Fear less, or: Easier, better, slower, lazier.

As I write, the sweet potatoes I sent back into the oven seem to have decided to cooperate. That is, my kitchen smells like sweet potatoes. (A rule we all kinda know: When you can smell what it is you're cooking, it's probably done.)

See, I'm attempting to make sweet potato gnocchi.

Those who know me know that I do not bake. And while gnocchi, I will obviously grant, fall into no one's conception of baked goods, I will also confess that when I say, "I don't bake," I really mean, "I don't make anything that involves dough."

So I'm a little bit scared. More than that, though, I'm hopeful. See, I'm trying this new thing called "assuming that things are just as likely to be blindingly awesome as they are to be a complete failure" (see also: optimism), so I'm also kind of relishing the half-possible fantasy of producing some damn fine gnocchi and the accompanying conclusion that, actually, I can do things I used to think I couldn't do.

While the potatoes bake, I'm reviewing old I'm trying/not trying to impress/seduce you playlists on my half-busted old iPod. The thing only speaks to me via speaker dock now, so plumbing old music means I have to fill my entire apartment with it; sit in it. I'm trying to decide if the bits & pieces of soundtracks for dinner dates past might be useful for dinner dates present. So far the answer appears to be "no." Because the date appears to be different.

The music swims around me. Folk with man's voice, folk with woman's voice ("Let this Cat Power song be your guide to my probably misguided feelings for you") (is it weird that most of my retrospectives manifest themselves like a Someecard?), old soul, new soul, post-soul electronica, and a couple of rather overtly sexy hip-hop tracks ("No seriously, I am trying to seduce you").

I can't say these were, like, failsafe jams. (By any means.) Part anthem, part valentine, they were the soundtrack to the life I had and the parallel life that sometimes pushed against the window as my train trundled past, slipped back under the door early, early in the morning in the moments before I woke up, blew my hair forward into my face, somehow, as I rode into lake wind. They had, now that I think about it, very little to do with with the dinner guest and everything to do with me. They gave me confidence; they were a crutch.

For the other leg (since, in this extended metaphor, I'm apparently some kind of socioemotional paraplegic), I had my repertoire. Everyone - okay, everyone who cooks for people they care about - has a repertoire. Mine consisted of dishes that were, ideally:

a) deceptively simple in composition;
b) low to moderate in time commitment (everything could be done in under an hour);
c) probably inclusive of some type of cured/salted pork product.

And it's not that these dishes weren't good. In fact, they kicked a lot of ass. But like my playlists, they were more about covering my own nervous bases than factors like seasonality, or working toward goals of cooking new things, or the tastes of my guest (though, truth told, criterion C usually took care of that one).

So more recently I've been moving toward a different approach in cooking for/with others. In general, I feel like I've become a lot more flexible and forgiving of myself in the last several months. I rarely get my apron in a twist anymore over substitutions, bad emulsions, botched proportions, etc. And in particular, in the last month or so, I've started to open up to a newer, though by no means novel, priority: Enjoyment of present company.

I KNOW. IT IS A REVOLUTION, Y'ALL.

Because, and this is what I've been getting at all along: Making dinner for a dude was always really just about personal validation.

But now, the sweet potatoes resting on the counter and waiting to be peeled, I restlessly skip through track after track. I'm finding it difficult to latch on to any songs from old lists, just as I found myself less than enchanted by the dishes in my trusty repertoire.

So I'm going rogue. Not for the sake of badassery; more because I care less about what's coming out of the speakers and how the food turns out (I do have a high enough baseline of kitchen confidence that I know nothing I make will be horrid) than I care about who I get to hang out with.

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Dinner party snapshots...

(all photos courtesy of DPO)


Gruyere, St. Andre triple creme, meet Dude. Dude, meet Gruyere and St. Andre triple creme.
(Jeanelle, meet Eola Hills pinot noir. *Swoon.*)



The gnocchi (super not-daunting recipe here) turned out relatively well for a first go. I would use a bit more salt; a bit less nutmeg next time. And yes, there will be a next time, because I b'lieve I've conquered my fear of flouring. (OH! OH IT'S A PUN! DO YOU SEE?!)

