Spreading the Love Tuesday!

Once in a while, you stumble across a post that's just too good not to share. This one had me laughing the whole way through. Don't read this post in a library, because you will get kicked out...she's that witty.

Go See Goldfish!

Screw the Turkey

This blogging stuff is kind of cool. I get to bitch to a much wider audience. It's very cathartic.

Another cool thing about blogging? Sometimes my bitching actually gets me the one thing I hardly ever get any more: my own way.

Yeah, that's right folks. KitchyWitchy got her own way! She won! Three cheers and a herky for TKW!



You might remember a little rant I posted a while back about Thanksgiving dinner. Well, my parents read the rant, took pity on me, and absolved me of my duty of cooking the beige dinner. My mother is cooking the beige dinner the day after Thanksgiving, so I don't have to look at it. She's rather awesome like that.

My generous parents told me that I could cook whatever I wanted on Turkey Day and assured me that they'd be happy to eat it. Talk about something to be thankful for!

I almost foamed at the mouth with excitement. I piled my cookbooks and magazines up like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and riffled pages wildly, looking for the perfect recipes for my feast.

I decided to go with my original idea of Ultimate Asian Feast; ever since I wrote the words Dan-Dan Noodles, I've been battling a severe jones for the stuff. I just hoped daddy wouldn't weep into them.


The Menu:
BOOZE
Shrimp Pot Stickers
Spicy Edamame
MORE BOOZE
Slanted Door Beef
Dan Dan Noodles
Stir Fried Asparagus with Wild Mushrooms
BOOZE IN A CUP OF COFFEE
Jen's Dessert



We had our lovely neighbors, the K Family over for dinner, and Jen generously offered to bring dessert, so at least I knew I could focus on the non-baking part of the feast.


Gavin's First Asian Pear!

The day before, I'd done most of the heavy prep work. I learned a swift little lesson. Asian Feast=Chopping the Shit Outta Way Too Much Stuff.

Still, I was hopeful that the delectable outcome would erase the pain of the Day of Endless Chopping, and for the most part, I was satisfied.

Thanksgiving morning, I realized that everything on the menu required some kind of special sauce. Crap. I started whisking and putting everything into little bowls...and then got completely distracted by my girls' antics...and then came back to the kitchen 10 minutes later and realized I couldn't remember which bowl of sauce belonged with which dish.

So I got to consume things like fish sauce at 10am in the morning in order to sort things out. Yeah.

**I must say, however, that the distraction was totally worth it. Hubs had put the 70's station on the Sirius radio, and watching my girls FLIP OUT over Shaun Cassidy's rendition of "Hey, Deanie" was one of the best parts of my day.



TKW may have even busted a move to that little ditty herself.


Future President of the Shaun Cassidy Fan Club

Hubs was quite distressed by the lameness of our musical taste, but was later put at ease when Miss D. heard the opening riff to Smoke on the Water and deemed Deep Purple "awesome." There may be hope for her yet.

I am going to save the Disaster of the Dan-Dan Noodles for another post, but I will share with you the Prom Queen Dish of the night. By far, everyone went apeshit over the Shrimp Pot Stickers. Totally worth the trip to Chopping Hell.


Hello, Delicious!


Ginger-Shrimp Pot Stickers with Spicy Dipping Sauce
adapted from Cooking Light Magazine, March 2008
makes 24

Pot Stickers:

3/4 cup shredded napa cabbage
1/3 cup chopped green onions
1/4 cup matchstick-cut carrots
2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
1 tablespoon low-sodium soy sauce
2 teaspoons minced peeled fresh ginger
1 teaspoon dark toasted sesame oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
10 oz. cooked peeled small shrimp
dash of Sriracha hot sauce
24 wonton wrappers
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons canola oil, divided
1 cup water, divided

Dipping Sauce:
1/3 cup boiling water
1/4 cup peanut butter
2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce
1 1/2 tablespoons seasoned rice vinegar
1 1/2 tablespoons chile paste with garlic (like sambal oelek or Sriracha)
1/2 teaspoon sugar

The original directions say to combine the first 10 ingredients in a food processor and pulse until coarsely chopped. I don't like the texture of pot stickers with filling made like this. Sooooo, I finely and meticulously chopped up all of the ingredients by hand. STILL worth it.

Working with 1 wonton wrapper at a time (cover remaining wrappers with a damp towel to prevent drying), spoon about 1 1/2 tablespoons shrimp mixture into the center of each wrapper. Moisten edges of wrapper with water; bring 2 opposite corners to center, pinching points to seal. Pinch 4 edges together to seal. Place pot stickers on a large baking sheet sprinkled with cornstarch.

