{He Said} Taking Offense

There is a saying that I often repeat by Brigham Young.

"He who takes offense when no offense is intended is a fool,

and he who takes offense when offense is intended

is a GREATER fool." 

I have tried to live by this and most of the time I do okay, however sometimes lines get crossed where taking offense is not only right thing to do but a moral imperative. 

The following card came with the pajamas that Katie bought for me.

Needless to say I am offended and vehemently disagree.

{She Said} Can she bake a cherry pie, Bart-y boy...

I love an occasional slow, cool, sleepy weekend afternoon. 

Because I get the chance to do up something like this...

And when it actually turns out right {like I vehemently hope this one did}, a kitchen triumph almost

 ~ not quite, but almost ~ 

makes up for the hundred and one kitchen disasters that preceded it. 

side note: I foolishly persuaded El Husband to go with me to purchase straight-from-the-farm sour cherries this summer.  The very same ones filling this pie.

The foolish bit?  

The fresh fruit only came in 5-gallon buckets.  

And we bought two. 

{Insert sheepish grin}

Does anyone out there have any good sour cherry recipes?  {Miranda? Natalie? Cheryl?....Anyone?}

{She Said} Girls' Weekend

I'm going to throw a fairly inflammatory comment out here into the ether.

You may get a tad riled up about it.  

You may think I'm barking up the wrong tree. 

You may have a bone to pick with my opinion.  

But trust me, o best beloved reader...I am right on this count, and I simply won't quibble over details:

My husband is the level best man around. 

In fact, he beats the pants off any other husband, hands down.

Here's why...

I recently observed a birthday.  

My request to El Husband regarding said day:  

"Keep it low key, please. A little slice of cake, a nice meal out with you, and some flowers. That would be just right."

Did he listen?

Nope.

Did he comply? 

Not on your life.

Did he go with my request?

Ha!

What he DID do, however, was beyond my wildest hopes. Funded by a super secret Swiss bank account {note to self: look into that}, Mr. Sneaky-Britches purchased clandestine plane tickets, made under-the-table plans, and on a rare golden afternoon, he presented my {mostly} unsuspecting person with two of my near-and-dear girl friends from Denver.  Thus kicked off one of my favorite weekends ever.

These two lady-yahoos descended on the Pacific Northwest in style!  

Our first meal together involved a visit to one of the food cart neighborhoods of this zany city for a dinner of diminutive fried pies.

Becca (l.) & Michelle (r.) at Weezie's Pie Cart, Portland, OR ~ August 2010

Little bitty savory pies for dinner!  Portland, OR

Saturday morning found us roaming the awesome farmer's market in search of all kinds of tasty and pretty.  Somehow I missed documenting the jalapeno popsicle...trust me, it's no great loss. 

Farmer's Market, fresh peaches. August 2010, Portland, OR

Don't know what the heck this flower is, but it's everywhere. And it's lovely

Then we made like pioneers and headed west for a little coastal time. Over two hours in the car, and I think we touched briefly on every topic in our collective circle of knowledge! I think my girls had the nerve to be surprised that the city soaked us in a summery temp around the high 80's, while the coast was a balmy high 60's.  We wandered in the sand, found itty-bitty jellyfish, avoided the seagull carcasses, and gabbed so much that Michelle started to lose her voice. 

Becca and Michelle at the beach~ Oregon~ August, 2010

Of course, we had to find some awesomely tasty sustenance, because I am all about a good lunch.  {Inlander that I am, before I moved here,  I had no idea that fresh clam chowder does NOT have chewy little shoe-leather bits in it.  Apparently, an encounter with truly fresh seafood is not meant to strengthen your jaw muscles.}  

Coastal clam chowder...soooo tasty.

                          

After 20 minutes of inhaling smoke and eating sand, the doggone fire finally came to life, and we dried out a bit. {I took an unexpected dunk up to my waist while trying to cross a "stream" to some rock formations.}

My chicas, thawing out.  August, 2010

Just in case I hadn't consumed my full allotment of gluttony, Michelle introduced me to a hitherto unknown level of bliss: s'mores with a peanut butter cup in lieu of the chocolate square.  Honestly, people, you must get your hands on one of these as soon as possible! 

{Michelle, my waistline is in danger.  And my mouth is sooo happy.}

Peanut-butter cup s'mores, courtesy of Michelle.  August 2010

                          

I am one of the luckiest people ever...great friends, awesome husband, and such a superb birthday weekend treat!  Bart, bless you for this best of all surprises.  Becca and Michelle, thank you for your incredible friendship!

