Step One: Obtain Chocolate

By Toni Poppe

(Toni claims she doesn't like to cook, but I have yet to eat a meal she's prepared that illustrates this in any way. Sometimes I just don't understand why anyone wouldn't love to cook. In the same way, Toni doesn't understand why everyone doesn't find themselves giddy over things like grammar rules and finding fallacies in argument. Often this leads to the two of us correcting each other: "Toni, that is not a shiffonade." Or "Heather, that's not how you spell 'chiffonade.'" You might think we don't get each other. Couldn't be further from the truth.)

So the thing with me and cooking is that I'm not really a fan. I have no idea what I'm doing on this food blog, but I love Heather and would do anything for her. The adage is "write what you know", not "write what you know the bare minimum about". Unlike Heather and Brittaney, I do not lust after cookware, nor do I find cooking to be a pleasant little challenge between the ingredients, appliances and myself.

When I cook, it's more like controlled chaos. Anyone who's ever tried to carry a conversation, or heaven forbid, lend a hand will soon learn that it's best to let my little whirly dervish pass while hiding safely in the confines of a nearby closet or crawlspace. My husband goes to school most nights, and I miss having him home in the evenings. But honestly, it's probably better for our marriage that he's not there to witness most of the meal preparation. I don't even let the dog in while I'm cooking.

The problem is, I'm not what corporate America would call a "big picture" person. I admire those with vision, but I just don't have a lot of my own. As a kid, I never had an imaginary friend and I hated when adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. To me, the more pressing question was "How do you navigate the choppy waters of the 4th grade social scene while simultaneously annoying the hell out of your older brother?" I learned early that the devil is in the details, and as any Catholic school girl might tell you, he is scary and out to get you. So I focused my energies on all of the tiny things that go into being perfect. Bobbed hair with bangs: check. Mostly A's and B's to be smart, but not too smart: check. These have added up to one sentence on my resume: "Organized and efficient, ensuring project success from conceptualization to evaluation."

Great, but cooking requires a set of bifocals that I'm still learning how to use. All of the good cooks I know say that it's all about making everything come out right at the right time. I'm usually so focused on going from step 1 to step 2 on the main dish that I completely forget the fact that I was supposed to make a side, or that I'm also supposed to be preparing something for step 63. As a result, I'm a big believer in one pot meals. This also speaks to my nature as an old person trapped inside a 27 year old's body. I'd really like nothing better than to sit down to a crockpot or cassarole meal; it's all so neat and organized in one dish. When I see my Mom-in-law or Auntie K whip up a 5 course something, or one of my girlfriends invent a recipe on the fly, all while enjoying a nice shot of tequila or some red wine, I am in awe of their powers. They have a vision for the meal and can see it through, when I'm more focused on what we're having for dessert or if the flatware is lined up properly.

It is in that spirit of one mindedness that I offer you a link to a recipe that will not do you wrong. I made this chocolate tart
last weekend, and as I sat with my friends devouring it, I smiled knowing that all of the little details came together this time. The chocolate didn't burn, the crust didn't crumble and the ginger on top was cut precisely and placed in a neat ring. I didn't make an appetizer, the main course, a side or a salad, but in my little corner
of the world, this was all I needed for the perfect meal.

My life is better for it.

By Brittaney Meyer

(Brittaney is my best friend. In all the years we have been friends we have only had one fight which centered around her desire to tour the It's It Factory and a 3-pack of underwear purchased at Target. I don't have time for the full description of the fight but all you really need to know is that I won. Looking back, the randomness of our one fight actually made perfect sense because when Brittaney wants something, as random as it may be, she will not rest until she gets it. This also pertains to her food cravings. Like the time she wanted nothing else to eat besides garlic green beans and tangerine juice. Or the quite lengthy period of time when all she wanted to eat for lunch was a chicken sandwich. Her passion for things makes for a wonderful friendship and some great meals.)


My 27th birthday was the best one yet. You might ask, "How could that be? Did she win a million dollars? Did someone take her on a surprise trip to Rome? Did she meet the love of her life?" No. No... and yes. For my 27th birthday my Mom and Dad gave me a Red Le Creuset French Oven. My life was changed forever on that day.

