Wherein I risk losing at least three loved ones from my life thanks to what I'm about to say.

I like mayonnaise.

To clarify, this is shocking because if you know me, I have lead you to believe I did not like mayonnaise.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I was trying to mislead you. But the truth is my hatred of mayonnaise was not an inborn trait that I inherited from my parents and there was a time when I did like it. While I don't think it was a necessity on my sandwiches like syrup is on my pancakes, or a six pack of Smirnoff Ice on my Friday nights in college, it wasn't like I refused or asked for my burgers without it.

But then came the day that mayo turned on me. There I was sitting in the beach, trying to enjoy my Togos sandwich to the sound of the crashing waves and something about it didn't taste right. There was a pungent and almost "stingy" quality to the sandwich that reminded me of blue cheese. I know I didn't order blue cheese on my sandwich so I figured the only explanation was bad mayonnaise. Not willing to risk food poisoning, I opted to throw the sandwich away and from that day forward, I had no interest in eating mayo on anything.

I began to rekindle my relationship with mayo while I was pregnant. I found myself craving it. Really, I was craving sandwiches in general which apparently you are not supposed to eat because of the nitrates that can be found in lunch meat. Actually, you can eat lunch meat as long as you heat it in the microwave until it is steaming. Mmmmmm, hot, steamy lunch meat. I wasn't about microwave my cold cuts and since my brain is convinced that mayo is "gross" the baby must be wrong; I couldn't possibly want to eat a sandwich. Then one day at a birthday party, hugely pregnant and ravenous, I was presented with two choices: pre-made deli sandwiches and some kind of Thai peanut chicken satay. Normally I'm a fan of chicken satay but turns out the baby was not and suddenly I was very much aware that there was a peanut dish being served and not in a good way. So I said screw it and took a sandwich, baby poisoning nitrates and all. (Gasp! She what?? I know, I'm very irresponsible. But as far as I can tell he seems fine without any sort of noticeable twitches.)

The sandwich? DELICIOUS. But it was probably just a pregnancy thing, right? Turns out, not so much. There is an adorable little market down the street from our house that makes sandwiches so amazing that it makes me want to cry. But there's was something about the first sandwich I had from this place that was different and was even better than any of the sandwiches I had enjoyed before. Then I realized what I had done: I forgot to ask for no mayo.

So there you have it people! I LIKE MAYONNAISE!!! And I am not afraid to admit it anymore. Really, I am not all that surprised. Could I really blame the mayo for my bad sandwich? No. And how could I when it was my fault that I chose to purchase food from from a restaurant that I have actually used to describe how gross something else is that is not that restaurant (i.e. "Ugh. Nasty. It smells like a Togo's in here.")

Do I wish that it wasn't mayo that I started to like again and something slightly more healthy like say raw fennel or wheat grass smoothies? Sure. And you know, maybe I will come around on those things too someday. I wonder what they would taste like with mayo on them?

(Stay tuned for my next post which I shall call, "Why Heather is Sad and Needs to Exercise More.")

Watch and Laugh

In addition to being excellent musicians, my husband and his band mates are hilarious! They made "thank you" videos for some of their most loyal fans who donated to the completion of their latest album, "Buttons and Bows." You can see them all here.

This is one of my favorites that was made for guitar and keyboard player Audie's wife, Cheryl.



After you watch the videos you should go here and buy a CD because it is awesome and you will LOVE it.

Leverpostej-Off 2011, Part Two

There was only way to properly judge the liverpostej, and that was through a blind taste test. Jess, my dad and I went into the kitchen and to prepare two equal plates to share. Theoretically, no one would know which one belonged to who. But as we began to prepare the plates it became clear right away that this would not be the case, as well as who had won the battle. It was Grandpa, without a doubt.

"You know, I don't even think we should serve this."

"No!" My dad said. And then he tried ours. "Yeah...Grandpa's is way better."

My uncle came in to find out what the holdup was and we told him that we were thinking of throwing in the towel; our liver was not up to snuff. He picked up our plate of leverpostej, its color and consistency clearly not right. He brought the plate up to his nose and took a sniff.

"It smells like Friskies!" he said. That was less than comforting.

I was ready to just dump all of it and anything resembling my Danish ancestry in the trash since we had so clearly failed. But Grandpa was really looking forward to trying it so instead "quitting" we surrendered.


With our white flags made out of chopsticks and napkins, we humbly accepted our loss.


Grandpa's is the one on the left and ours is on the right. Not that you know what leverpostej should look like, but ours is not right. The color is wrong and the consistency is wrong. I realize that both look equally unappetizing.


The most important judge.