Three yahoos at the beach, August 2010

{She said} Countdown, or Happy Friday

Remember when you were a kid and your mom bought you days-of-the week underwear?  And it was a momentous occasion to get dressed in the morning and pull out the Wednesday pant!es?  {Or mant!es, if you happen to have that Y chromosome.}  It was a childhood-innocence countdown to that lovely institution known as the weekend.  Remember...when cartoons were worth watching and there was a whole box of sugar cereal with your name on it?  

I'm a few years beyond days-of-the-week underpinnings.  But adulthood does find me with a little clothing ritual that makes me grin as I go through the week.  You see, in my profession I spend a lot of time on my feet.  In an effort to combat gravity and my wretched protoplasm/genetics, I wear these babies every single day I'm on the job:

Yeah, you're seeing it right. I wear nurse socks.  Ugly as can be, but at least my scrubs hide them.
There are just enough nurse socks to get through the week, all lined up in a row like little days-of-the-week soldiers in my sock drawer.  It's a countdown from Monday on, one pair of elastic-laden compression hose at a time.  And at the end of the march of numbers, I experience my own personal little triumph as I reach through the pre-dawn gloom and pull out...

The Friday Socks.

I'll be wearing the blessed Friday socks right now as you read this, grinning my just-waiting-for-Saturday grin.  Cartoons and sugar cereal have given way to time with the husband and a visit to the Farmers' Market, but this momentous day is no less anticipated. May Friday find you with a little spring in your step, too.  

{I just hope you're not still wearing your Wednesday pant!es.} 

{He Said} Nirvana

Nirvana

Utopia

Shangri La

Heaven

In each of us there is a journey that must be accomplished.  There have been numerous names given this place of happiness that we reach throughout history by various writers and religions.  I like to think of it as a place of complete joy and contentment.  With this in mind I make the announcement that I have reached this place recently.

I found PIE Nirvana.

To understand fully we will need to trace the full journey.  A year ago after picking raspberries and blackberries we needed something to do with the plentiful harvest.  Friends gave us a recipe for berry pie from Joy of Cooking and it was fabulous.  Plenty of fresh berry flavor without over the top sugary sweetness.  The crust was made with vanilla wafers so it had a nice shortbread feel.

There was something missing however.  The crust could be improved upon.  It was at that point I added chopped pecans and coconut to the crust.

This was significantly better on the crust however there needed to be a little more to the filling than just berries.  I tried strawberries with a creamcheese and whipped cream concoction that I created underneath the berries.

It needed a little gelatin to add stability but wasn't quite what I was looking for.  Next I tried whipped cream, lemon juice and sweetened condensed milk (sorry no picture).  This became too sweet and needed more heft for the filling.  

After looking on the internet and through all of our cookbooks I came upon pastry cream.  Katie had used this before for a tart (she took a "pies and tarts" class from the local culinary school).  It has a nice creamy consistency, not too sweet, perfect vanilla flavor and enough heft to not puddle when sliced.

My life is now complete.

I can no longer give Katie a hard time for her baking insanity, not without being a hypocrite, anyway.  Oh well, it won't be the first time and probably not the last either.  Love you Wifey for joining my madness.

I sure hope there are these ingredients in the place I end up after I die.

{He Said} A Grand Day Out

This past weekend the parental units came to visit us in Portland.  We had fun showing them all that is weird and wild in the big city.  Given that this was the mission the first stop had to be the Portland Farmers Market.  This allows for some of the best people watching in the city and given my parents have never lived outside of small town Idaho it promised entertainment for all involved.

We had excellent tamales, we had gone to breakfast at Pine State the day prior so I didn't think that I could handle another day of the Reggie (that they were not at the market this day also played a role).  For those of you who have not been to visit us Portland is GREEN.  Not just the color but the mindset.  Because of this we ate our tamales with forks that could be composted.

I do not like compostable utensils, starch is not supposed to be part of silverware!

Compostable forks July 2010 ~ By Katie

We then went to the Rose Garden.  Where we found this couple sleeping on a bench.  It reminded me of the poem of the woman who swallowed a fly.  I am pretty sure I saw a least a couple go down the hatch.

Rose Garden July 2010 ~ By Katie

Now for those of you that are ashamed of me for putting up pictures of couples sleeping on a bench in the middle of a park don't worry, I am related to them.  Should I worry?

Meet my parents.

