Soup Weather

I am very much aware that The Onion is a jokey-jokey-fun-time news site where things are parodied, the stories are fake and hilarity ensues. However, last February, I read this article about soup and thought to myself, "What is so funny about this? This is some solid news reporting going on here!"

There is nothing I love more about fall than soup and it is my absolute favorite thing to make in the kitchen. I like it so much in fact, that I will find any excuse to make it. For example, here, when I logically went with beef stew because it was easy and would feed a lot of people. I forgot the fact that it was June and about 47 gabillion degrees outside. So, when it actually becomes fall and the leaves begin to turn on the tree outside my window and the evenings start to feel just slightly cooler than they were the week before, IT'S SOUP TIME!

The other night, I made a soup so amazing I am almost willing to lie and say that I made it up because I am just that awesome. Because only someone awesome would put these ingredients in a soup:



You can find the full recipe here. (It's the second soup recipe down on the page. I have yet to try the first one.)

How do you think I did compared to the picture on the website?


If the picture is not enough to convince you to make this soup right now let me tell you this: The broth tastes like bacon. BACON! Seriously, go now.

Obviously, my first soup of the season was a huge success and I am so excited for more. Broccoli Chedder, I'm coming for you next, bitch.

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #1

I got a bachelors degree in Child Development because I thought I wanted to be a teacher. A preschool teacher, to be exact. So right out of college, that was my first job. Now, I don't know if you know this but kids are really annoying. Especially 24 of them, all in the same room together, high on juice and play dough fumes, and only 21 of them are truly "potty trained." But, I loved children so the fact that I wanted to lock half of them in the bathroom everyday was shocking to me. Since I wanted to continue to love children, I decided it best I get a new profession. So I did, and I loved it. While I didn't work with them directly, it still involved helping kids just with a lot less boogers and tempura paint on my jeans.

Even though I couldn't cut it as a preschool teacher, I am super thankful for my child development background now that I am mom. I am no expert and would never claim to be one. I am very aware of the fact that I am making mistakes (probably daily). I even do things I swore I would never, ever do. In college, I would be willing to bet I uttered the phrase, "What kind of mother would allow her child to watch television under the age of two??"

Well, who has two thumbs and needs a GODDAMN MINUTE TO COOK DINNER???

This mom. (Gasp! She what?? What a hypocrite!)

Okay, OKAY!!! I get it and it honestly goes against a lot of what I believe in but since my child insists on standing under my legs while I am at the stove cooking, (food that is meant to keep him ALIVE, mind you) it becomes a matter of safety. Twenty minutes of "Dinosaur Train" is a hell of a lot better than an irreparable face burn. At least that is how I talk myself out of feeling guilty.

Television is not the only activity I do with my son, of course. For the love of God, I was Child Development major. Which is why I know how important it is to develop fine motor skills. What I have for you, my mom and dad friends out there, is a step by step guide for a DIY fine motor skills activity.

Step 1.

Obtain an empty bottle. Might I suggest a handle of Segram's or perhaps a jug of Carlo Rossi merlot? Oh who am I kidding! Those are made of glass! How inappropriate of me to suggest such a thing. An empty water bottle like this will do just fine.

Step 2.

Drink a lot of wine. Save the corks.

Step 3.

Look at the magic of coordination happen right before your eyes!


Never has a child been happier to be playing with something that was intended for the trash.

You bleed on it, you buy it.

You know, all I needed was some pajamas for Charlie. But there I go, insisting on browsing the clearance rack.

I made a bold choice and walked into Old Navy with Charlie not in his stroller. When we walked in his facial expression seemed to say something like, "Those neatly folded sweaters have no idea what they are in for." We headed to the back of the store to pick out a few pairs of ridiculously cute jammies and on the floor in the kids section was a bucket of brightly colored balls. Charlie proceeded to take all of them out. It was clearly time to go and the pajamas in my hands were just going to have to do. (I happened to be holding dinosaurs and monkeys driving cars so he's lucky I wasn't holding the cupcakes or "Daddy's Little Princess.")

But there I go, walking past the clearance rack and a shirt caught my eye. I grabbed a couple sizes and said in an overly excited tone, "Charlie, want to go to the dressing room?!?!"

"Dessing roon?" He repeated.

"Yes, the dressing room. It is going to be so fun in there!" I know, I know, I am horrid. But, come on, it's not like I said, "and there will be puppies, too!"

In the dressing room there were only two things that Charlie wanted to do: bang on the walls and roll around on the floor, neither of which are annoying or unsanitary at all.

And then it happens. Charlie trips and first his mouth and then his forehead hit the bench that's inside of the dressing room. I, of course, already have on the shirt I was trying on.

I picked his little body up and said, "Oh honey, that hurt didn't it." When I turned him around to face me and he was doing that thing where his mouth is wide open but no sound was coming out. About 30 seconds go by and then comes the scream. But it actually wasn't as loud as you would imagine because it was being muffled by his mouth pressing into my shoulder that is covered in a shirt that I don't even own yet.

I knew what I would see when I peeled his little face off of my shoulder. Yup, a blood stain.

He calmed down and I said, "Well, mommy is going to go ahead and get changed and were are going to buy these pajamas and apparently, this shirt!" which fits ok and is only sort of cute. Let me put it this way on a scale of 1 to 10, it gets a solid 6 (with a blood stain on it.) But I could not, in good conscience, put it back on the rack. Maybe if I decide I really don't like it when I get home I can just wad it up and keep it in my diaper bag to use as a rag the next time this inevitably happens again.

"Did you find everything you were looking for today ma'am."



"Yes! And then some!"



And look how nicely I match the pumpkin patch?

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.