We made fresh ricotta to go on top, along with a walnut-pine nut-sage pesto. Please excuse my bright, folky dinner plates. They're charming when they're not a backdrop for styled food, I promise.



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Upon tasting the finished product, Dude did a jubilant shuffle from my kitchen to my door and back. I laughed, partly out of sheer amusement, and partly out of surprise and relief that both of us, apparently, dance when we taste good things.

I don't remember what music we played; I just know there was a lot of it. (Okay, I do remember Paul Simon's Graceland. And an hour-long podcasted DJ set. Everything else, blur.) I had big plans for a prettied-up version of rice pudding for dessert. We didn't make it; we were too full. Instead, we laid on the couch doing impressions of weird YouTube videos and talking about Baltimore hip-hop and blowing raspberries into the crooks of each others' elbows. No one was trying to seduce anyone, mainly because no one had to try.

Shit From My Foiled Dinner Plans

My apartment was spotless.

I don't really get motivated to clean out my whole life in the Spring, but somehow, when the air gets crisp and I start buying apples and making soup, I go into, like, Defcon Autumn Cleanse Mode. So I had done the ceremonial cold-weather wardrobe switch in the dressing room, scrubbed my kitchen floor (on my hands and knees, thank you), and finally, after over a year at the Nest, finished filling the empty wall spaces that had somehow not really bothered me until rather recently. I had also, I will confess, treated myself to the acquisition of a new soy candle, the price of which, while not entirely prohibitive (obviously), would have been quite likely better spent on things that might fall more decidedly into the "necessities" column. (But it smells SO lovely. Like figs. And me.)

Clearly, the thing to do at this point was to make dinner with/for a dude. A current Delightful Young Dude.

So we had a plan. We were gonna make this. And this. We were gonna ransack my newly replenished cheese collection, finish the wine we cracked the other night and likely start (and finish...) another one, and have a generally lovely time.

And things were very much on track for all of this to happen. Until, waiting for the bus at North & Kimball, homegirl got her first nosebleed of the season.

The readers with delicate nasal tissue will feel me on this one. The hardier folks are gonna have to dig a little deeper. Because, let it be known: A nosebleed on the fly, with only a profoundly chivalrous Dude and a pocket-pack of Kleenex to defend you from utter mortification and general hot-mess-itude, is probably The Most Infuriating Inconvenience ever to befall the human species. And this one, it still pains me to say, was a serious humdinger. (Note: To my further irritation, I found out this very morning that the whole debacle could have been avoided by executing a rather simple maneuver outlined by my mother, bequeather of the problematic nasal tissue in question. But we won't talk about that anymore, at the risk of... my head exploding.)

It hum-dinged to the point, in fact, where it was decided it might be prudent to take the Puffs Plus party off the #82 bus and into the bathroom of a wee corner laundromat while Dude darted across the street to the Walgreens for... more tissue. (And, as I found out later, some cookies. "To replenish your blood sugar. You know, like after you give blood," he grinned. What a guy.)

About twenty tissues, five muffled, embarrassed apologies, and thirty minutes later, we emerged from the bathroom. I was still holding tissues to my nose, but the worst appeared to be over. We had decided to go back to Dude's house - which was still relatively nearby - until the situation blew over (oh, pun!) completely.

By the time that happened, though, it was roughly 5pm. I was, actually, sort of exhausted after the whole ordeal and had plopped myself onto a stool in the kitchen as Dude popped open the pack of double-chocolate Milanos. He handed one to me, and asked what we should do about dinner. It was, admittedly, getting a bit late - it would take us a solid 40 minutes to get to my place, another 30 to grocery shop, and then that chicken needed at least an hour and a half to roast and rest. At this rate, we would be eating at 8:30. Fine for a Friday or Saturday night; less cool for a schoolnight.