Multnomah Falls July 2010 ~ By Katie

The next day we went for an afternoon drive and where we found a beach.  Just as I was getting ready to pull over we saw this sign.  I didn't think I should introduce this much of the big city to my parents so we just kept on driving.

Portland July 2010 ~ By Katie

Thanks Mom and Dad for coming.

{She said} Berry, berry good.

It turns out that there are some pretty amazing things about summer here in Oregon.  Feast your eyes, folks:

Obsidian blackberries ~ Oregon, July 2010 ~ by Katie

Last week, I skipped out on work a few hours early one afternoon and joined El Husband for an afternoon of berry-picking out in the sun.  I had never encountered honest-to-goodness fresh blackberries before moving here, and I will just tell you that the smell...oh, my goodness, the smell is sensational.

Standing next to Bart in a shaft of sunlight, listening to the thump of our pickings into the buckets, I realized that I was more content than I'd been in a long time. And that is a superb feeling. 

The Husband ~ Oregon, July 2010 ~ by Katie

I think I just may go back tomorrow for more...

{He Said} This week brought to you by the letters F and U!

Growing up it was the superstition of the parental units that all things come in threes.  The weekend started with this.  At least no one was hurt.

On a recent date we saw this sign (there are street car tracks all over the city) and had a chuckle with "there has to be a reason they put the sign up".

Well we now know why there is a sign.  Saturday we were enjoying a nice trip down to the waterfront after a Farmer's Market run for fresh produce.  Pulling up to a stop light (and street car tracks) I hear a crash behind and turn around just in time to see Katie going over the front of the bike.

Now those of you who know my sweet wife will also know her first thought after the wreck.

"Did anybody see that."

We got her safely to the sidewalk and as she is leaning against her bike she passes out into some bushes.  She proceeds to roll over and starts to spit all of the dirt out of her mouth (later she tells me that her first thought was "why are you waking me up from my nap").

After she passes out one more time and has a seizure like episode the inner doctor is now going through all of the possibilities of what went wrong.  None of them are good and all of them have some component of blood seeping around her brain/needing to go emergently to the operating room/going to die on me within the next hour.  

After a couple of hours at the University emergency department she was sent home with some very sore muscles.  Of note prior to going to the hospital Katie had to change out of her jeans because "I like these jeans and I don't want the ER to cut them off".  There was also eye makeup that had to be applied (no it was not mine).

This has taught me a couple of lessons:

1.  Never laugh at signs

2.  It is easier to be doctor to people you don't know

3.  Nothing can ever happen to Katie, I was a basket case on the inside

As for things coming in three's.

Feast your eyes on what I came out to in the parking garage.

At least we are safe now.

Unless things really happen in four's.

{She Said} That's just...swell.

I am genetically predisposed to a rather violent temper. 

{Case in point: the time my dad went berserk and brandished a firearm at some smart-aleck teens in a parking lot. 

In front of his mother and his two oldest daughters. 

But, hey, this here is a family-friendly blog and that's another story that we will not be telling at another time...

I'm just sayin' there may be a probable wellspring for these rants.}  

So, anyway, you may permit me the bit of rage that surged up when I walked out to the car for my drive to work this morning.

Minding my own business.
Juggling the purse, the lunch bag, the keys.
Reviewing the to-do list.
"Remember to do those co-worker evaluations/schedule the dermatology appointment/make sure that new suture arrived/am I on call this weekend?/ask April about book club/wonder how my patient from yesterday is doing...awwww, man.

Seriously?

So, today's checklist veered away from my previous to-do items and instead populated itself with:
"File a police report/call the insurance agent/find a glass repair shop/get resoundingly lost in Vancouver, Washington while trying to find the glass shop in north Portland, Oregon because I am NOT genetically predisposed to a good sense of direction and Mapquest has some outdated exit numbers and some effer stole our GPS from its well-concealed spot in the car/contact the adjuster with some serial numbers/go find myself good chocolate."

Ahem.  So the violent temper is now on a quiet simmer {lucky for the smash-and-grabber that they are anonymous}, and I'm off to see about that chocolate.

Hope your weekend starts off nicely, folks.

{She Said} Dinner is Served

Sometimes when my husband gets home from a long day, welcoming him home is my priority.  Maybe next time I should put the main course on the back  burner before the smoke alarm dinner bell brings me back to the domestic tasks, eh? 

 Dinner. May 2009, Portland.

