Little House not-exactly-on-the-prairie

Drywall was not Pa's forte, but Ma tolerated him anyway.

Well, my living room no longer resembles Kabul so much as an episode of PBS' Frontier House. They tore down the remaining drywall clinging for dear life on our living room ceiling, and now when I walk downstairs in the morning and see the rough wood beams I half expect to sit down to a breakfast of salt pork and biscuits with Pa, right before I go feed the livestock and wash my laundry in a stream.

We're in the process of replacing our mattresses with straw-filled pallets, and building an outhouse in the backyard. Indoor plumbin' don't seem quite right, somehow.

They also kind of smashed a hole in our kitchen ceiling, you know, to just kind of see what was goin' on up there. I'm guessing just for fun, because so far no one seems to have reached any conclusions as to what the bejeezus actually caused hundreds of pounds of plaster to detach itself from our living room ceiling.

Suffice it to say, I'll be staying out of the kitchen for awhile while repairs are going on, so you must go elsewhere if you are looking for food and recipes. Although, let's be honest, I highly doubt anyone considers this site a stellar alimentary resource anyway.

I do want to give a shout out to Golden House Chinese Carryout in Bethesda. You all have kept me alive for the past 48 hours, and for that, I salute you.

Photo credit: Yahoo! Movies

It's always something.

Woke up at 8:30 this morning to a deafening crash.

Went down the stairs and thought, "That's funny, I could have sworn we HAD A CEILING THERE."

It's going to be a great week.

Let's Discuss: The GBF

The Girl Best Friend. The GBF. Why do they exist? To torture other women, naturally. Everyone knows the GBF secretly wants to be the GF. Why else would she text your boyfriend every hour on the hour? Leave him messages with cute secret acronyms that actually mean, "I'm in love with you. Let's make some babies?" Have him fly home to England this weekend for her birthday party?

And clearly, his gchat message that's a countdown until he sees her is just because she's a great friend.

I'm not speaking in specifics, though. Obviously.

They've been friends for like, ever. And of course there's no attraction there. Even though she's blonde and has huge boobs. Like, post-op Marisa Miller huge. (This is apparent from the copious photos of them together on Facebook. Lo and behold, her profile picture is of the two of them. The boy and her, not her boobs. Shocker. Not that I've looked or anything.)

Note: I am a brunette and a card-carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Consequently, I hate Marisa Miller with the fire of a thousand suns.

I know what you'll say, though. Obviously, if this is something I'm worried about, I've got some Deep-Seated Issues and am clearly insecure in my relationship. I'm actually quite secure, thank you, and he actually has never given any indication that he feels anything more than brotherly to her.

But I know women. Fuck, I am one. And I've got a sneaking suspicion that she feels a bit more than sisterly toward him.

Any woman is lying through her teeth if she tries to tell you this situation wouldn't bother her the tiniest bit.

The worst part of it is, what do you say? Any questions you may have or anything that expresses discomfort with the situation makes you seem like Insecure Psycho Woman, while she's just good old [insert stupid poncy British chick name here] who will laugh about it when he incredulously tells her that you think she's got feelings for him.

While secretly she's thinking, well duh, and delighting in the fact that the score is now her 1, you nil.

So instead, the best thing to do is rant in a passive-agressive way on your blog that no one you know reads. Naturally, and pray that GBFs everywhere read this and take this advice:

If you are a GBF, a true and good GBF, you will gracefully step aside and BACK THE FUCK OFF if your MBF, man best friend, starts dating someone. Those are Girl Rules. I play by them, and you darn well should, too.

Photo Credit: Christian Lantry/Getty Images

The Superbowl for chicks

Oscar Night! This is exciting. Took a cue from Amanda and picked out my Oscar dress.

First, the two back-ups, because you have to have those in case your tiny dog pees on the first one, or you lose too much weight after a week of daily colonics and eating nothing but grapefruit.

Bill Blass, Fall 2008
Simple but not plain, and I'm loving the eggplant.

Elie Saab, Spring 2008
So Grace, I can't even handle it.

Zac Posen, Spring 2008
Okay, so three back-ups, but can you blame me? Total siren dress.

And finally, my ultimate Oscar dress (this year, at least):

Marchesa, Spring 2008

Except, get this: I'd want it in a royal-almost-purple blue with the gold embroidery. Because one, I have a distinct feeling I'd look positively washed out and heinous in orange, and two, in a world where I attend the Oscars, obviously I'd be best friends with Georgina and Keren and they would have no problem custom-making it for me.