My Grandpa is a fairly quiet guy in general. At 91 years old, he is in great shape but sometimes even the simplest tasks can be a bit tiresome for him. These days, our visits usually consist of him sitting quietly and taking it all in. He tells the occasional story that I just love and wish I could bottle up and keep in my pocket to listen to anytime I need a smile. But for the most part, he just sits back and enjoys his family enjoying themselves; he doesn't have to say much for us to know what he is really feeling.

"You know, Grandpa," I said, "Dad says your pickles won too."

"Well, yes," he said. "I suspected as much." And he smiled a big proud smile.

I've never been happier to lose something in my life.

Leverpostej-Off 2011, Part One

Let me start by saying that I have no idea how I got roped into this, or why I agreed at all. I must have been intoxicated. Or maybe it's because when your 91-year-old grandfather asks you to do something, even if it is cooking Danish leverpostej (liver paste), you do it. Also, I think I was a little drunk.

No, really. Here is how it actually went down:

This all began years ago when my mom decided she wanted to get pet chickens. Finally, this spring, my Dad begrudgingly agreed. So my mom did her research, got the proper permits and placed her order for six baby chicks to be mailed to her. Yes, mailed. That is actually a thing.

The chickens were not going to be arriving for several weeks and even when they did arrive, they could not go in a coop right away because they would be babies that would need to be kept in a brooding box under warm lights. So, my Dad had plenty of time to draw up some plans and build a coop himself. Sure you can buy a perfectly good ready-made chicken coop, but where is the fun in that? Plus, this is only going to take "a few weekends."

A few weekends.

Those words made me shudder. Why? Because about 10 years ago when I was still living at home my Dad thought it would be fun to remodel both bathrooms at the same time. But not to worry. This was only going to take (everyone say it with me):

A few weekends.

While we always had a working toilet in the house, both showers had to be removed. My dad came up with the ingenious idea to jury rig a shower in our garage. My sister, mother and I were not thrilled. But remember this was only going to take:

A FEW WEEKENDS.

Nine months later, four of which were THE COLDEST MONTHS OF THE YEAR, my sister and I were willing to sell our souls for the use of anyone's indoor shower, and my mother was ready to leave my father. We stuck it out, though, until eventually the bathrooms were done and we stopped living our lives like barbarians.

When my dad busted out the plans for the chicken coop for all of us all to see, Grant took one look at them and said, "These chickens are going to be showering in the garage for the next nine months, aren't they?"

Truer words may never have been spoken by him. Needless to say, my mom got the chickens in April and the coop is still not done. Almost done, but not done. How could it have possibly taken so long, you ask? It's just a chicken coop, so four boards, some chicken wire, a door, some hay and boom! You got yourself a coop, right?

Behold.


This is "Cluckinghen Palace" for my mom's chickens (Edna, Marie, Eva B, Miss Pete, Millie and Diane Von Furstenberg) and it is nicer than my first dorm room in college. What can I say? The Andersens go big or go home.

You can imagine that all our extended family and friends are now invested in the coop and everyone wants to see it in all its glory. My grandparents, of course, were among the interested. Since Labor Day weekend also happens to be the weekend of my grandpa's birthday he wanted to come down for the day and check it out. Two of my uncles and their wives would be coming along as well.

As mentioned here, my grandpa is Danish. Since it was his birthday, my sister and I thought it would be fun to try to make him leverpostej and homemade pickled cucumbers as a surprise. Grandpa caught wind of our little plan and decided to make some of his own and up the stakes a bit. He wanted to turn it into a friendly competition. And thus began the Leverpostej-Off of 2011!


Armed with our Danish cookbook, Jessie and I got some aprons and the proper tools.


If I have to touch organ meat, there ain't just gonna be one of these consumed tonight.


I'm smiling but in my head I am thinking, "I'm holding a bag of liver. I'm holding a bag of liver."


"Don't worry Mommy! Me and my band of trained chihuahuas will save you from the liver!"


Oooo, anchovies.


Onions.


Bacon. So much bacon.


I decided to spare you any photos of the leverpostej in its precooked state and for that you are welcome. As you can see, we made six loaves of it. They were mini loaves but still: we made six of them. And yes, I see the irony here. (See aforementioned chicken coop palace.)

When it came out of the oven it smelled like the leverpostej I remembered so we figured we must have done something right. However, right away we knew there was a problem with consistency. For true leverpostej, you need a meat grinder in order to achieve that paste-like quality. We used a food processor, and while we let it run for a really long time, there were obvious chunks remaining in our mixture.

"I have a bad feeling about this." I said.

"No, I think this is what Grandpa's looked like," my dad said.