{Yeah. The leaping flames were rather impressive. As for the stovetop, the hazmat cleanup crews have been summoned.}

{She Said} Wrong Side of the Bed

People, I am just going to come right out and say it: I am not a morning person.
I have discovered through my 5:30 am  {sometimes earlier} wakeup call that morning is:

         1) An inexcusable affront to the senses. 

2) A rotten way to start the day. 

Husband and I have established a workable method of survival {for him} / a relatively non-hostile compromise {for me}. When I have to pry myself from the warm cocoon of a soft pillow and the blessed embrace of a mountainous down comforter to put my feet on that cold, hard {and I swear deliberately chilled} floor, there is a volatile mix of tired and certifiable crankiness brewing in my countenance.

The Husband, who is no dummy, is practiced in the art of leaving me alone for the first 15 minutes.  For 15 precious minutes,  there is blessed silence to allow me a bit of acclimatization to that outside world.  I am not responsible for whatever reprehensible thoughts course through my mind.

But.

Then Husband gets into the shower.
Which is where he sings all kinds of happy songs.

And sometimes, in my sleep-addled rage, I want to fling open the shower curtain and smite  all that early morning happiness.






Can you tell someone woke up feeling like a little crab-cake today?
My kingdom for a nap.

{She Said} Why My Mother-In-Law Rocks:

Because she worked awfully hard to get this guy here.  And today is the anniversary of said labor of love (I couldn't resist). 

Happy Birthday, Darlin'!

Bart in Woodburn, OR ~ April 2010

Without further ado, I'm going to go spank that birthday boy. 

Separated at birth

{The blog has been intermittently napping as of late. I haven't found my groove since we've been back from our recent vacay. It was bliss to be away from everything and to have my best pal with me. You see, we've been working fairly solidly since we moved here last July...so I've been basking in the afterglow of that long-awaited time away.}

One of my favorite parts of the road trip was a morning spent in Point Lobos State Park on the California coast. The harbor seals and their pups were tucked away in a little nursery cove, basking on the beach.  Otters were slicing through the waves with their pups, doing their otter thing, looking ridiculously cute and intelligent. And there, good people, is where we found my fat cat's doppelganger: 

Harbor seal pup, Point Lobos, CA ~ April 2010

Seriously, the resemblance is uncanny....

Sallie Cat ~ August, 2009

Bart's observation of the baby seal: "Oh suuuure...fat rolls are cute if they're covered in fur. What about the rest of us?"

I believe that's the million dollar question, babe.

Hail to the ch-ch-ch-chief

Going to a white elephant party tonight with this. How can you not feel inspired now.

V.

Five years ago today I married my bestest pal. Among other things, we've experienced the following:

Three moves.
One major buttercream coup.
A twin bed.
A handful of random road trips.
One mortgage.
Two apartments.
Copious amounts of hot chocolate.
Two trucks.
Three harvests in our own veggie garden.
Seven hundred gallons--give or take--of interior satin-finish paint.
One painful backpacking trip.
Three pairs of Danskos for my spouse.
A Fourteener.
Not nearly enough camping (but we do our best, doggone it).
Twenty-six pounds of blueberries.
Three Christmas parties overlooking the Denver light parade.
Umpteen performances of Giuseppe Verdi's Requiem and too many schnitzel dinners. Let's do it again.
Four years of dating.
Two wedding bands for me (I still cringe).
One break-in + robbery.
How many times have we been rear-ended?
A perfect beach cookout.
Two tiny bare-root peach trees.
A growing collection of cufflinks.
Innumerable lab coats...I will never tire of seeing him in his white coat.
Two hale and hearty rhubarb plants.
I won't even begin to count how many cakes.
Two cooking classes. So far.
Three checking accounts to date.
One garage sale lawnmower, one freebie snowblower, one hella big garden tiller.
One salmon longer than my arm.
A light misdemeanor committed to acquire some old family barnwood for El Huzbin.


Babe, you've taught me to laugh.  And to trust. I adore you.  How 'bout another five?

Heart Surgery

This is my brother who is a vet back in Idaho and the local heart surgeon.

The Power of the Press

Recently I bought software online that never came.  After two weeks and multiple emails since I had paid with Paypal I decided to open up a payment dispute.  Within a day the answer was the seller said they shipped the item so I was out of luck (and $50).  I then went to all of the review sites I could find and left scathing reviews of the company.  I wasn't expecting anything but the process was very cathartic.

Within the hour the company had emailed a gift certificate and was contacting the seller to ensure a complete refund.  Hopefully this new found power will not corrupt.