Marchesa photo from style.com, all other photos from nymag.com.

Apparently, they actually DO say things like this.

"What color are your eyes?"

"Hazel."

"What a coincidence! That's the same color as my Porsche."

"Really."

Wok On: The Seasoning

So fresh and so clean, clean.

I bought a wok today! It is a testament to my nerdiness that I am this excited about it. I don't know, I just kind of love that you have to season it before you use it, and that over time it builds up more oils and flavors your food and generally just gets better with age. You can't really say that about blenders. Or muffin tins.

In any case, a crucial moment in a wok's life is its seasoning. * Cue Neil Diamond singing, "Wok, you'll be a cookin' soon..." *

Seriously, I'll take the nerd hat off now. As previously predicted, I bought the $16.99 Typhoon model at Target, my beloved wonderland of reasonably-priced merchandise. But don't knock my frugality - the wok is made of carbon steel, which I read (yes, I did research) is the best kind (cast iron are good, too) because they are lightweight and get very hot very quickly. Which, if a wok ever needs to take out a personals ad, would be helpful.

Shit's heatin' up.

My wok isn't on Target's website, but here is a similar one by Chefmate, and a really nifty wok set by the makers of my own. (Didn't have that at the store!) The Wok Shop is also a great resource, and very reasonably priced.

So, let's talk seasoning. The folks over at The Kitchn posted recently about how to season a wok. I used the instructions that came with mine, which are as follows:

Rinse wok well and place on the stove on medium heat. Continue heating the wok until a few drops of water placed in the pan dance on the surface. With wok still hot, wipe approx. 1 tablespoon cooking oil on the entire surface with a paper towel. (Note: I used peanut oil.) Using additional towels as needed, continue wiping until little or no color lifts off. Reduce the heat to low and allow the remaining oil to absorb into the pan for about 15 minutes. Turn the heat off and allow the pan to cool. Do not try to speed up the process by immersing the wok in cold water (you dummy!). Reheat the pan over medium heat and repeat the oiling, wiping, heating and cooling process one more time. If you don't use the wok directly after, apply a thin coating to the inside surface before storing.

Seasoned like a geriatric hooker.

You should also keep this on during the entire process for your listening pleasure.

Finally, don't use metal utensils (use bamboo, preferably) or abrasive cleansers on your wok, and rub it down with a coat of oil each time you store it.

The power of...willpower?

This would happen the week I cut junkfood out of my life. Someone go eat these for me.

Photo credit: New York Social Diary

The time has come, the Walrus said...

It's time for a change, friend. Not really a change to the blog per say, more what I would term a Lifestyle Change. One that involves maybe not eating billions of calories. And exercising. And maybe cutting down on the booze. But maybe I'm a little ambitious.

What I'm trying to say is that in an effort to be more healthy, I'm going on a diet of sorts, so don't be surprised or terrified if you start seeing more healthy food on here (i.e. recipes that do not involve pounds of butter, powdered sugar, or cream cheese.)

But FIRST. Below is a recipe for chicken tikka masala that I was shocked, shocked turned out tasting deliciously like the real deal. I've never been a big Indian food fan, but recently began eating more of it in an effort to simultaneously broaden my horizons and to placate others because I'm just that nice, and lo and behold, it's fucking delectable. Except, don't eat the cardamom pods in the rice. Learned that one the hard way.

Just, well, kind of ugly.

Chicken Tikka Masala
Adapted from here
Serves 4

1 cup Greek-style yogurt (I used Fage.)
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. fresh ground black pepper
1 tsp. grated fresh ginger
1 tsp. salt
3 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized chunks
2 Tbsp. butter
1 clove garlic, minced
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and finely minced
1 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. paprika
1 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 cup light cream

1. In a large bowl, combine yogurt, lemon juice, 1 teaspoon curry powder, cinnamon, cayenne, black pepper, ginger, and 1 teaspoon salt. Stir in chicken, cover, and refrigerate for 1 hour.

2. Heat 1 tablespoon butter over medium-high heat in a large skillet. Scoop chicken out of marinade and into skillet, and cook until no longer raw inside. Salmonella is not your friend. Set chicken aside.
3. In another skillet, melt other tablespoon of butter. Saute garlic and jalapeno for 1 minute. Season with 1 tsp. curry powder and 1 tsp. paprika. Stir in tomato sauce and cream. Simmer on low heat until sauce thickens, about 20 minutes. Add chicken, and simmer an additional 10 minutes. Salt to taste.
4. Serve over steamed rice.

