Wow, I’ve not written for the same amount of time that was the out of date-ness of the milk that I tried to microwave for my coffee this morning, that turned into yogurt, or almost cottage cheese really, with the application of heat – curds and whey.
It’s been busy and I’ve been forgetting, akin to the curdle, I guess, and I had a bit of a lost weekend, or at least a lost Sunday.
I thought I might write up cooking successes and failures, but like I said I’m starting to forget.
I made a batch of cornbread that was kind of a fail. Must’ve been last Tuesday night because it was the night I had my online class. I used this Melissa Clark recipe that I like for the brown butter & maple syrup in it, although I tend to have a bit of trouble with Melissa’s recipes. The first time I made this one it overflowed mightily. I put in fresh corn kernels and weighed out what I thought was the right amount of butter, but I must’ve screwed something up because it was damp and heavy and just didn’t rise. Oh well, I stuck it in the freezer and it’ll be good in turkey stuffing at Thanksgiving.
On Thursday I took pies to work – our student services coordinator commissions me to make pies for staff after we all make it through all the new student orientations in the fall. This year it was cherry-peach and coconut cream. I made the crust Tuesday night, the night of the cornbread fail, but piecrust I can make in my sleep, no problem. Baking though … Wednesday morning I baked the crust for the coconut cream using the new chops I learned baking Anna’s banana cream (adult Anna, my work friend, not our exchange student). I burned it while trying to answer one more student question via email. I left it cooling telling myself maybe it would be roasty toasty coconutty, but I threw it out and did over when I got home after Wednesday night class.
Cherry-peach pie
Coconut cream pie
I’m not doing too well at coming up with foods our exchange student will eat. She prefers pretty much anything pre-packaged to home-cooked. Saturday I made this tortilla black bean “lasagna” that I’ve made a bunch. I don’t fry the tortillas and I used way less poblanos to reduce the heat, since Anna had complained about a breakfast dish of chilaquiles that was too spicy, but she ate a tiny corner and put down her fork. When I suggested that she should maybe make a sandwich since she hadn’t eaten anything except granola bars and candy all day, she said, “I was wondering if we could go get frozen custard.” Mark took her to Michael’s, and I ate coconut custard leftover from the pies that went to work.
Coconut cream pudding with whipped cream alone in my kitchen on a Saturday night
She and I spent both Thursday and Friday evenings at the Urgent Care. On Thursday her coach had looked at her swollen and painful ankle and recommended she not run. I interrupted the pizza making I was in the midst of to take her to the Urgent Care, where they x-rayed and thought it was a pulled ligament. She got instructions for putting ice on it and a lace-up brace and crutches. When we got home I finished putting together the pizzas: red pepper, tomato, and garlic; caramelized onion, goat cheese, and potato; roasted cherry tomato and mozzarella, precooked them, and cleaned up. Sauteing the peppers really messed up the stove.
Actually Thursday, the whole evening had not gone as expected. I got turned away at the Mickey Keinitz lecture about his Iceland photos at Chazen; the lecture hall filled up ridiculously fast and there were all these old lefties who couldn’t get in wandering the galleries. So I got home a little earlier to start on the pizza.
I took Anna to the Culver’s that’s next door to the Urgent Care afterward where she had chicken tenders and frozen custard and a Pepsi for dinner at 8:30.
Friday morning they called us and there’s a small fracture so no running for six weeks, meaning she’s lost her cross country season, and they said we could come back and get a walking boot. I was all for doing it Saturday, less crowded, but she wanted to go Friday night, so we did. We came home and had the pizza for dinner, after all they were pre-cooked. Turns out caramelized onion is another thing Anna doesn’t like.
Saturday she went to the meet at Saukville, to cheer on her team although she couldn’t run – I drove her to the bus at 6:05 – but Mark had to go get here, because I had yoga. Bringing us back to the tortilla black bean “lasagna”.
On Sunday morning I made Morning Glory Muffins and then went to the Willy Street Fair.
That’s when the lost weekend part started.
Usually I go over to the Fair for the parade at 11:oo, watch from Dorla’s driveway, walk up to one end and back down the other, and leave before the real drinking starts. This year I was volunteering to pour beer from 11:45 to 2:15, so I was going to be there a bit longer. Our instructions said volunteers could drink during their shifts, but not to abuse the privilege – essentially “drink, but don’t get shitfaced”, so I was careful and only tasted a few things so I’d know what I was serving – only drank about half a beer.
After my shift I poured myself my free one and walked down to Plan B drinking it. They were showing the Packer game, and it was nice and cool inside, and no line in the bathroom. I got a beer in a glass bottle and settled in where I could see the game, but as soon I got comfy, the Vikings scored. John always says I’m a jinx, and I’m not allowed to actually watch Packer games, though checking the score on my phone is OK. And dammit the game ended in a tie.
So I went back out and watched a cover, (oh pardon, they call themselves “Americana”, and they have several albums of originals) band called Wheel House, Doobie Brothers, John Hartford. I talked to a couple of retired librarians, and ended up talking to one of my old cab driver friends. I dropped my beer and the bartender pored me another. Wheel House ended before we got too muadlin (I think) and I suggested we go down to this sort of pop up stage where the music was more indie to the punk rock side. By then I’d been way too long at the fair, and figured I better go home.
Somehow I missed the Jamie stand-up, the late Jamie Cowles, oldest punk rocker in Madison, with the sweet, sweet smile. Damn. Jamie with Murphy, Jamie with Tony C. and Alan Ruff, Jamie with Dave Benton.
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I went home and made the pasta I’d planned – a tomato, sausage, and cream sauce for dinner. I made the tomato part of the sauce in the morning, a method I’m kind of liking at the moment – puree skinned and seeded tomatoes in the food processor, and then cook them down with a little garlic and whatever herbs you’ve got. Maybe pinch of sugar, and of course salt and pepper. It sat in a measuring glass pitcher waiting for me to add the sausage and the bar of out of date cream cheese that was the reason for wanting to make the sauce. I knew the cream cheese would be fine in its wrappings, refrigerated, even out of date, but as soon as it was opened if it was not all consumed right away, whatever was left would go moldy. I saw a Philly cream cheese pasta sauce recipe in a Martha magazine, and thought it would work perfectly to use it up. It was a bit of an advneture in drunk cooking for me, but I think everything came out OK. The next day I found a few fennel seeds that fell into the mixer, and today (one week later) I noticed that the pasta shelf, which is a high shelf in my pantry, looked a bit rifled. Drunken cook looking for the right shape – I used mini farfalle, as I recall. Anna ate it.