Ova

Pre-script:

Ahem. I am a tad embarrassed to post this little drool-session of mine so closely on the heels of my spouse's heckling. But far be it from me to refrain from sharing eye candy. 

Spring has a touch of magic to it. To see little green shoots come back to life, to know that there is color and scent in those tiny flower buds, is a bit mysterious and divine.  The feeling of anticipation after a season of winter makes my toes tingle a little.  And I get so excited to see newness and vibrance around the corner.  Here are a couple of lovely things that just make me smile:

Once again, the magnates of all that is kitchen-ly have been busy. I'm half-convinced their marketing folk pick through the five year old, ponies and pink-loving portion of my subconscious to suss out all the things that will make me clap my hands and squeal in delight. {Never mind just how large a percentage of my brain IS five years old...}

This arrangement of alabaster eggs is just plain pretty. No practical usage but that of making your Easter table look beautiful and springtime fresh. Sometimes the world just makes me happy by showing up with something beautiful.

Williams-Sonoma alabaster Easter eggs, Spring 2010 collection

This next egg-stravaganza is a notch above pretty; it's clever.

Williams-Sonoma's chocolate-filled robin's eggs, Spring 2010 collection

Those are actual-factual eggshells, filled with yumminess. There is a little piece of me trying to figure out just how many hours it would take to blow out my own eggshells, tint them robins' egg blue, and fill them with luscious chocolate. There is another piece of me that just sits back and salivates a little bit.

Pretty, pretty Easter things. Happy Springtime.

Color me spoiled

Imagine, if you will:
An overcast, cool Sunday morning.
Good smells coming from the kitchen.
And the tink-tink-tink of a whisk in a bowl.
The love of your life calling you to share the awesome blueberry scones he just concocted.

*Contented sigh*
Lucky me.


Yet another creation from America's Test Kitchen. We finally broke down and subscribed to the almighty publication this weekend...I'm sure there is more lovely madness to come.

You are welcome

Read this in the news today.  When you have a chance send a quick thank you to Katie.  I think we might be responsible for the excellent profit this past quarter. 

I am surprised that The Container Store did not report similar news.

Think pink!

The other day, I was driving through our neighborhood when I spied a carpet of lovely, rosy color under a flowering tree. I actually had to pull over and snap a few pics. How much fun must it be to walk out the door to a pink carpet in the springtime?

I'm not sure what these trees/shrubberies/topiaries are, but I want to plant 5 or 6 on our deck. {Too bad said deck is the size of a Bolivian postage stamp.}

And right across the street from all the lovely pink was this vision of springtime bloomery.  I think I may have come across some variety of gardenia.  I also think I am a little light-headed from all the green popping up here in Portland. For a girl accustomed to arid mountain springtimes, this is positively overstimulating...there is supposed to be snow on the ground still!

This is my first springtime where the calendar and the weather are in agreement that the season is a-changing. Happy spring, y'all.

The first step is admitting your addiction...

I've been on some strange dates in my time. I think the one that takes the cake, however, was the evening I found myself sitting in an unpainted warehouse in a questionable neighborhood of my hometown. 

Railroad tracks out behind the building. 

A myriad of POW/MIA-logo-emblazoned motorcycles parked out front among the smashed bottles. 

And a very sweet boyfriend {now husband} at my side as I attended a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. 

Chill out...it was for a community health rotation in nurs!ng school.  

While my demons differ from most of the folks in attendance on that spring evening, I still have a confession to make:

Hi. My name's Katharina. The fam calls me Katie. 

And it's been 18 minutes since my last hit of chocolate. 

Our recent cooking adventure all started with an innocent trip to the grocery store. The current issue of a certain awesome cooking publication beckoned from the magazine section. I sidled up and held the bewitching glossy in my clammy hands, heart pounding. And when I saw the cover's proclamation that the penultimate brownie recipe lay within, I was brought to my knees in wanton chocolate lust. The editor must have someone on the inside...these people are professionals, going straight for the jugular. My partner in crime {a.k.a. El Husband} was as bewitched as I with the promise of baked-good nirvana, so we slipped the coveted April issue into our cart and whisked it home to plan our next hit.

Soooo, the spoils of our recent quest won't shock anyone. Three separate grocery store treks and eleventy-something dollars spent to track down cacao celebrities like Callebaut, Valrhona, and Scharffen Berger. {Because all the big-wig recipes tell you "to use the very best chocolate you can possibly obtain." Because we like to go big or go home. And because I desperately wanted to try the schmancy stuff before I die.} 

Just to up the ante, somewhere along the line I made the decision that this baking experience needed to turn into the ultimate brownie throwdown. A certain Sunday afternoon found me up to my eyeballs in my stash, preparing to pit the Cook's Illustrated "Chewy Brownies" recipe {April 2010 volume} against the Barefoot Contessa's "Outrageous Brownies". 