**I was lucky enough to have many sous chefs around who wanted to make pot stickers! Mama, who'd never made a pot sticker in her life, was by far the best at pinching them into the proper shape. Who knew?


This Lady has MAD Dumpling Skills!

Heat a tablespoon canola oil in a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add 12 pot stickers to pan; cook 2 minutes or until bottoms are golden brown. Slowly add 1/2 cup water to pan; cover and cook 4 minutes. Uncover and cook 1-3 minutes more or until liquid evaporates.

Repeat procedure with remaining 1 tablespoon oil, 12 pot stickers and 1/2 cup water.

To prepare sauce, combine the boiling water with next 5 ingredients in a small bowl, whisking to combine.

We had a terrific day, despite those damned Dan-Dan Noodles. I haven't thrown in the white flag, however. I'm gonna spend this next year perfecting the recipe, and I refuse to admit defeat.

Watch out, Dan-Dan Noodles. I'm coming for you.

Obstacles

Once upon a time, in a hard and snowy landscape, there was a girl who owned an audacious green hat. Her mother and father had tried to talk her out of the hat; it was brazen, impractical. But the girl needed the hat, and had a habit of being so stubborn and so mean that, in the end, her parents were no match for her.

Every afternoon, after the lunch boxes were shut and the tables wiped down, a little war waged on a North Dakota playground. Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School, red brick and mortar, sported a fabulous hill just right of the playground. And every day after lunch, that hill was the grammar-school version of Braveheart, I kid you not.

I think a lot of kids played King of the Hill when they were young. But, truly, King of the Hill in North Dakota was not far from Survivor:Antarctica. Good Luck trying to fight your way to the top of a snowy peak against strapping Swedes, Norwegians, Danes. Those Angelic looking cretins, with their white-blond-hair and sky-blue eyes and chapped lips and stocky, impenetrable bodies...well, let's just say that some scrawny-legged European hybrid was no match for them.

Every day, the little girl in the green hat would stumble and claw her way up the hill and every day, she got knocked to the ground, mouth bitter with dirt and snow and defeat. Hill: 246. Little Girl: 0.

She'd trudge home, slumped with defeat, sulk over her snack and complain to her mother about how unfair it was, how cruel. How much would it cost the cretins, just once, to let her stand at the top of that hill?

"Not everyone gets to be the winner," her mother said.

One day, on a frigid winter afternoon, a man decided to surprise his wife and come home for lunch. He put on his heavy coat and scarf, cringing as he opened the door. He hurried to his car, feet already halfway frozen, cursing the wind and the ice that slowed his progress.

He drove home slowly, wary of ice patches, and as he passed Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School, he noticed the playground was empty. It was too miserable a day for even seasoned North Dakota Scandinavians.

But as he drove, a flash of color caught his eye. There, on top of a lonely hill, stood a small figure. Standing tall, right there at the top, frozen half to death. But smiling all the same. Green pom-pommed hat waving in the wind.

This is not my story. I've always wished that it was.



This story belongs to someone far more ferocious than I. Happy Birthday, sis.

And now it's all about retail...update!

Virtual retail, that is. Because I'd rather have a colonoscopy AND French kiss Carrot Top than enter a store today. I'm all about Internet Shopping, where the shipping is free and the assholes can't talk to you.

I'm sending you to ScaryMommy today because she has the cutest aprons, kitchen gadgets and treats for the kids. I bought Miss D. an adorable retro-cherry-patterned apron to match the one I already own, and she is so excited to wear it. She even told me that when her apron arrived, she wanted us to make apple strudel (I know, I know! I'm fucked, right?) together.

So while I am Googling "apple strudel recipes"...go visit ScaryMommy. Because really, time spent in the kitchen, rolling dough and giggling and making messes and memories with your kids? It's what life is all about.

Goodies!

Forgot to tell you that I'm guest blogging over at The Split Pea today so come check us out! I love Eralda's blog and I bet you will, too!

Ina Garten's Company Pot Roast

I think my daddy wants to kiss the member of Barefoot Bloggers who picked the 2nd recipe for November, Ina's Company Pot Roast. You can find the recipe here.

My daddy looooooves him da pot roast. He loves him da gravy even more...and Mama doesn't make gravy anymore. Because, let's face it, gravy for 2 just isn't gonna happen. If you're going to trouble with gravy, there'd better be a crowd in your kitchen.

