As part of the Great De-Clutter of 2017 I have been trying to organize and thin my recipe collection. This is no small task as I collect recipes like normal people scrapbook. I make special little spots for them mounted on white paper in nice clear sleeves.
The problem is I never throw out the ones I make and do not particularly adore. That is how I wound up with three notebooks full plus an ever growing pile of clippings waiting to be cemented into my treasured notebooks.
So this week I have begun the surprisingly painful process of ridding myself of the recipes that did not pan out. During this process I discovered my grandmother’s pork stuffing recipe. When I was a little kid I would freaking beg for this stuff. Every Thanksgiving she would make a big bowl of heaping grey stuffing and I would pile my plate as high as my mom would let me.
Now looking at the recipe I am horrified that I ever ate it at all, much less bagged for it. For the love of god all it is it ground pork with a bit of seasoning and a potato. I was literally eating a pile of pure ground pig.
I got a little curious if anyone else eats pork stuffing so I did some digging on the inter-tubes. I got a few hits that looked promising. But when I clicked on the first few sites they were all, “Did you mean dressed pork chops, or pork roast? Who the hell would eat pork dressing, you weirdo?” After being chastised by the internet I was starting to wonder if the recipe was just something my ever unique grandmother made up.
The third hit down game me a little clarification. It directed me to “Yankee Bread Stuffing,” which seemed totally promising since my grandmother was from Rhode Island. Upon closer examination it was kinda similar. It at least had ground pork as an ingredient along with celery, onion, and bread. It definitely had a bit more going on flavor wise than the pile of pork I used to eat.
After clicking through some more hits it seems apparent that only my carnivorous family ate their dressing sans bread or at least a bit of celery. In the end the pork dressing recipe from my grandmother is a keeper. I can’t imagine actually making it to feed to someone, but its part of me and so it stays.
Thanksgiving is coming!!! I’m so excited; it is the one holiday that celebrates the two things I am best at: cooking and eating. It is the one day of the year where stuffing your face until you have to unbutton your pants is not only expected but celebrated. And what makes the day even more spectacular is napping afterwards to make more room for leftovers is just part of the schedule.
Personally I plan to carefully select my wardrobe for the day in order to accommodate for the face stuffing. Stretchy pants are a must (obviously) but I am considering using spray on Scotch Guard this year on all my attire. This way spills and crumbs will just slide right off. Besides it would be more classy than tucking my napkin into my shirt and rolling up my sleeves.
Yesterday I began the pie preparations. Despite there being only seven of us I will be making three pies. That is practically half a pie per person since the seventh person is just a baby and does not yet know the natural wonder that is pie. Besides I am also bringing supplementary desserts that are un-pie related. The pie process must allow for proper resting time for my homemade dough. Thus preparations begin early. Today I brave the stores to elbow away the other ladies to get at the best Braeburn apples. Bitches in my way get stitches! Then I can begin apple nuditizing and nut roasting. I can hardly wait!
So yeah, Thanksgiving is some serious business around here. Go big or go home! May all of your turkey and pie related dreams come true too!
My husband has a problem. He doesn’t think it is a problem, and to tell you the truth, in the beginning neither did I. Ryan just loves boobs, which works out great because I happen to have a pair. When we first got married though, I had to set down some ground rules.
Ryan finds it a delightful activity to honk my boobs. He reaches out with both hands, gives them a squeeze, and says honk in a squeaky voice. Some women might find it offensive, but they don’t know my husband. Ryan is just like a kid in a candy shop. He is goofy and his honks were something endearing. Until one day.
I was in the kitchen. It was hot. Water was boiling and I was chopping away trying to get dinner on the table. Ryan had just arrived home from work and was very happy to see me. As I moved from the counter to the stove, knife in hand, Ryan gave my boobs a big ole honk. Something deep inside me stirred. I was not in the mood. I was hot and tired and grumpy, and my boobs were not interested in being honked.
That is the day I established the house rule: Don’t honk my boobs while I’m cooking. For years I thought we were the only couple that had to have this ground rule. Any other time of day boob honking in the home is not only permitted, but enjoyed by both parties. Unless I’m cooking. In which case back the fuck off; I’ve got a knife.
Then one Sunday evening we were watching cartoons for grown ups on FOX. That was when the short lived spin off from Family Guy called The Cleveland Show was still on the air. As Ryan and I watched, Cleveland’s wife Donna, made him repeat our rule. Suddenly from the television we hear Cleveland utter, “I can’t honk your boobs while you’re cooking.” OMG we weren’t the only ones! Sure they may have been cartoon characters, but somewhere there were writers who understood us!
Yesterday was a kick ass kind of day, in a good way. I spent most of the day selling wedding cakes at a big bridal fair event at one of the local venues. I stood next too dummy cakes (don’t worry they are used to being called that name) from the bakery I work at and fed brides cupcakes all day.
It turns out if you are yielding cupcakes everyone is super nice to you. People come out of the woodwork and strike up a conversation. I like to think it is because of my enchanting personality, but I am afraid they were more attracted to the cupcakes than my charming conversation.
I also learned bridal fairs have their own set of perks. Turns out if you make friends with the other vendors they feed you their delicacies and give you flowers.
I didn’t even have flowers as nice as these at my own wedding. The florist just gives them to you in exchange for a few cupcakes. Holy shit ya’ll cupcake currency is the new bit coin, stronger than the dollar and yummier too!