Butbutbutbut! My apartment! Roasted vegetables! My soy candle! No no no no nonoNO!

Yes, gra.

So I got real. (Okay, I pouted openly for a few minutes and snarfed like three cookies. And then I got real.)

"What do you have in your fridge?" I asked with equal parts disappointment and resignation.

And Dude opened up his fridge and his cabinets, and announced every last viable item we might consider for the evening's consumption. After several minutes' consideration (and a few more cookies, and an offer to don a Swedish Chef costume to make me laugh [I had to decline, unfortunately, or risk another nosebleed]), it became clear that the Shit From His Fridge was leading us south of the border. On hand, he had tortillas, chihuahua cheese, a red onion, some garlic, a can of black beans, a can of tomatoes & peppers, and a wee can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce. We decided to run across the street for tostadas, a bell pepper or two, a bit more cheese, and some chorizo to round things out.

We came back. Dude fished out the iPod jack from behind his turntables; I handed him my little Nano. The "dinner party" playlist was really just a compilation of all the songs that were evocative of moments/places/people that mattered to me. (We've all made this playlist; it's the one you make when you want someone to get you.) Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone; Jamie Lidell, Elton John; Common, Ratatat; M. Ward, Iron & Wine; a mashup, a remix, a cover. I swung my glass around and warbled to Lou Prima, we bobbed our heads to old Kanye, stirring the chorizo into the onions & peppers. I went from pouting into my cookies to smiling into my wine and snacking on the all-Brunkow cheeze plate that Dude had put together after an especially fruitful visit to the Logan Square farmer's market.


(Photo courtesy of DPO and his fancy camera.)

Soon, the pan was simmering away, full of a red-brown mess of chorizo, peppers, onions, garlic, black beans, tomatoes, and those chipotles with their (reeeeeally good) adobo sauce. We had tostadas and tortillas. We had wine. (We had 5 Milanos left for later.) We had a whole 'nother playlist - his - to get through.

I will never not detest a nosebleed. I will also probably never not detest foiling of plans, especially my own. What I don't detest - and rather adore - is the providence of folks who just want to make it all better, have a few cookies, make some tacos, and get on with things as they stand.

SFMF: The Reclaim

Welcome back, gra! And welcome back, fall. The time for gourds and tubers and hardy greens is upon us once more.

It may not be news to some of you that our dearest Ms. Klein has recently undergone a bit of a shift. Whether you're employed or between gigs, it can sometimes be rough going these days, and in this post, Kristy talks about sailing through it with grace, wit, and some kitchen therapy.

"The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect, and beginning the work of becoming yourself." -Anna Quindlen

When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. It sounds so simple, doesn't it? Maybe you can pull it off when the lemon is that the Clark bus (#22, you are a hoor) is refusing to scoop you up or that you wanted one of those buffalo blue cheese chicken burgers but your favorite Whole Paycheck meat-dude informs you that they are out. But there are times when life rocks you too hard. When you are so completely and utterly blindsided by an event that you feel like you don't even know who you are anymore, and you begin to question whether or not you are the person you pictured yourself to be. You spend a day or a week or a month in a complete tailspin, irritated that the world continues to turn. Slowly, though, you realize that you have to pick up the pieces and turn along with it.

And suddenly - in the midst of tears, and laughing and phone calls - you have a moment where you begin to realize that everything really is okay. That you have a beautiful crowd of true friends and family who will go to the end of the earth to stand behind you. That breathtakingly gorgeous things are happening in the world around you (xoxo, baby Ethan!). That (in my case) you have a partner who loves you, believes in you and needs you more than you ever realized or expected. And... that you. Are. Happy. That you are lucky. That you are not the person you pictured yourself to be; that you are, in fact, better and stronger and more loved than that person. You look inside yourself and begin to see the things that really define who you are and who you want to be.

