Boots in the Oven

Sometimes,

I

write

very slowly.

                    -L. Pants

Why the Hell are These Connected? Seriously.

Sometimes, if I pluck an errant eyebrow hair, it makes me sneeze.                         God bless physiology.

                                                                                            -L. Pants

Who's Poop's in the Corner?

             That’s the question.  There are five inhabitants in the house. Me and my lovely wife, M. Girlie.  A friend from college, J. Proops, who’s staying with us for a while.  And two fluffy balls of innocence and nonchalance, the Dumpling Twins.  Those are they players.

            Perhaps in a moment of hyper-lucidity I was able to grasp the true meaning of the Cosmos. Then after returning to the normal state of bleak reality I somehow forgot how that was all connected to me pooping on the floor.  Possible.  But unlikely.

            Maybe this was a not so subtle clue from M. Girlie that she was unhappy with our relationship.  The first step in a series of bizarrities that would crescendo in unspeakable crimes against nature and culminate in a messy divorce.  Doubtful.  She seems too happy for that just yet.

            There was always J. Proops.  I thought back to our college days.  The incident with the donkey and the deep cleaning wet-vac.  Or that unfortunate occurrence with the extremely large amount of Nair and the respiratory hoses.  But that was a long time ago. And funny.  This seemed to lack a certain amount of depth and panache.  Besides, it was a very tiny pile of poo.

            Unfortunately, I knew it couldn’t be either of the Wonder Dumplings.  Both of our cats had been litter trained for years.  They had the box, they had the knowledge.  We had been upholding our end of the bargain –food, water, a warm home to sleep in.  I looked down. It was clear that they too wanted to catch the perpetrator.

            “Who could have done such a ghastly thing in the corner?”, their eyes seemed to say.  Still, I didn’t trust them.  But there was no good way to pin it on just one of them. And unless my understanding of anatomy is highly confused, it couldn’t have been both of them at once.  Safety in numbers. Damn.  It’s only a matter of time though, before one or the other slips up and shows his hand.  Next time we’ll be ready.  The poop saga continues…

                                                                                                                 -L. Pants

Tramps like us

Ugh.... being in an office environment at 6:30 in the morning, by yourself, is not a fun prospect... especially when the last song you heard before getting in was "Born to Run." And of course, my mind working overtime has to change it to "Baby we were born to WOOORRRRKKKK" which is just much more depressing than it needs to be. Then, I have to get in the car at 8:30, and who is on the radio? Springsteen doing "Dancing in the Dark", so I get back to the office with visions of Courtney Cox dancing around with a giant drill bit coming out of the top of her head, tool that she is. Why didn't anyone tell me that it's Springsteen day? Is there something I'm missing, not being from Jersey? I should probably stop drinking so much coffee in the mornings. Urgh. -M. Girlie

You're Such a Tart

Okay faceless masses.  Listen up. I don't like you and you don't like me.  But dammit, I love food - cooking it, eating it, tossing it around.  And I really like you. Seriously.  Why don't you like me?  I'm a fairly sweet man.  Not like Splenda sweet.  You know, the real kind.

I'll drop it for now, but I'll be watching.

So, back to my gastronomic proclivities.  That's right. I said it.  I'm a man with proclivities. 

I have a secret.  I fancy myself to be marginally talented in the kitchen.  Not all Morimoto style or anything, but I can throw together some vittles when there's call. I like trying to make new things and then playing "Guess What's Edible."

So let's dive right in.  On tonight's Board of Possible Dinner are three things:

A Fennel, Cardamom, and Taleggio Tart (NOTE: I have never made a tart.  Well, there was that one time but I forgot her name)                                  
"Taleggio, the cheese what smells like butt, but tastes delicious." 

A Collard Green and Canellini Bean (Brazilian-Italian fusion kinda) Thing

Peperonata (a favorite)

I started with the tart crust after spending way too much time tracking down a tart pan (I ended up buying one from a store that we had called earlier. On the phone my wife, M. Girlie, had been told by a very engaged, energetic, and informed young man that they only had pans "for like muffins and stuff."  It is kind of like a large flat muffin. You know, kind of.)

So after we obtained said pan, I mixed the dough - basically just flour, butter, salt, and water.  Chilled it for an hour, rolled it out, and laid it gently (read -pain in the assedly)in the pan. It looked something like this:

While round two of tart-crust-chilling progressed, I crushed the cardamom pods (with my mind) and then butchered and dismembered the two bulbs of fennel.

After tossing the fennel bits with various oils, booze, unguents, and random seasonings they cooked down for about 25 minutes in my Evil Pan of Delicious Vegetable Penance.

 

Mmm.  Smell the forgiveness.

That underway, it was time to show the tart crust who's boss by filling it with beans for a well deserved blind bake.  15 minutes for the edges and then another 15 for the bottom - to put some healthy color on it.

"Maw. This here bean pie don't taste right."

"Hush up and finish breaking out the last of them teeth."

I made M. Girlie take out the beans because it looked unpleasant and dangerous and after all, what is marriage really for?

So, we then filled the crust with fennel and dotted it with the taleggio before pouring in an egg custard mixture (eggs, milk, half and half).  Of course one part of the crust had cracked and the custard went streaming into the pan like suburbanites at the opening of a new Olive Garden.

Girlie (she of the clear head) suggested fashioning a tiny cheese dam to plug the gap.  That turned out to be much more effective than me yelling "stop you bastard for the love of all that's holy STOP!" at it.

The Infernal Tart goes back in the oven.  We turn our attention to the side dishes.

Pan fry some canellini beans with some pepper oil and then throw in some chiffonaded collards and presto:

That's right, it's almost good for you.

Then we diamond chop some bell peppers, toss in some crushed garlic and a habanero (which is your friend - be nice to it and it will be nice to you. Oh, and it can smell your fear).  Finish it off with a healthy splash of good aged sherry vinegar and tastiness abounds.

Add some crusty white bread and the whole spread looks something like this:

Yumminess all around.

Tonight's endeavor seems to have worked.  Girlie only gnawed one of my shoulders while we were fighting for the last piece of pepper, so I guess it could have been better.

           -L. Pants