When I first read that Company Pot Roast was on the agenda for November, I knew exactly who to invite for dinner. Hint: German with chocolate brown peepers. Loves the Windy City. The Original "Wallet Man."

The girls and I came down with colds early in the week, which worried me. I won't let Mama come over if we have colds; a bad cold can land Miss Mama-One-Lung in the hospital faster than you can say "achoo."

But I also worried about daddy; every time I called the house, Mama said, "Your father is so excited about this weekend and his pot roast dinner!" I hated to disappoint him; after all, the Original Wallet Man put up with a lot of mischief and handouts raising my sister and me. A man willing to endure that kind of hardship deserves his roast.



I never much liked pot roast dinner, which we had at least once a month when I was a kid (because daddy loved it so). Pot roast is just kinda stringy and...I dunno...a vehicle for gravy? And I loathed cooked carrots, which always rode shotgun with pot roast at our house.

I actually cooked the roast a day ahead, because pot roast, like any braised dish, improves if made in advance. I also like to make braised dishes ahead because, after refrigeration, it's easy to remove any and all fat from the sauce...bonus for the backside!!

I only deviated from Ina's recipe in one area; instead of pureeing half of the sauce mixture as instructed, I pureed the whole shebang. I don't *do* chunky gravy.

My guys were watching football while Mama and I puttered in the kitchen (and yes I did wipe down the entire house with Clorox before she came), and when I called daddy into the kitchen to do his duty as "Official Tester of the Gravy," he practically wagged his tail. He deemed it perfect. And I agreed. That is some tasty dunkin' sauce, people!

The roast was incredibly tender and un-stringy. Probably the moist-est (okay, that word is kinda gross, isn't it? Moist.) roast I've ever eaten. And I jettisoned the cooked carrots, thankfully. I ate a small portion, pigged out on potatoes (Carb Queen Reigns Again) and happily packed up the leftovers for transport. Because we know who this meal really was for.



ps: Why no picture, you ask? Because pot roast, while delicious, is not beautiful to behold. It looks like turd on a plate with vomit on it. Hungry now?

Wordless Wednesday--As If!

As if I could shut my mouth for one freaking minute...Happy Thanksgiving to you and those you love most. And I'll say it again. My cup runneth over.

Family Recipe: Creamed Potatoes

Some of you may have noticed that I talk a lot about my maternal grandmother, Gramma Rhetta but fail to mention my other grandmother, Helen. There are some good reasons for this.

~ Grandma Helen died when I was fairly young, so my memories of her are limited.
~ Grandma Helen was a fairly good cook, but whenever she visited, she never set foot in the kitchen, which is where I hung out most of the time.
~ Grandma Helen did not approve of Donny Osmond, which, in my childhood opinion, made her dubious of character.
~ Grandma Helen did things that, in my mind, were boring, like playing cards. And sitting.
~ Grandma Helen didn't much like me. And it was sorta obvious.

It's rather painful, not to be liked by your own grandma. And it wasn't even my fault. I didn't do anything beastly like kick her in the shins or pull down her girdle or put soap in the glass she soaked her teeth in (I did do this last one, however, to my paternal grandfather. I ain't no angel).

What did I do then, to deserve such a cold fate? I had the unfortunate luck to look exactly like my mother. Who Grandma Helen happened to vigorously dislike.

Now really, inheriting big blue eyes and blonde hair and skinny little legs isn't a horrible thing. I quite like those things about me, in truth. But I looked far too much like Mama for Grandma Helen's liking.




She much preferred my sister, who resembled my father's side of the family, with her brown hair and her hazel eyes and her short legs. Plus, my sister liked to do boring things like play cards and sit.

Don't feel too sorry for me though, the feeling was sort of mutual.



Not many of Grandma Helen's recipes made it to my Mama's recipe box. Not that she didn't turn out some tasty things--it's just that most of her recipes were incredibly time consuming. Like the vegetable beef soup that had to simmer all day long before deemed good enough to serve.

In fact, Mama tells a story about requesting (and subsequently receiving) the recipe for Grandma Helen's legendary Angel Food Cake. Mama opened the envelope, scanned the recipe card, saw the instructions sift the flour ten times and promptly ripped the recipe in half and tossed it in the garbage can.

Who's got the time to sift flour ten freaking times?