There is something about the transition from summer to fall that is comforting to me... especially this year. The return of Frye boots, big cozy sweaters and mulled apple cider. The visual confirmation that the world is moving forward and that I am moving forward along with it. A steaming bowl full of fresh fall flavors... and a big, dumb golden retriever sitting and licking my feet while I eat it. Life is good. And I am happy.

Butternut Squash Ravioli with Fennel, Apples and Walnuts

adapted from Real Simple Magazine (October 2009)

2 servings

- 1 package of Whole Foods Butternut Squash Ravioli

- 2 tbsp olive oil

- 1 small fennel bulb, diced

- 1/4 cup (heaping) chopped walnuts

- 1 medium apple (a sweet variety) cut into matchsticks

- 1/4 cup fresh, flatleaf parsley, chopped

- salt and pepper

- freshly grated parmesan

- cracked red pepper

Cook the ravioli (al dente) according to package directions.

In the meantime, heat the olive oil in a pan over medium high heat. Add the fennel and the walnuts and cook until fennel is soft and walnuts are fragrant- about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and add the apples, parsley, salt and pepper (about 1/4 tsp of each). Toss to mix.

Split the ravioli into two bowls and top with the apple mixture. Garnish with freshly grated parmesan and a touch of cracked red pepper.

The wax and the wane.

Summer evenings in Chicago are sort of magical.

I mean, summer evenings in general are magical, but summers in Chicago send people spilling onto sidewalk patios, beer in hand, squinting from laughing and the blazing glow of another lofty pink sunset, a flip flop dangling from a crossed leg. Summer in Chicago is an exercise in urgency and spotaneity - yesterday's weather was shit and it's impossible to plan a social calendar around tomorrow's "isolated showers," so if it's nice right now, we take a walk, we have a drink, we sit outside for far longer than our grandmothers' mothers would have advised. We stroll for hours, freckling and roasting under afternoon sun; we haul every candle and blanket in the house onto the patio to resist a chill and, more gravely, the end of another day.

One such evening a few weeks ago, I traversed a certain stretch of Broadway not one, and not two or three, but four times in the span of three hours. First trip: I rode down from the nest at 4157 North down Diversey-ish way to a weird little vintage/art shop, made a purchase that was equal parts unnecessary and endearing, and emerged back onto a street now flushed with the gold-pink haze whose allure and the corresponding urge to try and just, like, swim in it, has, for as long as I can remember, proven completely irresistible. The summer was, it seemed, barefaced and at its peak, having waxed slowly and unhurriedly to this moment over weeks of mild and occasionally strange weather.

I can't go home. Not yet. I have functioning legs, and the rare, it turns out, ability to guide my bike with only one hand as I walk down the street.

So Janice and I stroll down Broadway, paying attention to not very much, yet mildly amused by everything. We are - I am - technically heading homeward, but in no particular rush to get there, or anywhere else, really, for that matter. I'm thinking about what I might make for dinner, though I know I'm in possession of very few noteworthy items. In fact, one of these days I'll weave a tale of Desperation Hot Dish, inspired by these very pantry-metric conditions. But not today.

Because today, or rather, that day, I ran into Anna. Never-really-ornery, tomato-guts Anna. My partner in lazy weekend breakfast crime, Anna. (Though, if cheese pierogies with eggs and bacon and toast are wrong, I don't wanna be right.) The third sister I never had, Anna. And the one with whom I exchange cat-calls/schoolyard insults across Broadway Avenue at dusk, apparently. Hollering above the passing traffic, Anna clutched a 12-pack of some type of summer beer to her black deep V, and, once my inglorious reputation as a surly, conniving tart had been proclaimed to all and sundry within a 3-block radius, crossed the street and asked if I wanted to come over for dinner.

Of course I did.

Anna's roommate Sarah and Sarah's boyfriend Ari were making dinner for themselves and a couple of other friends, and it was (believe it or not) not really been the first time I had been veritably plucked off the street and put to use in the kitchen at their marvelously cabin-y apartment. I was only happy to oblige, since I clearly was doing nothing else with my evening anyway.