A little chocolate-chopping technique that I found helpful:
The kitchen wunderkinds behind Cook's Illustrated recommend using a serrated bread knife when faced with a block of chocolate. It made short work of the brick and broke it into fairly uniform, fine shards that melted oh-so-nicely. Sooo much better than whacking away with my chef's knife.

Don't you adore it when multiple formulations of dark chocolate come to fisticuffs? It's a win-win situation.  When the flour settled, we found ourselves staring across a vast expanse of crackly-topped, dark-crumbed, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Two pans full of it.

And then the time came to dispense our goods. A not-so-secret fact about the Husby and me: we hustle people into helping us deal with the products of our kitchen adventures. Yes, we are pushers of the sugar; that's how things roll around our place. The dialogue usually goes something like this:

Me: Hello, So-And-So. I called because I need a little help with something. A service project.
Unsuspecting Victim: Ummmmm...okay.
Me: I baked too much. Up to my eyeballs in treats. Think you can help us out?

You can probably imagine how the rest of it goes down. Yes, I am a shameless baking hussy. I'm not above bribing people to be my friends by using the wiles of kitchen tricks.  Deal with it...you might be next.

Interestingly enough, the results of our little brownie bake-off ended in a draw.  While I had visions of a clear winner, both recipes had their distinct merits. Neither we nor our hapless victims taste testers could decide which they liked better. {Later, Bart did declare a slight preference for the Cook's Illustrated version.} So we all just stuffed our faces and reached for our elastic-waist pants. Told you I was hooked. There should be support group meetings for things like this. {Yikes. I think there ARE meetings. Meetings called Weight Watchers.} Oooooh, I'll bring the treats!

Here's the breakdown of our throwdown...

Barefoot Contessa's Outrageous Brownies

• Surprisingly {to me, at least}, Ina Garten's recipe  produces a brownie that is actually a bit tastier after being chilled, as opposed to straight-out-of-the-pan consumption.  This always takes me off guard, as I do like fresh, warm, gooey goodness. {Maybe this recipe was intended for restaurant use and being served from a chill case?}

• I've made these brownies before, and this go-round was the first time I've ever used the called-for espresso granules. I realize it's supposed to deepen the flavor of the chocolate, but I thought it was just too bitter, too forceful, too much--it almost overshadowed the experience. The taste testers agreed that 3 Tablespoons is overkill. Granted, I'm not a coffee drinker and I did buy the cheap-o brew.  Do what you like dear bakers, but I'll skip the burned beans next time. 

• The texture is straight-up divine.  Chocolate chunks are amazing in here...using the very highest quality chocolate I could get {Callebaut, 58% cacao} really did make a big difference.

• After the fact, Bart found that you can order the Big Three {Callebaut, Valrhona, and Sharffen Berger brand chocolate} from Amazon for less than we paid in the grocery and baking stores. C'est la vie. Save yourself some bucks.

• Go here to find the outrageousness. And have a big pan on hand to accommodate the big batch; my 12"w x 18"l  x 2"h pan did a fine job.

• P.S. These freeze really well.

Cook's Illustrated Chewy Brownies

• America's Test Kitchen produced a brownie that was a bit less sweet; they called the flavor "grown up".  I call it "extraordinary". It was a bit fruity, a bit nutty, and leaned toward the dark end of the chocolate spectrum.

• Again, REALLY good chocolate elevated this to a divine experience. {Callebaut 58% chunks with chopped unsweetened Sharffen Berger melted into the base.} Try to get your hands on some of the good stuff; save the Baker's and Hershey's brands for another project. Although I don't think it's quite on par with the big guys, Ghirardelli will do, too, and it can be found in most grocery stores.

• I love reading about the process that these recipe testers undertake. The particular kitchen ninja who developed this recipe baked hundreds of batches of brownies over several months before she landed on the right formulation of chewy texture and shiny-crackly surface.  If you're into scientific process and the why of the recipes, then this publication is for you. Fascinating.