However, one recipe Mama did serve was grandma Helen's Creamed Potatoes. It was one of the few recipes that everyone in our entire family liked, so I ate them a lot growing up. And, like a lot of old family recipes, it doesn't even exist. At least in real recipe form. Grandma Helen taught Mama to make that recipe by feel, and I never learned, so I don't make them.

At least I didn't used to.

I had the pleasure of having my parents for Sunday dinner the other day, and Mama generously showed me how to make Creamed Potatoes.

Which may not be a good thing, because Creamed Potatoes are so delicious and so rich that I probably should skip the eating step and apply them directly to my backside.

But boy, they're good. So whip them up for a special occasion, or when you need comfort in a bowl. And then go run 4 freaking miles or something.

Creamed Potatoes
serves 6-ish

5 yukon gold potatoes, peeled, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons gravy flour, such as Wondra
2/3 to 1 cup whole milk
Salt and pepper to taste
chopped flat-leaf parsley (optional)

Cover the cubed potatoes with cold water, adding about 1/2 inch extra water above the potatoes. Add a generous tablespoon of salt. Bring the water to a rolling boil; turn down to a simmer. Cook until potatoes are just done (a fork can pierce them) about 5-8 minutes.

Pour off all but about 1/3 cup of the cooking liquid. Put potatoes and water back on the heat, add the butter and stir until melted. Gradually add in flour, stirring to incorporate lumps. Add the milk in two batches, increasing the amount of milk if the mixture seems too thick. Add a generous grinding of pepper and taste for salt, adding if necessary. Top with parsley, if desired.

Because you mean the world

I baked again this week. Last week was Lemon Bars, this week was homemade gingerbread. And NO, I haven't turned into a Stepford Wife.

So why did I bake--something I admit I'm not good at--two weeks in a row?

Because I've never met Anissa, but the outpouring of love and concern from the blogosphere has made me realize that I wish I had. And it made me realize what I have.


Because my husband offered to take on Miss D.'s Native-American-Diorama-Project-From-Hell and leave me out of it.

Because my parents are coming for a leisurely Sunday lunch and helping me decorate the house for Christmas, a task I don't enjoy. (Yeah that's me Ebeneezer, crusty old geezer, pinch-penny squeezer...Scrooge!)

Because we can totally get behind an idea like crazy hair/crazy dress day.



Because I spent hours researching freaking hamsters because Miss D. wants only that one thing for Christmas.


Because of course I'm going to have to buy two hamsters, because the girls will fight over the Lone Hamster. But hamsters tend to eat each other, so I'm kinda screwed.

Because my cup runneth over.





Gingerbread Cake
adapted from Fine Cooking
serves 8-12

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
3/4 cup vegetable oil
1/4 cup unsulfured molasses
3 large eggs
2 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon table salt
1 3/4 cups packed dark brown sugar
1 cup root beer, preferably and artisanal brand

Position a rack in the center of the oven and heat the oven to 350. Coat an 8-inch square cake pan with the butter and lightly dust with granulated sugar.

In a small bowl, stir the oil, molasses and eggs until combined. In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon and salt.

In a small pot, bring the brown sugar and root beer to a boil. Meanwhile, add the molasses mixture to the flour and stir to combine. Add the hot root beer mixture and quickly beat until combined. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean, 35 to 45 minutes.

Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack until warm, about 40 minutes.

Dust with powdered sugar and serve with whipped cream, if desired.

Pomegranate-Rosemary Fizz

My Darling Husband,

Please accept this cocktail as reparation for today's little accident. And by "little accident," I mean: yes, there was one.

But you love your wife, right? Every clumsy, witchy inch of her...true?

Ah, good. Because I broke something. Something you're just a leeeeeeeetle bit attached to.

Something that cannot (gulp) be replaced.

But I totally didn't mean to do it and I'll try to be more careful in the future and...

Sweetie? Have a couple more of these. You'll feel better. I know I will.

Your doting and clumsy wife,
TKW
ps: At least I meet you at the door with
cocktails when I fuck up.

Pomegranate-Rosemary Fizz
based on a recipe in Cooking Light Magazine

1/4 cup water
1/4 cup sugar
2 sprigs of fresh rosemary

4 tablespoons POM pomegranate juice
1 bottle prosecco
4 lime wedges

In a small saucepan, heat water and sugar to a boil. Remove from heat, add rosemary sprigs and let steep for 30 minutes. Remove rosemary.

In each champagne glass, place 1 tablespoon of the rosemary sugar syrup, 1 tablespoon of the POM, and squeeze lime over. Fill to rim with prosecco. Stir. Slug down.