So, back south we strolled - me, Anna, beer, and Janice - for Buzz Down Broadway #3. The evening light was still glowy and winking, and I was told the fridge at the apartment held a rather motley collection of wonders, so we weren't sure what-all was going to end up on the table. Upon arrival, our suspicions were confirmed, though Ari had roasted a chicken and put together a GORGEOUS chilled corn & roasted poblano soup and is, in general, an excellent delegator. I explained that I had been selected to help in the kitchen in exchange for some-a-that soup and maybe a beer, and he put me to work on a salad.

Like I said - excellent delegator.

See, you may have guessed from previous posts that I'm kind of a salad-person. It's something about the assembly, maybe. There's no heat necessary; it's all chopping, arranging, ordering. Salads are... calming. That, and even the most random and seemingly infelicitous combinations always seem to turn out really nicely.

So Ari opens the fridge door and digs out my options: some ripe heirloom tomatoes, a bunch of green leafy business that I assumed was arugula until I tasted it (more on that in a moment), an onion, some peaches, 1/2 a log of goat cheese, a new container of mixed baby greens, two oranges, a cucumber, and some chopped pecans.

Turns out the "arugula" was a bit of homegrown radicchio that had been picked before its time. Its bitterness was, on my tongue, somewhat pleasant, but the group felt otherwise. I furthermore figured that, even if everyone was for it, its bitterness would overpower pretty much any other cohabitants in a salad, so I'd have to choose between it and... well, everything else.

And those tomatoes and peaches looked. SO. GOOD. I won't mince words here: the height of summer is a sensual time and I wanna sink my teeth into something sweet and fleshy and juicy when I can, while I can.

So I sliced up the peaches. And the tomatoes. And threw some other stuff up in there - maybe the cucumber, definitely the goat cheese and the pecans, maybe some balsamic? There might have been another vegetable lurking in there, but it was all so slapdash I can't - now, over a month later (AH! for shame, gra) - remember the exact composition.

And there was that salad. And there was beer, and chicken, and the chilled chowder with - hooo baby- homemade cilantro oil and a bit of sour cream. We sat on the back porch and ate (and I... thought about eating a few spoonfuls of cilantro oil) and we talked about the summer so far, and whatever bit of summer might still be left. The sky was decidedly darkening; the air was decidedly cooling, though still heavy with the weight and the smell that sunlight leaves behind even hours after it's gone.

It was as if the summer had peaked and begun its slow wane in the same night. I cut my 4th swath up Broadway and... I dunno, I was a little sad.

And it happens every summer, to everyone - we haven't done enough, we've done too much, we could be more tan, we could be more rested, we could have gone out more, we could have gotten drunker, we could have gotten closer to each other, we could have gotten further away from the things that make us fade.

But we did what we did. And there's always next summer.


You thought it ended here! It could have. It would have been bittersweet, but, I dunno, maybe kinda nice.

But dearests: it's the tail-end of peach season and right now is when everyone's got tomatoes coming out of their ears. And I was so charmed by the combination of lovely, fleshy peaches and tomatoes together that I made it a point to refine the concept in order to give the highest respect to these fruits of summer.

I got some good, ripe peaches (they're on sale now, guys), two nice, veiny, weird-looking heirloom tomatoes - one yellow, one red - and a hunk of goat cheese the size of a small cell phone. I candied some walnuts I had sitting around (I make that sound so offhand and easy BECAUSE IT IS. Srzly, look it up, and be amazed), and broke 'em up after I let them cool.

Then I assembled. And arranged. And ate.



This was from a few Tuesday nights ago. Nothing special; I ate at my desk and lazily swatted a rogue feather from my comforter (yes, the secret's out, I have a studio) while online shopping for a 2009 day planner (needless to say, I got a deal, being practically 2010 and all).

But this salad is... so pretty. And so delightfully slurp-inducing. Make it for someone you like and impress them. Or make it for yourself and relive the rise and the fall of Summer 2009.

