd cook and experiment in the kitchen more often. But my laziness supersedes my passion for food, for lo: I am an unintentionally messy cook.

Once a year my employer holds a vendor fair to raise money for United Way. And every year there are fake-designer purses being sold, homemade jewelry crafters lining the walls of our Great Room (see: break room), Pampered Chef consultants and Sprint field reps (and more!) who set up disheveled booths and long banquet tables, all from which they sell us their goods.

Two years ago, I met a nice lady who sold products made by Homemade Gourmet. I thought, "How useful! Prepackaged seasonings that I add to food!" (?) I still have every one of those mixes in a basket in my pantry, patiently awaiting the day I need a mix to help me make baked beans or minty chocolate cheesecake or Grandmother's Sunday Roast. (I'm not sure whose Grandmother she is, but mine didn't have a special Sunday-only recipe.)

The Homemade Gourmet consultant also sold me a mix for Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf, which I only bought because Roger had been asking me to make meatloaf. Frankly, I think meatloaf is a little scary. It is a brown-ish hunk of loaf, afterall. Made entirely of meat. With ketchup all over it. Is it just me, or do you break out into hives when you imagine the loaf of meat? I'm nearly dry heaving even now.

I finally broke down one night and made the meatloaf from the seasoning packet that I had purchased, and good gracious! It was actually good! I enjoyed it. I wanted more!

I emailed the Homemade Gourmet consultant and told her so. Two months went by before I realized: Hey. I haven't heard back from her yet. So I tried calling a couple different consultants in the Dallas area, and they didn't call me back.

I'm sorry, but aren't they consultants? Aren't they supposed to sell this stuff to me? I'm practically flinging myself at their doorstep, hurling my money at them, and they're just casually having a look-see at me through their peephole.

And now two years have gone by, and no one wants to sell me the Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf mix. And I'm feeling a tad bit scorned. And also like maybe some people shouldn't be in the sales business.

So: do you know a Homemade Gourmet consultant? I mean, the kind who actually like to make money? Because I'm waving my money around in the air right now, and no one is lurching forward to take it.

Or better yet, let's have a contest**! You post your favorite meatloaf recipe. I will make each loaf of meat, and submit it to my panel of judges. Prizes* (for the best loaves) will abound.

*Please do not remind me that I still have not mailed the prizes from my previous contests. I know that. But I promise I'll get around to it. Eventually.

**The deadline for this contest is February 18, 2007. Please email me the meatloaf recipe or post the recipe in the comments section of this entry.

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This is the thing: I love to cook. But just because I love to cook does not necessarily mean that I read labels or know much about the nutritional value of food beyond: grilled is good, fried is bad.

Internets, I need your help.

You see, I just ate a cup of cooked pasta, which does not seem like a lot of pasta to me. But when I logged it in to SparkPeople, it counted that portion of my meal as 636 calories. Internets! That does not even count the diced tomatoes or artichoke hearts or mushrooms or garlic or grilled chicken or olive oil!

When I read that number of calories, I had a heart attack and then promptly DIED.

Okay, maybe I didn't die. BUT I WANTED TO. Naturally, I started looking for loopholes.

And this is my question, which I totally expect you Internets to answer, because you know more things than I do, and also because I refuse to believe I just inhaled a lunch worth 845 calories.

When I calculate how much I'm eating, is it supposed to be in terms of dry pasta, or cooked pasta? Because, obviously, 1 cup of dry pasta equals 4 cups of cooked pasta. We all know that. And I can much more easily believe that 4 cups of cooked pasta equals 636 calories than the one, teensy-eensy measily cup of it that I just ate.

PLEASE SEND HELP.

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As part of Project: Lose Weight, I took the advice of one of my readers, Laura, and signed up for SparkPeople.com. Please stop telling me to sign up for these delicious goodies, because you know that I will, I cannot possibly stop, for the brilliance of the Internet consumes me.

I have approximately twelve different email addresses, many of which I do not use, and three of which I check every few weeks just to see what's there. And do you know what lurks in those old accounts? Junk mail. And every time I begin to wonder why I keep checking any of the accounts, I come across an email from an old friend who doesn't know my new(est) email address, and so I'm compelled to keep checking my old accounts because you just never know what you'll find there. And it's a bother, really.