"You're just saying that. I don't think we did this right."

To which my sister replied, "Well, at least we made six of them."

This may turn out to be an epic failure but only time will tell.

San Diego: The Final Chapter

And now, my fans, the moment you have all been waiting for. The end of our coastal journey to San Diego and back. (And by "fans" I am referring to my mom, a handful of friends and my husband, sometimes. He is a very busy man.)

In a nutshell, THE DRIVE HOME SUCKED!!!

We left San Diego at around 10:30 in the morning for what should have been about a 4 hour drive to the Danish town of Solvang, CA. However, we did not arrive at our destination until 6:30 that evening. This is thanks in part to Southern California traffic, a bathroom break and a lunch stop at a Chili's in Carson, CA where, based on the service, was clearly run by drunk, blind, monkeys.

Despite the fact that it was late and we were starving, we insisted on doing the one thing we wanted to do when we left San Diego: get to our hotel, unpack the car and take a dip in the pool. A pool that, turns out, was not as family friendly as our experience at the Madonna Inn. The pool was in the center of the hotel and surrounded by outdoor patios that hotel guests could sit on and enjoy a glass of wine. I'm referring specifically to one young couple in particular. I remember looking up at them and thinking, "They have the right idea. Cool evening. A nice bottle of Pinot." And then my thought was interrupted by the sound of the rest of our troop heading out the the pool. There was splashing, and yelling, playing and general disturbing the peace.

It was so romantic.

And then, Madison took a pretty good fall, bumping her head with a loud "THWACK" on the tiled ground surrounding the pool and thus began a fit of screaming that lasted several migraine-inducing minutes. Poor little thing. This was about the time the couple retreated inside and I thought to myself, "It appears we have become one of those families." And I am also guessing ensured that they would be using a second method of birth control that evening. You're welcome.

Now, my Grandpa, Frank Andersen (with an S-E-N), is Danish. While he was born here, his parents were from Denmark. He grew up in Wisconsin in a Danish community but lived here during a time where it was more important to assimilate to American culture so he never really spoke Danish. He then moved to California and married my Grandma whose ethnic background consists of about 14 billion different European counties. Since my Grandpa is 100% Danish, my dad is half making me one quarter. Although it is just one quarter, it is the most I am of anything. Growing up, my only real experience with the culture was through a few dishes he would make. One was Liverpaste that I thought smelled (and was) cat food so as a kid I refused to touch it. My Grandpa hasn't made it in years and I would die to try some now as an adult.

At thanksgiving (or anytime the whole family was together) he would make us Danish Pancakes which are thin crepe-like pancakes filled with jams and sweetened cream cheese. Or plain with butter and syrup, like I liked them. And every Christmas he makes a huge batch of fried Kleiner cookies. He packages them up in holiday tins and sends them off to all 4 of his sons. They last about 20 minutes in the house when them arrive. They are just that good.

Being that Solvang is a replica of a little Danish town I couldn't help feel like I was getting back to my roots. You know! A chance to be with my people! Who are, apparently, a lot of Asian tourists.

One of Denmark's more famous dishes is the aebleskiver. Little round balls of pancakey goodness. The first time I ever had on of these things was in Solvang a few years ago. I guess my Grandpa used to make these little treats for my dad and his brothers growing up but my dad never seemed to want to carry on the tradition with my sister and I. My dad is a more savory breakfast fan and doesn't "like" pancakes or some crap like that. I don't get it either. But in his defense, the man can make a mean over-easy egg. Well, I am glad I discovered them in adulthood because they are divine.

Aside from being a Danish village, another little piece of my heart will always belong to Solvang. You see, in high school, I was in show choir. Yes, that's right, I was basically in the late nineties version of Glee. Grant was in it too. And while I never got a slushy to the face or faked being pregnant with his baby, we did go on tour. One of our stops was always Solvang where we would go into the candy and fudge shop and sing for free samples. Interestingly enough, after breakfast, we actually ran into someone who happened to be in town for a wedding who used to sing in show choir with us. Coincidence? Or perhaps it was fate telling us to sing for the fudge once again!!! Since I preferred to not get arrested that day, we bought the fudge like normal human beings.

And then we headed home and left vacation behind us. I think I was most impressed with my son. Charlie was a trooper and despite being taken in and out of the car every day, sometimes several time a day, and never being in the same place to sleep for more than three nights, he slept and ate like a champ. Upon our return home, we even found a couple new teeth in there. A teething baby and an enjoyable vacation? That's really all this mom could have asked for.