Breakfast/business time

I'm getting up early again, you guys. Like, for a job. I KNOW. My lifestyle. It is so unique.

Okay, but seriously. For those in the relative know, I had spent half of July and the better part of August luxuriating in the bosom of the newest and best colloquialism ever: Staycation. Staycay 09 was really just a hopeful, restful, reflective and blindly optimistic break between the steady, full-time job I'd held for two years and the two jobs that, through what can only be a strange, cosmic marriage of miracle and sheer force of will (either those, or a strange trifecta of foot-stomping stubbornness, weird petulance, and pure naiveté, still with a sprinkling of miracle over top), managed to materialize over the course of that month-and-change. Whatever it was, I came out of it with a new frame of mind and two lovely, if wildly different, jobs that make up one meager, yet livable income.

And now I'm getting up at 5:45am on the daily.

And at 5:45 in the morning, I want to cry a little. Just, you know, whimper as I rub my eyes and reluctantly stretch one leg, then, sigh, the other. To combat this, I need things to look forward to. Something to live for. Something to get out of bed for.

I get out of bed for this:



That's iced coffee over there. Nothing special - brewed extra-strong in a big pot and then kept in my fridge throughout the 5 or 6 days it takes me to get through it. When morning temperatures are anywhere over 60 degrees, it is iced coffee season in my apartment. (No one likes to start a day sweaty from having to down hot coffee before sailing out into the world.)

But then down there, in the bowl, that's breakfast. Light of my life, morning treasure, sweet yogurt of angels. My grief at having to wake up in the semi-darkness (these days) dissolves once I remember, all over again and in my half-sleep, like remembering a really good dream or that today is payday, that THIS is what I get for breakfast.

And THIS is, in all truthfulness, also not really anything special, per se. It's greek yogurt, cherry preserves (in the pretty La Bonne Maman jar that I get to reuse as a glass), and a wee dab of lemon curd. I set it up all pretty like in the picture, but give it a quick stir before the first smooth spoonful's tart cherries and citrus remind me that swinging my legs over onto the floor in the morning is not nearly the worst fate that could befall me.

It's not complicated, and it's not fancy. It's just breakfast. But at 5:45, straining to find some lick of sunlight on the horizon, realizing you're bidding summer goodbye in these moments, it's what brings you back into the land of the living and grateful.

Salute my (jean) shorts.

Last weekend, I found myself having a Really Great Conversation. You know, the kind where a small group of people who have just met need to come to a common understanding and then realize, rather quickly, that you're all already on the same page (and, ergo, that you'll all be good friends for a good long time).

That kind.

Setting: A house in Osage Beach, MO, 5 feet from Lake of the Ozarks.
Time: 11:00am.
What's Up: A group of girls staying in the house for a Bachelorette Weekend discuss a trip to the local Hy-Vee for provisions. Some are lounging on the dock a few steps from the house, some are inside.

Jeanelle: What time is it?
Sarah: About 11am.
Jeanelle: ... I could... use a beer.
Sarah: Agreed. Now is a completely appropriate time for a beer run.
Jeanelle: Excellent. I'll ask the girls outside what they want.

...a few minutes pass...