SparkPeople.com is my favorite new toy for this reason alone: I can track things. You must know by now that I love to make lists simply because I can cross things off of those lists, and it always makes me feel so accomplished. Usually my weekend list looks something like this:

Wake up
Eat breakfast
Laundry
Grocery shop

And, see? Already, when I wake up, I can cross something off my list. And even if I don't do anything for the rest of the day, I'm satisfied because something got crossed off the list. And that feels good, doesn't it?

On SparkPeople I can track how many calories I consume, and how many I burn, and lots of other things. I can even track whether I'm getting enough folic acid. I can create meal plans and grocery lists, and best of all, I can track the amount of water I'm drinking.

And y'all? I have a problem drinking water. But not just water. All liquids. I'm convinced that I'm permanently dehydrated, as noted by my ashy skin and constant thirst. I think it boils down to a pure, slothful laziness because if I want a Styrofoam cup (my employer is classy) of water I have to stand up, walk halfway across the building to get it, and by the time I get back to my desk the water is already gone. See my predicament? This is why I just try to ignore my thirst. Because otherwise, I might get the teensiest bit of exercise, several times each day, on the way over to the water dispenser, and we just can't have that.

Back at Project: Lose Weight, I was trying to figure out how to, well, you know…lose weight. Yesterday I managed to drink three entire cups of water, which may be a personal record of sorts. I might have also dropped fourteen ounces from my body due to all that walking around the building in search of water. My new goal is to drink eight cups of water each day, and I swear, I’m getting to my point.

The water consumption tracking device on SparkPeople taunts me. It dances around, practically advertising that I’ve only had three cups of water to drink, laughing at me and sometimes even calling me names.

Last night, to silence it, I decided: enough already! I’ll just drink the remaining five cups and be done with it!

So I drank two cups of water, back to back, before dinner. And you know what? I was full afterward. Miserably full. I didn’t even have any room for dinner because all that water was swishing around my belly, taking up all the space in my stomach that is generally reserved for food.

And now I’ve finally figured out how to lose weight quickly: I can’t consume a pan full of brownies – oops, did I forget to tell you that I made brownies while on my diet? – when my stomach is full of water.

All that to say, maybe dieticians know what they’re talking about, afterall.

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"Will you eat the rest of last night's leftovers?"

"No."

"I could really do without ever eating that again."

"You're not supposed to say that to me. I don't like it when you tell me what I can and can't cook."

"I'm not telling you what to cook. I'm just asking you not to cook that again. And don't you want to know my opinions about things?"

"Not if your opinions aren't in complete adoration of me."

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Why must, once you get on the plane, someone begin eating smelly food? I saw all of you, each and every one of you sitting in the waiting area, bored. Every single one of you. BORED. And not eating.

And then we boarded the plane, and got comfy in our very tiny seats, and once we reached cruising altitude, and before the flight attendant even had begun to prepare her beverage cart, YOU, Mr. iPod and Receding Hairline, produced your smelly food from the deep recesses of your carry-on luggage.

I cannot see what is making such a stench, but it smells like corn-nuts. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.! You should be outlawed!

This is, afterall, only a two-hour flight. And I recognize you from last night, last night when we all sat together grumbling about our cancelled flight, phoning our family and friends and credit card company concierge services to request overnight accommodations. I’m certain that your hotel offered a continental breakfast, one that did not involve corn-nuts, and that the offending snack was really an impulse purchase made in the secured area of the airport by The Receding Hairline.

Those crunchy little wads are a $3.49 snack of horror. They reek. And I think they're ranch-flavored. RANCH-FLAVORED. CORN-NUTS. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.!

Editor's Note:
Please forgive. Was written from a very small seat while the scent of ranch-flavored corn-nuts invaded. Also, it was a very early flight. And also, I didn't get much sleep, since I was up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the flight. And also, I was tired. OMG. Delirious.

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Y'all: the turkey just arrived.

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You know when someone tries to serve you beans for dinner? And you look at them, and the first thing that pops into your mind is ALL THAT GAS?

And so you ask your mom if it's going to make you fart (oh, how I hate that word!), and she says that it won't, and you make the mistake of believing her?