Guess he likes me after all.

I like Valentine's Day. I know, I sold out. :P

A heinous story to get you in the mood

"Why don't you just call it what it really is?"

"What?"

"S.P.A.D."

"What in the hell is S.P.A.D.?"

"Single Persons Awareness Day."

I went to an all-girls Catholic high school. While most of the nuns had died off by the time I arrived, there was still a vestige of Manhate that permeated the air of the 200-year-old Academy. It wasn't so much a hatred toward the opposite sex that school administrators emitted, more like fear coupled with an intense desire to believe that every single girl in the school did not do a 180 appearance-wise on Friday nights, tarting up to go drink cheap wine coolers in the parking lot of the boys' school before football games. Mostly, the Academy pretended that boys just didn't exist; it was easier that way, because without boys, there could be no sex, and without sex, eternal damnation of its students was a lot less likely.

Valentine's Day, however, was another story. All of a sudden, young (CHASTE!) love was a thing of beauty, to be celebrated and glorified by allowing us poor innocent young females to receive flower bouquets from our significant others. Yes, every Valentine's Day, without fail, the last hour of the day was spent with the Bouge (our ex-nun principal) or the Nipp (our 200-pound-plus dean of students) calling girls' names OVER THE ANNOUNCEMENTS to come to the office and pick up their massive bouquets of flowers and any other trinket (stuffed teddy bears, chocolates, spark plugs) a boy saw fit to send them.

This was one of the most miserable hours of the year for people like me, who for the first two years of high school studiously avoided any contact with the opposite sex out of pure, unadulterated fear, and for the last two avoided contact with them because I realized that the great majority were complete idiots. Girls like Alyssa or Kendall or Brittany, though, lived for this hour; it was the culmination of months of slutty outfits and SlimFast lunches. They rose triumphantly from their seats when the Nipp called their name, only to totter back in the room 10 minutes later, completely obscured by an epic spray of pink or cream roses (red would have been too serious; carnations just meant your man was a cheapskate - he may as well have sent you pork rinds and a can of Mountain Dew.) They would sit there, preening and purring (yes, purring), as other eager and secretly hopeful girls inquired as to who sent them - Ian (last week's flavor) or Jeff (this week's?)

Some girls couldn't take the shame of not receiving a public display of affection in plant form, and if they didn't happen to have a boyfriend come February, would insit their parents send them an-over-the-top arrangement at school to make up for it.

Is there a moral or even a point to this story? I don't know, kids, I just don't know. I actually did receive a bouquet senior year from my boyfriend, but by that time I was just so disgusted by the entire ritual that the flowers just seemed like a waste of money. Maybe the moral is that 200 lb. deans of students should not be allowed to perform sadistic Valentine's Day rituals designed to shame the unattached. Or maybe I just wanted to remind you that if tomorrow sucks for you, remember things could be worse.

(And if you're bored tomorrow, and want to like, I don't know eat an entire cheesecake or go key couples' cars while they're eating their candlelit meals, I'm available. I actually have someone I'm supposed to spend V-Day with, and he's on business. In Dallas. Where I went to high school, ironically. So...yeah, let's hang out.)

"What does El Diablo mean?" "It's like Spanish for like a fighting chicken."

I love this recipe - it's so simple and easy, but the chicken ends up full of flavor and really versatile; you could serve it with a multitude of things.

I ate the chicken with parmesan porcini risotto (recipe here). I followed the recipe, but next time I think I would add a little more Parmesan cheese and a pinch of saffron - a little would go a long way.

Parmesan Baked Chicken
Serves 4
Recipe adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves
3 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
1 tsp. white wine vinegar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. fresh ground black pepper
1/2 cup Italian-style bread crumbs
3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. Whisk together mustard, vinegar, salt, and pepper in a bowl.
3. In another bowl, mix bread crumbs, Parmesan, and melted butter until a coarse meal forms. Transfer to a shallow dish or pie plate.
4. One by one, dip chicken breasts into mustard mixture, then dredge in crumbs until completely covered, pressing lightly so crumbs adhere, then place on baking sheet.
5. Bake until chicken is golden and cooked through, 15-20 minutes.