I had always wanted a Le Creuset but, seeing as $150.00+ is a lot to spend on a cooking item, I put off buying one. And then my mother came across an end-cap at Costco. That small act of making a discount purchase at a warehouse store changed my life forever. I have to admit--I was intimidated by the idea of slow cooking at first. Although I had wanted one for so long I didn't quite know where to start. Should I begin with a staple, like pot roast, or go for something more adventurous? After a couple of weeks of deliberation and some searching on the food channel website I decided on short ribs. They were, if I do say so myself, amazing. I was amazed. The pot was magic. It took ordinary carrots, celery, onions and beef and turned it into something that was so much... more. I was hooked. Since that day I have used my Le Creuset three to four nights a week. I think I'm on my way to being 300 pounds but I just can't go back. This is the best part: You can make something that you normally would make in a skillet or a regular, run of the mill, stainless steel pot and, by the magic hands of the slow cooking gods, it just comes out BETTER. Take spaghetti sauce for instance. I use to do your normal thing--take some ground beef, add a jar of sauce, some extra vegetables to make it a little "fancy" and call it a day. Occasionally, I would add a couple of garlic cloves or a splash of wine. Same old; same old. But then it hit me--what about slow cooked spaghetti sauce? Would it be better? Of course it would. This is what I did:

1. Cut a pot roast into large chunks and season with salt and pepper.
2. Add a little olive oil to the Le Creuset and brown all sides of the meat.
3. Move the meat to the sides and pour your cut, "fancy" vegetables into the middle of the pot.
4. Brown for 5 minutes.
5. Pour in one jar of sauce, half a jar of water, 1 cup of wine, 2 bay leaves and 3 sprigs fresh thyme.
6. Simmer for 1 1/2 - 2 hours.
7. Remove meat, shred, add back to sauce and serve.

That's it! The prep time was exactly the same! With the exception of the simmering time (during which I watched episodes of Big Love and folded laundry) nothing was that much different. However, the end results were phenomenal. People actually thought I made the sauce from scratch. Eat your heart out Sandra Lee. I'm telling you, if you know what is good for you, and you want to impress those that dine with you, buy a Le Creuset and start cooking. Slow is the way to go baby.

Thank God for Ina

By Grant Shellen

(Grant is great at a lot of things. He is a great musician and a great writer. What I think he is the best at is being my husband. Recent events have proven that he can find his way around a kitchen quite well. Let the battle at Shellen Kitchen Stadium begin!)

Last Wednesday morning, Heather embarked on a nearly weeklong stay on our living room couch. She just recently started working out again, possibly because she's jealous of my guns. So while she thought the gym was her friend, it laid her out for the better part of six days, including over a long weekend. I don't know about your friends, but if any of mine knocked me out for a week, they would be off the Chanukah card list for shizzle.

I was fortunate enough to be able to come home early and help my dear wife do difficult things like stand up, sit down, get up off the floor after unsuccessful attempts to do either of the previous actions, etc. (Side note: As proof of her love of her favorite utensil, she used a pair of long-handled OXO nonstick tongs to help her reach things that would have otherwise required bending.) This was my duty as a husband, and of course my immediate concern was for Heather's health, happiness and well-being. Until about 6 p.m., when my concern shifted to what I was going to eat for dinner.

It's not that I can't cook, it's just that I don't. I used to, in college. Nothing fancy, but much better than my roommate, who mostly consumed food from the 99-cent menu at Carl's, Jr. and frequently complained of "ass burn." I believe there is a correlation between these two facts.

I'd love the opportunity to cook more regularly, but Heather is the default cook because she:

a) usually gets home a good hour before me, and
b) watches more Food Network than is probably healthy.

So when the dinner hunger pangs started to hit, I volunteered my services. I could tell that Heather was slightly concerned, mostly because she kept saying, "I'm concerned."

But it turned out fine. I donned my TiVo apron and made Ina Garten's Chicken with Herbed Goat Cheese, and I'll be darned if it wasn't downright delicious.