I already felt like a freaking queen, and the night was not even over yet. When I got home my sweet husband decided that we should celebrate that I am not cranky because I have to go to the first day of school tomorrow. So we hit the town to stay up late and do grown up things.
First we went to a restaurant serving margaritas that will knock you on your ass. Ask me how I know. We ate ourselves stupid and laughed at each other’s stories. Still buzzed, Ryan took me to a Sausage Party.
I’d say not to worry that it wasn’t an X rated sausage party, but it was still pretty raunchy. I’ve never laughed so much at anthropomorphic sausages in my life. I really think Seth Rogan and friends sat around a table baked as shit and said, “Hey what if we make Toy Story but with food, drugs, and a fuck-ton of violence.” Then someone else must have chimed in and been like, “Yeah, as long as we can have a five minute food orgy scene in it too.” Then I am pretty sure them must have all passed out from the drugs.
Ryan and I got home nice and late and neither of us cared. Dear god I love not being a teacher!
I shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen. I just shouldn’t, which totally sucks because I also work part time in a bakery. You can see the conflict here. Lately it seems I am a glutton for accidents in addition to food.
Yesterday I decided I wasn’t lazy and I was going to cook up one hell of a delicious dinner of grilled beef kababs for my man. (Really it was mostly just for me, but it sounds way better if I say it was for my husband.)
Anyway I hauled myself to the store in the rain and bought a bunch of fancy groceries. When I got home once I got everything put away I made a lovely marinade, or mari-nod depending on how stuck up you are.
Everything was going swimmingly until it was time to get the little cubes of meaty goodness onto the skewers. Dear god I was impaled! Multiple times! Evidently, those slippery little suckers did not want to have a bamboo stick plowed through their jiggly bits.
You would think after the first time I shoved that skewer straight into my fleshy fingers I would have learned my lesson. I however was much to stubborn and hungry to give up. I AM NOT A QUITTER!
By the time we sat down to eat my fingers were a splintered mess of puncture wounds. But damn those were some delectable kababs. I wish I could show you a picture, but I kind of have a one track mind when it comes to food, and I never slow down enough to photograph it before I start shoving it in my pie hole.
I love cooking! Ok, that is kind of a lie. I actually don’t like cooking as much as I adore eating. Eating is truly a pleasure I indulge in as frequently as possible. There are very few things in the world that make me happier than stuffing my face. Thus cooking is really just a means to an end.
Since I love eating so much, it is only natural that I search constantly for superior ways to cook and prepare food. Last night however, I may have gone too far.
I velveted meat. It sounds so dirty, like something a fluffer on a porn set might do to someones manly bits. I did it to chicken. And I liked it.
Turns out velveting is a secret crappy Chinese food take-out way of tenderizing otherwise tough sinewy meat, which magically transforms it into delicate tender goodness! Dear god it is special.
All you do is mix up a paste of egg, oil, wine, cornstarch, and salt. Then you immerse your sexually vulnerable meat in it for an hour or so. When you cook that shit up-BAM! You end up with succulent pieces of meaty heaven.
I may now be a poultry sex offender, but it was totally worth it.
Recently I went grocery shopping to pick up the staples for the week. I needed chicken. Instead I got some mutant meat from a gigantically boobed chicken.
For scale you should know that I am not a midget. My hands are pretty average in size.
Yet somehow this chicken seems to have bigger breasts that I do! I can only imagine what this bird must have looked like alive. Dear god! How did it stand up with boobs that big. Wouldn’t it just tip over and constantly beak-plant into the ground? I mean come on! That is at least a DD cup. Unbelievable.
I never really had a problem with genetically modifying or hormone treating food, but I think things may be getting a little out of control. I draw the line when there are a bunch of chickens strutting around barnyards with bigger boobs than me.
I’m no genius, but maybe someone should sell those chicken hormones of the street in the black market. They could make a mint from people that can’t afford a boob job.
I have a problem.
I keep eating ants.
The first time you eat ants you can just call it a fluke or a channeling of Andrew Zimmern. The second time you eat ants, you have an ant eating problem. The first step is to admit it.
Hello, my name it Kelly and I am an antololic.
My first encounter with ants occurred in my parents backyard. I wish I could tell you I was below the age of ten, but unfortunately I was around 30. My parents were out of town and I was using their pool with a few friends. I was making and ingesting vast quantities of strawberry daiquiris.
As the night went of things got more and more blurry. I was on perhaps round five when I picked up my poolside glass and thought, “Huh, I didn’t realize this daiquiri mix had strawberry seeds in it.” I tossed back a few more before the night was over.
Yeah, those were not seeds. When the night came to an end I noticed that all the seeds were trying to crawl out of the glass. I have no idea how many ants I swallowed that night, but hey, you know those little ants were drunk as hell too so they didn’t feel a thing either.
Alas, the preceding was becoming just a foggy memory until it all came flashing back a few days ago while I was making my coffee. I have one of those machines that has the little water tank on it and makes one cup at a time. I was just going back for my second cup that morning when I noticed that my water level was a little low. I pulled out the tank to top it off when behold: half an ant colony was floating around like it was their own goddamn little hot tub.
I had eaten ants again, and this time I was stone cold sober.