Jeanelle: Geralyn said she'd make out with me if we got some Bud Light Lime. So, obviously... that goes on the list. The general consensus, though, is "anything that comes in a can and a 24 pack." Laura pointed out that we might also just pick up some stuff for lunch while we're out. Like, maybe for sandwiches and stuff. Oh, and Sunny also said something about a "full buffet at the Hy-Vee"...?
Michelle: Oh yeah, the Hy-Vee has a buffet.
Jeanelle: But... it's a grocery store.
Sarah: Oh no, the Hy-Vee here is more than just a grocery store. It's nothing short of magnificent.
Jeanelle: [eyes wide] ... Wow.
Michelle: But it looks like the sun's coming out - I think we should take advantage of that and eat here.
Sarah: Yes.
Jeanelle: Yes. And in that case, Sunny also said that she wanted an onion. For her sandwich.
Michelle: Will do.
Sarah: What else do we have planned today? Like, does Kristy [the bachelorette] want to do anything before we go out tonight? Should we try to find something premade so we can eat quick?
Jeanelle: Nope. Kristy wants to hang by the lake all day and drink beer from a can and shove that can in a hot pink koozie. She has also considered going out on the paddleboat.
Sarah: So we're laying around and drinking today, is what you're saying.
Jeanelle: YEP.
Sarah: [eyes wide, looks at Michelle] We should make whiskey dogs.
Michelle: YES.
Amanda: [just walking in] YES.
Jeanelle: ... what... what, pray tell, are whiskey dogs???
Michelle: Whiskey dogs are cocktail weenies cooked in ketchup, brown sugar -
Sarah: - and whiskey.
Jeanelle: That's it?
Michelle: That's it.
Jeanelle: THAT IS SO DIRTY.
Amanda: Sure is. And delicious.
Jeanelle: Do you... make these whiskey dogs often?
Sarah: Yeah, I mean, for parties and stuff.
Michelle: They're really easy, and they're good.
Jeanelle: And dirty.
Michelle: And dirty.
Jeanelle: Well then. Let's make 'em.

We pile into Michelle's wee Saturn Ion and coax it up and down the hills of the surrounding terrain. We pass Kay's Restaurant where I am told there is a stellar breakfast buffet, a Maid-Rite sandwich shop, a bar called Wobbly Boots, and then... pull into the Hy-Vee Mothership parking lot. We tumble out of the Ion - all five of us in variations of the bathing-suit-coverup-flip-flop combo - and behold...

Sweet fancy pickles, you guys, this store is enormous.

Good thing we had a list, is all I can say. We walk into the fabulous arctic blast of air-conditioning and, immediately to our right, lay eyes on The Buffet. It IS magnificent. It's a roundup of every kind of comfort food that exists to Americans: Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, fettuccine alfredo, spaghetti & meatballs, garlic bread, lasagna, pork fried rice, General Tso's chicken, crab rangoons, egg rolls, cheese pizza, pepperoni pizza, sausage pizza, sausage & mushroom pizza, mushroom & pepper pizza, Hawaiian pizza, supreme pizza, Waldorf salad, tuna salad, chicken salad, 7-bean salad, Jello salad, a deli counter, and a shrine to Paula Deen and Baby Jesus.

(I mean, no. But yes. But... no. But kinda.)

But onward, homies. We had whiskey dogs to make, beer to buy, and sunburns to get.

So we get the cocktail weenies. And ketchup, and brown sugar. And whiskey. (So then Coke. And two... no wait, it was three 24-packs of beer. And some bread & cheese & lunchmeat. And an onion, don't worry. And chips. Which happened to be ridged. So then, you know, french onion dip. And salt & vinegar chips. And Oreos. So then milk. And you know, and all that.)

And then we get home. And we crack beers. And we dump ketchup in a pot. Like, the bottle. And then we dump whiskey in a pot. Maybe a cup. And then we throw in brown sugar. I'm not sure how much got in there because, honestly, at this point, I was quite busy digging out the salt & vinegar chips. (Obviously.) There might have been a tablespoon of brown sugar, or maybe two... or maybe more. (Ladies who were there: Please feel free to fill in this mystery using the comments section. Chicago thanks you.)

And we put it over medium heat and went down to the dock. For... a while. The whiskey dogs probably simmered away for the better part of an hour, stirred just about as often as a girl would come in the house for more beer or chips. (Gee, you know, as I read this: I do consider my writing to be quite frank and without very much lipstick, but gracious-and-wow do I ever sometimes paint myself as the very shiftless, belching girl with a swimsuit wedgie I secretly aspire to be.)