• Apparently, it's vital to let your brownies cool completely before cutting. That is news to me; I usually go for the instant gratification of diving straight into the pan when it comes out. This recipe recommended lining the pan with a foil sling and using it to remove the brownies. I've never tried this, but decided to go along for the ride. Warning:  Get all the dang foil off your treats when they're finally cooled. Eager beaver here ingested about a postage-stamp's worth of foil before realizing that the texture was a little -- off. {Or maybe this is just a cautionary note to myself because you bright folks have already figured out the painfully obvious.}

• P.S. These also freeze beautifully. And unlike the Outrageous batch, they don't require a mondo-pan.

Chewy Brownies ~ From Cook's Illustrated, April 2010

1/3 cup Dutch processed cocoa

1 1/2 teaspoons instant espresso (optional)

1/2 cup plus 2 Tablespoons boiling water

2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped

4 Tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted

1/2 cup plus 2 Tablespoons vegetable oil

2 large eggs

2 large egg yolks

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2 1/2 cups (17 1/2 ounces) sugar

1 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

3/4 teaspoon table salt

6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, cut into 1/2 inch pieces

1. Adjust oven rack to lowest position and heat oven to 350 degrees. Line pan with foil, covering all sides and leaving excess to overhang pan edges. Spray with nonstick cooking spray.

2. Whisk cocoa, espresso powder (if using), and boiling water together in large bowl until smooth. Add unsweetened chocolate and whisk until chocolate is melted. Whisk in melted butter and oil. (Mixture may look curdled). Add eggs, yolks, and vanilla and continue to whisk until smooth and homogeneous.

Whisk in sugar until fully incorporated. Add flour and salt and mix with rubber spatula until combined. Fold in bittersweet chocolate pieces.

3.  Scrape batter into prepared pan and bake until toothpick inserted halfway between edge and center comes out with just a few moist crumbs attached, 30-35  minutes. Transfer pan to wire rack and cool 1 1/2 hours. (If using a glass pan, cool brownies 10 minutes, then remove them from the pan to avoid overbaking.)

4. Using foil overhang, lift brownies from pan. Return brownies to wire rack and let cool completely, about 1 hour. Cut into 2-inch squares and serve. 

In which I am confirmed to be a card-carrying nerd.

Yesterday was a momentous occasion, folks. 

I made my very first cherry pie. 

No canned filling, either...a friend at work shared some of her precious stash of frozen sour cherries. 

{And now I will be groveling at her feet like some junkie, begging for my next hit of fruity nectar.}

Side note: Williams-Sonoma once again cemented their place in my heart as purveyors of moderately useless, yet completely engaging kitchen gadgets...see the darling little cherry piecrust stamps below?  

As I was popping my prize into the oven, I realized that it was a special day.

March 14th.
3/14.
Pi day.

Realizing that there would be pie on pi day, well...it just tickled my funny bone.
I giggled.
I chortled.
Actually, I'm still chuckling at the lovely coincidence of it all.

Happy, happy pi day, friends.


Editor's note: Upon discussing this momentous occasion, one of the residents {doctors-in-training} at work may or may not have asked me if "all of the other Star Trek convention attendees got as excited as I did about pi day". Humph. I bet she's a closet tribble-lover.

The happy family

Saw this and thought of all of our friends with children.

 

Fortunately the cat can be left home alone, although Katie still has to clean up after her.

If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you even tried.

My husband has a lot of virtues, but he is possessed of a particular attribute that leaves me in the dust.

Husby does not swear.  

No cursing in traffic, no expletives when he stubs his toe, no creative conjugations when the Yankees biff it at bat. {It is a trait which I emulate, with variable levels of success.} Something that makes his restraint even more impressive? The man grew up on a farm. Not just any farm....a dairy farm. A place populated by those terminally vacuous creatures known as cattle.  I've been told that their native stupidity could drive the pope himself to salty exclamations, so I regard Husby's restraint as a real mark of character. {Yes dear, you ARE a character.}

As a matter of fact, about the worst, most inflammatory thing I've heard come from Bart's sweet lips is a phrase handed down from his overall-wearing, land-tilling, ranch-working grandfather. A phrase that was historically only pulled out for dire occasions like when a cow got loose and was out tromping the grain. Or when that vital, elusive part for the hay stacker broke ~ again. A phrase that in Bart's farming family means serious business is at hand:

 "GAISH BLAST"

{It rhymes with nothing, but think the word "eye", sandwiched between a gutteral "g" and the finality  of a swishy set of consonants, "sh". Top it off with a good solid, self-explanatory "blast". Gaish blast. Or however the heck it's spelled.} 

So when something is terribly wrong in our house, if the Husby is involved you can rest assured that your ears and your sensibilities will not be assaulted. {Unfortunately, I can give no such guarantee.}

***

Little did I know that there was a gaish blast in store last weekend as I planned Valentine's Day dessert.  Having recently completed a weekend culinary class in pies and tarts, I thought I'd show Husby my hot new skills with a sexy, silky, made-from-scratch lemon tart. 