After a subsequent night of takeout, I took another stab at an Ina recipe, her version of a Croque Monsieur. This one was slightly more challenging.

"It has a Béchamel sauce," she said on the phone to our sister-in-law Allison, with an obviously anxious, troubled tone. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

The sandwiches turned out great, and I felt even more confident in my cooking abilities. Heather's feeling better now, and is back at the burners. But maybe I'll try to edge my way into the kitchen a little more frequently now. I can just hear the phone calls then:

"He has to brown the butter," she'll say, the quiver in her voice just barely detectable. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Merry Christmas?

by Joel C. Daniel

(You may remember Joel from this post. Not quite the latkes and challah that I expected, but without a doubt, hilarious.)

When I think of Christmas, I think of farts. I think of farts because I think of cheese, which is about the only thing I can eat when I attend Christmas dinner.

I am half Jewish – the half that does not eat ham and keeps a jar of pennies above his desk. The other half is kind of a pagan – this half laughs at the Jewish half for not eating ham and keeping a jar of pennies above said desk. However, in my heritage are Christians; my mother’s mom (my grandma) is the most direct link. She has long since passed, yet I still attend Christmas dinner.

I always thought we went to this event to appease my grandmother, since for all intents and purposes I was raised a Jew – at least my mother always said – when she did not want me to participate in some activity – “Jewish boys don't [insert one: wrestle, play football, leave the toilet seat up, date until they are 30, drive over the speed limit, talk to their mothers that way].” However, secretly I always preferred Christmas to Hanukkah. The fact that there were candy canes, a tree covered in flair, rice pudding, and a visit from Santa were certainly favorable factors. But I realize now that it was really the cheese that drew me to the festivities – the cheese and the copious amounts of meat swimming together on the same plate at the same meal. Even though my family never ate Kosher, and I did not know all the rules officially until much later in life, I think a part of me intrinsically knew there was something wrong with my blasphemous behavior, and yet Christmas would seem the one night of the year I could have a free pass to sin. Thus, I indulged.

Or I used to indulge. I no longer partake in the copious consumption of meat on Christmas, or on any other day. That side of my family does not believe in white meat, and I no longer eat the red stuff – I have become a quasi-environmentalist, choosing not to eat cow. And I can’t stand to eat meat (ham) that would seem to have more grease than substance. However, I still eat the cheese, and with cheese alone comes gas, but I guess that is more Jewish anyway. Merry Christmas.

Sugar

By Joel C. Daniel

(Joel is one of my very best friends. What I value most about him is, including but not limited to, his dedication to his friends, his opinions and advice, his humor and his well written stories. The two of us can often be found at gatherings making up ridiculously tall tales for unsuspecting party goers. Normally Joel will start it off with something like, "Hey Heather, remember back in 1998 when we went to my Aunt Rhonda's retirement party?" Then I come back with, "Oh yeah, wasn't that the day we had to deliver those goats back to that apricot farm?" And it goes on from there. I know, I know, it is not polite to lie. But I promise you, the story you are about to read is true...every last word of it. -Heather)

Four weeks ago I consumed an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. Actually, I consumed two. They were the first two cookies to move past my gums and soda-stained ivories in four years, and they were delicious. But for all the emotional turmoil getting them into my mouth caused, a suspecting individual would have thought I was eating a steaming cow pie on a cold morning.

Four years ago I nearly failed out of law school. I enrolled because I could not think of anything better to do. Smart? No. A good delay tactic? I thought so, until I realized I was not as intelligent as I had once hoped. Until the second semester of law school, I had probably studied less than 20 hours in my entire life. My desire to watch reruns of Seinfeld outweighed my desire to get "A's" in "Cultural Anthropology" and "Econometrics." Consequently, at the age of 23 I could tell you what led to the epic feud between Newman and Jerry, but if asked to describe the socioeconomic perils of New Zealand's native Maori people, or teach someone how to study for their impending statistics exam, I'd be lost.

