Wednesday, August 26, 2009

My cooking skillz astound me

Really.

When I win The Next Food Network Star, I will call my show The Idiot Gourmand. Or Gourmom (that's cute, think Bob Tuschman would like it?) (Thank you, Jesus, for not letting me fall in love with a man named TushMan.)

Here is why:

I make an amazing osso bucco. But my whole MOPS group was enlisted to solve the mystery of why my scrambled eggs were so nasty.

My bread pudding? Oh, you'd slap your mother. But I made chocolate chip cookies with the kids today, and you could break your teeth on them. Which happens every. time.

I've pulled off a fabulous risotto. But every time I boil eggs, I have to look up the directions on the internet.

And last week, when we had a fancy schmancy candlelight dinner party to celebrate my inlaws' anniversary and my mother-in-law's birthday, I made the whole meal-except my mother-in-law stepped in to fry the bacon. Because Missy don't know how to fry no bacon.

It's rather odd, doncha think?

Anyway, the dinner was quite yummy, if I do say so myself, and I do say so. Myself.

I am so stinkin domestic.


But I blew the goddess part by having my dumb bra strap stick out in every photo. Sigh.

And yes, thank you, I have been working out. My ripped biceps are compensating for my ever annoying little potbelly, which won't go away no matter how many crunches I do on the bosu ball due to some medication I am taking. Well, that, and maybe the three chocolate chip cookies I sharpened my teeth on tonight.


That chicken was delish, super moist, and very very easy to make. Except for the part when you have to dump all the chicken innards out - ugh. Blech to the carcass. I get totally skeeved by raw chicken. I better have won some serious daughter-in-law points for even looking at gross chicken guts and strategically dumping them on plastic in my sink before I tossed them in the trash without having to ever come into actual physical contact with them. With grimacing, much grimacing. And a few sound effects.

The recipe came from here. It's an Ina.

I made this couscous to go along with it. It's a Paula.


I also made a salad that Walker and I had once at Broussard's in New Orleans and had the chef give us the recipe. We fell absolutely in love with it, and when I gave Walker a taste of it, he closed his eyes and sighed and got The Dreamy Look. To most folks, New Orleans may taste like boudin or etoufee or a hurricane (going down and coming up), but to us, it tastes like this:

Salad:
Baby spinach leaves
Smoked bacon
Purple onion
Fresh sliced mushrooms
Pecans

Dressing, combined in mixer:
1 quart of mayo (I used about a cup and a half for a bag of spinach)
4 T. currant jelly
4 T. Balsamic vinegar
1/2 t. tarragon, soaked in the vinegar for 10 minutes
salt and pepper

After the dinner, I intended to make bananas foster, because I always look for an excuse to make bananas foster. Because catching food on fire never gets old. Alas, we were all too stuffed. So we sat and rubbed our tummies while my children provided the entertainment.

Here they are singing an aria composed to mark the occasion.


And Shep says a prayer/snakehandles over them. (That's why we paid so much for that Christian preschool.)

(I do buy the child new pyjamas. But these are his faaaavorites.)

And Maggie finished with an interpretive dance of Mimi's life.


Eva Rose celebrated by wearing not one but two party dresses. Maggie celebrated by getting half naked, which is her protocol lately. Oh, y'all, I've got some stories coming.


It was good times.

Happy Anniversary, Mimi and Grandaddy. We are especially glad that you married and procreated. We love you very much.

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