Here's a thought.

Sometimes, I want to tell Blogger to suck it.

Cupcakes full of carrots and shame

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't squeeze my love handles in public, Carl."

So begins the week with that dreaded holiday that I won't even mention by name. I'm sure before Wednesday is out I will have shared my feelings about it with the online community, but for now, I will rein them in. Instead, I'll share with you one of the weekend's extracurriculars, aside from mixing every alcohol ever conceived by man in my system on Friday night and a Saturday afternoon of hangover-impaired Guitar Hero. (At what age is it socially inacceptable for men to still play video games? As long as I get a turn to play "My Name is Jonas" on Medium every now and again I won't complain about the manchildren with whom I associate.)

In any case, I made these cupcakes, and they had a bizarre effect on everyone who came in contact with them. People were eating them in multiples like. whoa. I watched the Boy eat four in a row while watching 30 Rock on DVD. Not even looking at the plate, just straight up lifting and inserting in mouth. Hot. My roommate, the raised-in-a-house-with-no-junkfood-and-therefore-does-not-eat-it one (the horror), LICKED THE FROSTING BEATERS like they were Brad Pitt's abs, people. And then ate two cupcakes and walked around in a daze; she didn't know what to make of the sugar high. I ate, uh, five in the past 24 hours. Judge me. I don't know what it is - it's just carrot cake for crying out loud. Carrot cake is humble - I feel like farmers probably eat a lot of it, and people aren't usually like, "GAH, I just need a dessert featuring root vegetables!" But for some reason, these cupcakes are so moistly scrumptious that, well, not to be dramatic, but resistance is pretty much futile.

Carrot Cake Cupcakes

Makes about 22 cupcakes

Recipe adapted from Ina

Cupcakes:

2 cups sugar

1 1/3 cups vegetable oil

1 tsp. vanilla extract

3 eggs

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tsp. ground cinnamon

2 tsp. baking soda

10 oz. shredded carrots, chopped into tiny bits

Frosting:

12 oz. cream cheese, room temperature

1 1/2 sticks of butter, room temperature

1 tsp. vanilla extract

3/4 lb. confectioner's sugar

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

2. Beat the sugar, oil, and vanilla together in a large bowl with an electric mixer.

3. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating to combine.

4. In another bowl, sift together the flour, cinnamon, and baking soda.

5. Add half of the flour mixture to the sugar and oil mixture, beating on low to combine.

6. Add the chopped carrots to the remaining flour and mix well to coat, then add to the batter and mix until just combined.

7. Line muffin pans with paper liners. Scoop the batter into 22 muffin cups until each is half full.

8. Bake cupcakes at 400 degrees for 10 minutes, then lower temperature to 350 degrees and bake for another 20-25 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean.

9. Meanwhile, make the frosting: Cream the cream cheese, butter, and vanilla in a bowl with an electric mixer. Add confectioner's sugar a bit at a time until you reach desired sweetness. (I ended up using about 3/4 of a pound.)

10. Once cupcakes have cooled frost them generously and dust with a little cinammon sugar if you feel so inclined.

Notes:

• Ina (who I used to actually think was a shoeless, cooking Contessa) calls for 1 cup of raisins, and 1 cup of chopped walnuts. The person I made these for feels that it is blasphemy to have any other ya-yas but carrots in carrot cake ("Otherwise it would be called Carrot-Raisin-Walnut Cake, Kate"), so I left them out. It's your call, but I imagine they'd be good. Just stir 'em in with the carrots.
• Ina also says to fill the muffin cups 3/4 of the way full. I did this at first, but the batter was cooking up over the top resulting in flat-looking cupcakes. The flat tops, however, were really delicious and crispy, almost cookie-like in texture, and contrasted nicely with the moist cake underneath. They were pretty ugly, though, so if aesthetics is your thing, fill them only halfway.
• And finally, Ina, God love her, said to bake these puppies for 45 minutes, which I found was way too long.

Way better than the nutrition drink for old people

So...there's this candy bar called Boost. It's like a giant Twix except filled with twice the awesomeness. It's not really sold here (it's from England), which means that if I ever spot someone eating one in the States, I will probably judo chop them and pry it out of their cold, lifeless fingers. Because really, how can anything that says "Charged with Glucose" on the wrapper not be amazing?