And so you call her on the phone to tell her she was wrong, and her response is that it's only because you don't eat beans often enough, if you ate beans more often, your body wouldn't react that way? And so you continue to eat them?

And holding the gas in is PAINFUL? And to combat it, you park extra-far away in the parking garage so you can putter your way into the office without anyone noticing? And you make extra trips up and down the stairwell for the same reason? And you go home during lunch in hopes of a toilet-sitting marathon that produces something other than gas?

No? Just me, then?

But answer me this: You know how when it's cold outside and you exhale through your mouth, you can see your breath on the air? Does the same thing happen when it comes out the other end?

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"A bunch of us are going to try the Beyonce Master Cleanse diet starting today and we're going to do it for the entire week. Want to join us?"

"Hmmm. Well, I've kind of already done that one."

"Oh." [Looks at me.] "So...the diet doesn't work?"

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Tomorrow morning, for the third year in a row, I am cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving. Doing this each year reinforces the fact that I Am An Adult Now, an adult who should not try to take a nap while my mom washes the dishes. She tries to help reinforce that fact wherever she can, sometimes in the form of pots banging together above my head.

Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving? I dare you to take a nap.

My mom is practically a goddess in the kitchen. I grew up not with a few favorite dishes, but with an arsenal of cuisines and meals my mom had created over the years. I am so thankful that she introduced me to so many different types of foods, because it helped me become the woman I am today: one who eagerly eats chicken feet (with talons!). That said, I am not a picky eater. I maintain that I will always try anything once, including pig intestines, particularly if I don't know what I am eating before it goes into my mouth.

The first year I made the Thanksgiving turkey, I was somewhat nervous. My mom had only requested that I bake a small turkey, about 8 pounds. Meanwhile, she made an enormous honey-baked ham to use as back-up in case my turkey tasted like an overcooked piece of tar. You know the meat I'm talking about: the kind that you chew and immediately wish you hadn't put in your mouth? The kind that you regret putting on your plate because how will you get it off without eating it and without your host noticing that you couldn't swallow one more foul (fowl? Ha!) mouthful?

When I arrived at my mother's home that morning, she was delightfully surprised that the turkey was golden brown rather than charred black. It smelled perfectly edible, and when she cut into it juices ran down the back of the small bird's body. By the end of the day, guests were picking the meat off the bones and commenting on how delicious it was, how perfectly moist it was, how in their 76 years of life they had not eaten a turkey as good as that one.

I shot my mom a smug look and a raised eyebrow, the look that I've trademarked over the years, and she beamed with pride. Her daughter could cook. And when I told her the recipe came from a local radio DJ, she didn't believe me.

The next year I used the same recipe to roast a 17 pound turkey, and the turkey turned out equally well. This year, I am making a 22 pound turkey. TWENTY TWO POUNDS. That's, like, the weight of my nephew.

I'm all about minimal work, fool-proof recipes, and impressing people. And this recipe for our annual Thanksgiving turkey (courtesy of the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning radio show) has it all. Whether you're looking to showcase your mad cooking skillz while entertaining a house full of guests or you just want your mother-in-law to adore you, read on for the recipe. But chef beware: keep a large supply of pillows on-hand. That tryptophan will seduce turkey eaters into slumber every time.

Continue reading "Thanksgiving Turkey" »

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Every year for Thanksgiving, my employer hosts a luncheon for the legal department and caters turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and corn. Our group supplies the rest: side dishes (carrots, green beans, yams, salads, etc.), desserts (chocolate, pecan pie, cheesecake, pumpkin pie, apple pie, etc.), drinks (soda, tea, etc.), bread (dinner rolls, cornbread, specialty breads, etc.).

The first year I signed up for it, I arrived a little late on the scene and all the normal vegetable side dishes were already taken, but there was still one remaining slot for a vegetable. The dessert openings had already been snatched up, and I was unwilling to bring something like a single tub of Cool Whip, mainly because the males in our group should be responsible for bringing that since they don't cook.

I am also an attention whore and love showcasing my ability to cook. When you've got the talent, it's important to flaunt it appropriately. In my case, "appropriately" is defined as: every opportunity. (Thus, the new cooking website, yet to launched.)