Unsuspecting fool that I was, I separated eggs and zested lemons with visions of Martha-worthy confections in my head. 

Innocently baked off a gorgeous pate-sucree tart shell and whisked up fresh lemon curd with a song in my heart. 

Whipped meringue to soft peaks and popped the assembled loveliness into the oven with a smile on my sappy face. 

And when my prize came out, looking all golden and whippy and fluff-laden, the evil pixies of humidity and capricious egg whites wreaked havoc. 

The mountain of meringue sat there looking pretty for about two minutes. 

And then it seeped. 

And it liquefied. 

And it slid all around the surface of my gorgeous from-scratch lemon curd like a blasted speed skater. 

As I progressed from blotting the moisture with paper towels...
...to spooning off the syrupy goo...
...to viciously flinging the meringue layer of my stupid Valentine's Day failure down the sink, a process percolated:  

My pastry-chef-wannabe pride macerated in its own juices. 

All the carefully cultivated from-scratch vanity deflated like the cursed egg whites. 

And although the gravity of the situation surely merited such an expression, the simmering thoughts in my head DID NOT include any variation of "Gaish Blast". 

Oh, no...nothing so pure as that. 

So, I am no kind of baking blogger this week. 

No tack-sharp pictures of my culinary triumph on its fancy footed presentation plate. {see post title}

No rave reviews of the fabulous new technique/tool/taste sensation that you simply must try. 

None of that stuff.

Just the following notes:

1)  I confess that I wish I were a little more like Husby in restraining my tongue. {I do believe I blistered the countertops with the monologue/diatribe that escaped as I was ferociously flipping the garbage-disposal switch. It is a Vesuvial moment when my precious baking goes awry.}

2)   It occurs to me that some of the mantras which make me tick may be less than healthy. {again, see post title}

3)  I have a renewed appreciation for my farm boy and his appetite. While I sulked at what was left of the tart, the blessed spouse demolished almost all of remaining 10-inch-diameter tart shell and its lemon-curd contents over the following 24-hour period. If I went to the trouble to make it, that sweet man would eat swill. {Come to think of it, I have and he did.} 

It makes a girl feel like something's right with the world to know that her man will eat her cooking, even if it is seasoned with something a little stronger than "Gaish Blast". Now, that's a Valentine's principle I can get behind.


p.s. Although I'm referencing this a bit late, I found a noteworthy web offering: One of Bon Appetit's writers did an article that's equal parts practical and hysterical  on why folks should stay in for Valentine's Day. It's worth a gander.

For my Catholic friends

Seen on Modestia's blog

This is slightly irreverent. But then, so am I.

Sisters...sisters...

I am the oldest of three silly, opinionated, sassy girls. When we all lived under the same roof, it felt a little like a henhouse. {Pecking here, cackling there...you know. All the hazards of estrogen overload.} Nobody is capable of pushing your internal buttons like a sister. After all, we install the buttons. 

Case in point: 

When Sister #3 was learning to write, she would frequently leave us little sticky notes. The notes on one particular day had been peppered with little hearts and scrawls of "I love Mom", or "I {heart} Katie".  After a run-in which invoked the wrath of Smallest Sis, however, here is what Sister #2 got:

Kirsten's love note ~ photographed January 2010

But now that I only make it back for an occasional visit, the henhouse is kind of fun. 

{Pedicures here, dress-swapping there...you know. All the benefits of sisters on good behavior.} 

Sisters 2 and 3, Pebble Creek ski lift ~ January 2010, by Katie

It's not exactly amazing that it took me 20-ish years to get over the shock of being usurped from my throne as The Only Child...honestly, that little squirt known as Sister #2 stole my thunder in a big way.  But now she is heading off on an adventure where the thunder will be her own. This week, my kid sister heads to the Czech Republic to study, teach, and give service for the next year and a half.  Sister #3 will step into The Only Child shoes, and we'll all adjust. 

But here's hoping that we all get to hit the slopes again together before too long. Our special brand of sisterly craziness is just too good not to be tapped.

{Besides...as I grow up a little more, I find I "lice" my sisters even more.}

Lunch at Pebble Creek ~ January 2010, by Kirsten