Family Recipe: Russian Spice Tea

Dear Glen Campbell,

Sorry dude, I hate to break it to you, but you were not the first love of my life. I used to think it was so, but my Mama recently reminded me of the Dave Golley Phenomenon. Sorry, Rhinestone Cowboy...you are relegated to second-fiddle status on the Crush-O-Meter.

Sincerely,
TKW

ps: But the song Rhinestone Cowboy still totally rocks.

***

Miss D. is in the second grade and she's had the same (God, can I even say the word?) boyfriend for almost a year now. He's a sweet kid with very good manners--he even pulls her chair out for her every morning before she sets her minxy butt in it for the day.

And this boyfriend wasn't even her first. Miss D. was workin' her femme fatale in Kindergarten. The girl is stone-cold boy-crazy, and it makes my sphincter clench.

I was bitching on the phone to my mother the other day about Miss D.'s excessive interest in the opposite sex; I mean, this girl might rival Gramma Rhetta in the arena of Feminine Wiles. It makes me seriously nervous.

I mean, I didn't even get kissed until the 8th grade, and after that fleeting second of excitement, I had to wait a long time (as in, 2 freaking years) before the excitement of kiss #2.

"What is wrong with that child?" I complained to Mama. "She loves boys--just looooooves 'em. It's not natural. Boys should still have cooties at her age."

"D. never went through the Boys Have Cooties Phase," my mother pointed out. "She was flirting with the opposite sex at 3 months old."

"Well, it's not normal and I'm planning on bolting her windows shut. I was not like that. She gets it from your side, Mama, I swear."

"Oh, I don't know...I do recall a certain young lady who worshipped Dave Golley..."

ARGH. Mothers. Always throwing crap back in your face.

***

There wasn't much to do in North Dakota in the early seventies; more important, there wasn't much to do in North Dakota in the wintertime, especially if you were poor.

Which is why my father thought it was a brilliant idea to get season tickets (for the cheapest seats possible) for the University of North Dakota hockey team. Go Fighting Sioux! And I'll tell you why those tickets were so cheap--the Sioux weren't real good at the time.

God, those games were boring. Plus, I don't know where the UND athletic funds went, but I can assure you that they didn't go towards heating that stadium. It was colder than a witch's tit in there. I think it's almost fair to say that it was just as cold inside as outside.

There's only so much hot Dr. Pepper (I know, gross! But that's what they served!) a 5 year old girl can drink before she gets antsy. I tried throwing popcorn in the air and catching it in my mouth....Mama squelched that little activity with one look. I tried to juggle my mittens, but my hands just got cold. I made paper airplanes out of the game roster, but I knew Mama would kill me if I threw one, so what's the fun in that?

I was b-o-r-e-d. Bored. So I decided to take radical action and actually watch the game. And lo and behold, some strapping young forward burst down the length of the rink, whacked that puck and BAM! Right in the net. The crowd went wild!

The hockey forward smirked, shrugged non-chalantly, and took off his helmet, displaying the most riotous mane of red hair I'd ever seen. And....cue the ringing of the bells, ladies and gentlemen...this 5 year old was smitten.

From that day on, I stalked Dave Golley. I'd park my pre-K ass right over the penalty box, waving and shouting, "Dave! Dave! Hey, hiya, Dave! Hi Dave Golley!" at the top of my lungs. And no matter how hard he tried to ignore me, I did not go away. I have no idea what my little brain found so enchanting about a pimply kid sporting an orange afro, but he floated my boat.

A few seasons later, Dave Golley was gone, and I was back to juggling my mittens. At least Mama had learned that the hot Dr. Pepper gave me the runs, so she carried a big Thermos of my favorite winter beverage.

The technical term for this was "Russian Spiced Tea" but in our family, we just called it Spice Tea. Mama made it for me every time I got sick or was butt-ass cold. I still remember the month I had pneumonia (for the first time); I think Spice Tea kept me alive, because I didn't want food for weeks. It was a warm saucer of sweet comfort in a cold and lonely landscape.

Russian Spiced Tea
makes a big jar of mix

1 (18-ounce) jar Tang (orange flavor)
1 cup sugar
1 cup Lipton instant tea (unsweetened)
1 package dry, pre-sweetened lemonade
2 teaspoons ground cloves
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

Mix all ingredients in a large jar and store in a cool, dry place. To serve, add 2 teaspoons of the tea mix to a mug and pour in boiling water. Stir.