After staring at the list of vegetable dishes, I came up with a mental list of veggies not represented: zucchini, mushrooms, bok choy. Not great choices for Thanksgiving, save the mushrooms – but what could I do with those?

I made stuffed mushrooms, which were a hit with the crowd and have since been a tradition at work. Plus, they're pretty. And easy. And I'm all about no-fuss food.

Want to make them for your next party? Keep reading.

Continue reading "Stuffed" »

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Julianna, the author of one of the blogs I read, recently wrote a raw and beautiful entry about her struggle with anorexia. While the feelings are something she will likely battle the rest of her life (the same feelings with which many of us still struggle), she is at a point in her life in which she can say that she's no longer at war with the physical (food) side of anorexia.

I'm so proud of her accomplishment, and for her courage to speak out about an eating disorder that has ravaged the lives of so many women.

Julianna is an American bioarcheologist, who is currently separated (by the government) from her Jordanian husband, who is also a bioarchelogogist. She's in the process of telling the story (on her site) of how they met and began their relationship at an excavation site in Jordan.

It's good for the romantic in me.

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I feel like there is something that I was supposed to do today – what was it?

Oh, yes. That's it. I'm choosing a winner for the cooking tip contest. There were so many great entries – I almost feel that it would be an injustice to pick just one. Whoever made up the rules for this game, anyway?

Continue reading "Good for those who haven't figured out how to elegantly dice tomatoes yet" »

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I think Roger has begun eating grapenuts cereal just to spite me. He went to the store, found the healthiest cereal possible, and eats a bowl whenever I eat ice cream.

I thought a good solution to the problem would be just to sprinkle a few grapenuts on my slow-churned chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce.

The grapenuts were so crunchy they nearly chipped a tooth, but weren't alltogether horrible when paired with my dessert.

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I am a gourmand.

There. I said it. I love food. I love cooking. I love chocolate and chicken and chives, though perhaps not mixed together.

I often find myself daydreaming of hosting my own daytime television show on the FoodTV network, of driving with Rachel Ray in a Chrysler convertible on our way to find the next best place to film $40 a Day, of sampling foods and discussing what spices have been added to produce such a unique flavor.

Simply put, I love to cook.

With the holidays quickly approaching I thought it might be appropriate to unveil a new section of this site for the food lover in each of us. Each week I'll be highlighting my favorite recipes and foods from around the world and in my kitchen. You can use the "Search" feature in the side bar or check out the Gourmand category (also: a Gourmand section coming to a Side Bar near you soon!).

I recently found a list of Unusual Kitchen Tips. The list was so intriguing to me that I feel obligated to share it. I'm also curious whether you are holding a well-kept kitchen secret, and if so, the Internets must know what your secret is. (* * * CONTEST ALERT * * *)

Continue reading "For the Foodie in Each of Us (and even those that just need a little extra help in the kitchen)" »

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For the past month, my husband (Roger) has been telling me that our local grocery store, Tom Thumb, is becoming a bit ghetto. I have never paid attention to him until recently.

While I was at home cooking this weekend, Roger ran a couple errands for me. One errand was to Tom Thumb for flour. I forgot the purpose of the second errand because Roger came home five hours later. Apparently he needed to balance a quick trip to the grocery store with an all-day excursion to Best Buy.

When he opened the flour to pour it into its canister, something caught his eye. Something small. And dark. And possibly moving.

And then he saw another.

Continue reading "No (we)evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.*" »

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I've taken up the habit of eating pistachios. I love cracking them open and popping them in my mouth.

Except, GAH. They don't just "crack open" like one would expect, particularly considering they're already pre-cracked for my convenience.

Recently I've found myself sitting at my desk, straining to get the nuts out, attempting to pry the shell open with my metal mail opener. The pistachio inevitably flies across my cubicle, which means seconds later I'm scouring the carpet looking for where it might have landed. AND WHEN I FIND IT, I STILL EAT IT.

How ghetto is that?

Dude. After all that hard work, I'm eating it just on principle. I worked for that sucker.

I just crawled out from under my desk (where my last pistachio landed) in time to see a coworker (male) walk into my cubicle, glance at the open shell on my desk and then say, "Everything okay with your nuts? I noticed you were struggling with them a bit."

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