I can't decide if I'm enough of a disgusting person to order 300-calorie candy bars in bulk online, but if you feel so inclined, you can order yourself a Boost bar here.

Wok 'n' Roll

The Brit loves to cook. Which is partly why I'm crazy about the Brit. His latest obsession is a $120 wok that he bought and refuses to wash with dish soap because someone once told him it would make the wok gods angry and result in perpetually burnt stir fry. (He's also endearingly nerdy, did I mention that? But in the closet nerd sort of way, where he's all Guys' Guy but then secretly subscribes to New Scientist magazine because he's into neurobiology. Love that.)

In any case, the result is that I get fed quite well and often, with which I am totally content. Most of the recipes have been coming from Ken Hom's Top 100 Stir Fry Recipes, and man, does this guy know what he's talking about. I don't know who Ken Hom is, but something tells me he's a baller in the world of stir fry. The recipes are quite simple for the most part, but we haven't had a bad one yet. Lunch today was spicy pork with mushrooms which we put on toasted bits of French bread, and I'm pretty sure the wok gods smiled down on us because it was scrumptious.

When I get un-poor, I'm going to go out and buy a wok of my own (although probably the $17.99 variety) and this book to accompany it.

Pasta Optional

The pastas, they needs a sauce.

I'm not a big leftover fan. If I do bring myself to save extra food to eat at a later date (this happens a lot more now that I actually have to pay for food), I have to mouth-breathe when I open up the container of leftovers because no matter what they are, they inevitably develop a weird smell until they are heated up again. I'm not a snob, I just genuinely hate the thought of once-good food sitting in the fridge getting smelly, and never acheiving the same level of delciciousness it once did. Leftovers are the Tara Lipinskis of the food world - one brief, shining moment of glory, then a lifetime of mediocrity in a traveling show. Sorry, Tara. It's true.

In an effort to be normal, and inspired by one of my roommates, an 80-year-old Italian Nonna masquerading as a 21-year-old blonde, I made a big pot of this sauce, then actually saved it, and ate some more last night...and, actually, it was pretty good.

Meat Sauce

2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 lb. ground beef sirloin
2 (28 oz.) cans crushed tomatoes
1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste

1. Heat oil in a large sauce pot over medium-high heat. Add chopped onion and beef and cook until onions are golden and meat is no longer pink, about 8 minutes.
2. Add garlic and oregano and stir.
3. Add tomatoes, bay leaf, and salt and pepper to taste, then simmer uncovered for 30 to 40 minutes. Add water, 1/4 cup at a time, if sauce is too thick.
4. Discard bay leaf and serve with pasta that hopefully you know how to cook.

Live blog

Tom Petty looks like he's about to keel over, but he sounds damn good.

Where the hell is Paula?

You're on the ride, you might as well open your eyes

One of the weirdest, most bipolar weekends ever. With illustrations.

High: Booked a cruise for spring break with seven of my girlfriends. I've never had a crazy spring break (call me a weirdo, but having drunken college guys paw me in a dirty, crowded bar in Mexico is not my idea of a rollicking good time), so this should be a lot of fun. I'm psyched. Yes, psyched.

Low: Trying to make Nutella meringues for World Nutella Day on Feb. 5th. Why I thought stirring the delicious, dense, chocolate spread into the lightest, fluffiest meringue batter wouldn't end in disaster is beyond me. I couldn't bear to let the Nutella go to waste, though, so I tried to transform the resulting glop into regular cookies, then finally ended up dumping the whole thing in a pan and sticking it in the oven to see what happened. I guess I thought little magic Nutella fairies would pop out and transform it into a magnificent hazelnut chocolate cake, but really it ended up looking and tasting like a sponge that someone used to clean off the bottom of their dirty shoes. Nutella, I let you down. You give and give and give, and then I do that to you. I'm sorry.

High: Singing karaoke at Cafe Japone with my friends last night. The waitresses there are the meanest, rudest ones I've ever met, the drinks are ridiculously overpriced and practically liquor-free, but their book of 15,000 karaoke songs makes up for it. (Tip: the popularity of "Sweet Caroline" increases exponentially with the amount of drinks the crowd consumes.)

Low: I got waitlisted. At my top choice law school. Which is kind of like them saying, "Well, you're not really good enough for us, but just to screw with you we'll leave you with the tiniest hope you'll still get in, and just to be really mean we won't outright reject you until August." Thanks, guys.

High: I. am. going. back. to. Paris.