Unfortunately, my law school property professor¹ never asked me about the Jerry-Newman feud. He wanted to know about the law as it applied to-- surprise--property². I assumed my memory and ability to bullshit would get me through law school, like it had every other school I attended. It didn't. The Christmas break following my first semester brought greasy latkes, chocolate dreidels, grandparents doting over their law student grandson, and a report card accompanied by a letter describing my newly acquired academic probation. I don't remember what the letter said, thus I will paraphrase: "Mr. Rapaport, if you don't pull your grades up, we're kicking your ass out. The end."

Now, it should be noted that getting kicked out of law school might have been the best thing for me, considering my motivation for being there was less than noble. However, once I start something, it is unbelievably hard for me to quit.³ So I changed my approach, and wound up with a law degree. Whoop-dee-do.

First, I signed up for a gym membership; I went every day. I cut out fast food, and then I stopped eating refined sugar⁴. Seriously. This is the thing I get the most flak for. People want to know why -- always. I did it to get into shape. The first two months were horrible. I craved it. I craved it the way I crave caffeine, which is to say I needed it the way someone who has been constipated for three weeks needs a toilet after a heavy night of beer drinking, when they feel a movement coming on, after their first shot of espresso in the morning. It hurt. Bad.

But after I got through the first couple months, I wanted it less and less, until I did not want it at all, and, finally, could not remember what it was like to have it in the first place. Once I got back into shape, people asked⁵ why I didn't want to have just a little bit. "Moderation is the key," they would say. The answer was: I did not want to remember what I was missing. Out of sight, out of...

This all changed a few weeks ago. At the time, I had been seeing an attractive girl for a couple weeks. For the most part we had avoided meals together, which is great for me, since I never want to tell people about my no-refined-sugar diet⁶ -- especially women, because if there is one thing they all have in common, it is a love of sugar. Regardless, I knew the day was coming when this news, along with the fact that I still sleep with a teddy bear named "Charlie," would have to be broken to her.⁷

Before I had the opportunity⁸ to mention my granola lifestyle, I got a text message from said attractive lady saying something to this effect: she hoped I had a sweet tooth, because she was bringing me a treat, within the hour, as a "thank you" for helping her with a project. This blows, is the first thing that crossed my mind, then I thought, maybe she is bringing strawberries, then I thought, man, you are an idiot for even considering that. I am not sure how I responded to the text, probably with a "Sounds delicious! I can't wait!" The reason for this should be obvious: this girl, I liked, and we had yet to become intimately acquainted. I may not know much about women, but I do know the best way to see someone you are into naked is not to deny them the satisfaction of at least trying a cookie they made for you⁹. And, this, my friends, is the reason I was faced with the largest refined sugar conundrum I had had in four years.

I already told you the outcome. If you knew her, the choice would be obvious, but that is not to say eating the cookies didn’t hurt a little bit. It did. And so did I, after I left the gym the next day. However, in the end, the two cookies were more than worth it.¹⁰ Further, they were oatmeal-based, which meant they were a little easier on the other side, and I did not have to eat as much oatmeal the next morning. Maybe she already knew me a little better than I thought.¹¹

__

1 And this also goes for my contracts, torts, and civil procedure professors.

2 It certainly did not help matters that instead of focusing on my finals that first semester I spent most of my time working on a hand soap mold and a "Superman" belt buckle bigger than both of my fists.

3 Keep this sentence in mind as you near the bottom of the second paragraph following this one.

4 Also, I studied.

5 And still do.

6 Or the fact that I haven’t eaten red meat in six years. I am not that picky. Seriously.

7 Kidding about the bear.

8 When I say, "opportunity," I mean "balls."

9 In this case, I am pretty sure they were not made for me. They were a byproduct of a potluck-style party she attended earlier in the day. She thought my stomach would be a more appropriate receptacle than hers for the leftovers. Or maybe she wanted to get into my pants...There I go thinking like an idiot again.

10 A week later I had a piece of brownie -- complete with a chocolate chunk. You can guess who was responsible. She would have you think: good influence. I am undecided.

11 Which could be because I wear a name tag that says "Freak" where my left eye should be.