San Diego: Part Three

I didn't used to hate the beach. Quite the contrary, actually. As a teen I spent many summer days there, tanning (burning) in the sun and playing in the ocean. But then my innocence began to dwindle away and I became an adult who started to view the beach as messy, cumbersome and just so...so...sandy. I no longer found it fun or endearing to have sand in my hot dogs or all my crevices. Perhaps if there was a way to remove the sand and grow grass? Or better yet, pave it! And now with Charlie in the picture, I am convinced that the beach is a even more evil place full of sand tunnels that will collapse and suffocate my baby and an undertow that will suck my boy out to sea.

Nevertheless, we were going to San Diego and I was feeling a pull toward the beach that I just couldn't seem to fight. While I believe it is okay for Charlie to have a healthy fear of the ocean (and water in general) I want it to be more like a "respect" for the water kind of fear and not "the-monsters-under-your-bed-are-going-to-eat-your-feet-at-night" kind of fear.

So we put on our swimsuits, grabbed our beach towels and headed down to the beach. The kids had fun, digging for sand crabs and getting pummeled by the crashing waves. I even ventured into the water up to my knees and I can honestly say that I did not have a terrible time. This is progress. Charlie loved the water as well and would point to it and say, "Watey?" He even got mad when we tried to take him back up to the blankets to warm up when we noticed his lips we turning blue. He lasted a few minutes more until a particularly strong wave knocked him right down despite the fact that Grant was hanging on to his hands. Grant stood him up and Charlie reached up for him and said through his sniffles, "Daddy? Night-Night." Translation: "Get me the hell out of this water."

The next day was the world famous San Diego Zoo and do you know who was the most excited to go?

ME!!!

Do you know why? Because there are pandas at this zoo! PANDAS!! I loved pandas as a kid and I collected them. I had glass, ceramic, porcelain, plush, you name it. I remember the one Christmas my parents got me a stuffed, life-size panda. That was a good Christmas.

The San Diego zoo is roughly the size of Rhode Island so a plan of attack is a must upon entering the park. We were going to start with a bus ride around the zoo and then lunch where they...wait for it...served booze!

Zoo: 1, Legoland: 0.

Margaritas and beer to be exact. We opted for Margaritas. Did you know that Margaritas come in a can? Because they do. And they are carbonated and they taste just about as good as you would expect them too. Hmmmmm....

Zoo: 0, Legoland: 1

The San Diego Zoo is beautiful. Charlie was in love with any of the animals that could be seen swimming in the water through the glass like the hippos and the turtles. In fact, when it was time to leave the turtles he threw a fit that was so aggressive it almost made me say to the other parents admiring the turtles, "I know that blond little boy who is screaming and kicking looks nothing like the man who is picking him up and dragging him out of here, but I swear he is not being kidnapped. He is just really into turtles." It was clear that Charlie was truly enjoying the zoo and this was better than any park out there, free or otherwise.

Zoo: 1, Legoland: 0

By this time of the day, I have said this about 14,000 times: "So, seriously guys, when are we going to see the pandas?" And the time had come. I was so excited for this moment. San Diego is one of the two places in the country that you can see pandas. It was a childhood dream finally coming true. There was a line to get into the panda enclosure. As we approached the entrance we could hear a zookeeper telling guests fun facts about the pandas using a microphone. We walked into the enclosure and the zookeeper says, "Again, I need to ask that you please be QUIET. If you don't Gao Gao will go back inside and you will not be able to see him AT ALL!"

Be quiet? Says the woman over the PA system. And there was the panda, curled up in a ball in the corner. I am also 99% sure that he had his paws in his ears, what with all the yelling at zoo guests that was going on. His face was completely hidden and his black and white fur barely peaking out from behind the bush he was cowering behind. Next to the series finale of "Six Feet Under" it was probably the most anti-climactic moment of my life. I'm still not totally convinced that it was not a stuffed one from the gift shop.

Zoo: 0, Legoland: 1

To ease the pain from the lame panda viewing, there was only one option. Ice-cream for all! I think based on the following picture Charlie would agree, the Zoo won.


Nom Nom Nom


Turtles


Koala, or as Charlie called it "Wall-ah!" I wanted to take him home so I could use him as a pillow every night. Grant said no.


Two of the cutest little monkeys I saw that day.

Oh, where is the picture of the panda you ask? We didn't get one because instead of coming out to play Gao Gao decided to CRUSH MY CHILDHOOD DREAM!

I blame Legoland.

Dear Teen Me

I wrote a letter to my teenage self and it was featured here on the blog "Dear Teen Me."

I think the only thing I left out was to tell myself to enjoy wearing leggings while you can because although the trend comes back around, your legs are in no position to be wearing them ever again.