When they were done - which, really, is simply the point at which you've decided the mixture tastes less like boozed ketchup and more like barbecue sauce if barbecue sauce wore jean shorts and a scrunchie - they were nothing short of addictive. A little crusty from where some had stuck to the bottom of the pot, and all of them covered in a slick goo so sticky that sometimes rendered it necessary to eat two wee dogs at one time. Perish the thought, I know.

I mean, yeah, all it is is cocktail weenies simmered in tangy, weird sauce. We've all had these. (Yes, even you over there. At that Super Bowl party a few years back? Ohhhhh yes. You remember now.) But I do believe the whiskey has something to do with the magic of this. It definitely lends something special to the flavor, whether it's a measurable thing or just psychological. Because you feel so awesome and proud to say "WHISKEY DOGS." And, really, anything with whiskey in the name is guaranteed to be kind of baller in its own way.

(P.S: We did end up going back to the Hy-Vee buffet for dinner that same evening. Nothing gets a girl ready for a night out like a solid foundation of industrial-grade pepperoni pizza and beef lo mein.)

Playtime

A couple of months ago, over some Sazeracs in Andersonville, the summer still young, our imaginations ripe with visions of trotting all over this mighty city in search of challenge and adventure, my friends Cara and Adrian and I discussed the prospect of lobsters.

Killing and eating them, specifically.

So fast-forward to a recent Thursday night. Sporting my new, and already much-beloved DIY jorts (judge not, crackers), I squeezed the brakes on old Janice, my 1973 Schwinn Continental, as I pulled up to Adrian's apartment next to the red line. Upstairs, he and Cara - decked out, quite possibly just for the occasion, in a wee black romper - had begun to cocktail and were ogling the cover of the July issue of Gourmet when I came in.

You've seen it. I know you have. Coral-tinged lobster chunks flecked with deep green parsley and pale green celery, nestled in a toasted, golden roll against an austere, almost-mint-green background. It, more than anything I've seen in a long while, and especially in the middle of a Chicago summer... is kinda food-porny.

Since the day that magazine was delivered to Caracita's graystone walkup, plans had been in the works for an Ultimate Lobster Showdown. An excuse to play around at Dirk's Fish & Gourmet ("for the sofishticated palate." Heheheh. Heh.) (What? I like puns. Sssh.) and come home with some deep-sea treasures? Yes. A reason to wreak havoc in Adrian's otherwise-rather-pristine kitchen? Yessir. A way to make lobster salad without mayonnaise (god bless it, it's just not that appealing in the summertime)? Please. An excuse to pit lobsters against each other in various tests of speed, agility, and grace?



God yes.

But first, because all three of us are, after all, only human and because we do care for all the creatures of the earth, preparations for the evening's feast necessitated a bit of gin. And then some crisp white wine. And then a few re-reads of the recipe and conversations about how this would all go down to both reassure us that it could be done and to remind us that, yes, we did actually kind of need to put these boys in a pot of roiling, boiling, salty water if we wanted our dear lobster rolls. (And, of course, the obligatory badge of honor that comes with killin' something with your own hands in the name of yum-yums.)

So then, we were sufficiently (if only mildly) sauced to start the showdown. The pot was boiling, the sink had been transformed into an icy receiving bath, and we had explored ad nauseam and like little children the party trick of calming a fussy lobster by rubbing a finger across the top of his lobster cranium.

We had four lobsters to boil, for about 9 minutes each. Ceremonial tongs were brought out, and Adrian did the first plunge. You stick the lobster headfirst into the water for reasons more morbid and, conveniently, obvious than I probably need to discuss here. As seafood lore tells us, the lobster shells got to a nice reddish-pink over the course of the 9 minutes. What did not happen, however, and thankfully, was the Dreaded Lobster Scream (in which a noise, likely caused by steam escaping the shell, arises from the lobster's body as it cooks). Maybe it was our lobsters. Maybe the scream only happens sometimes. Maybe it's a total myth. But it didn't happen, so once we got each guy in the pot, the cooking process was relatively peaceful and kind of interesting in a detached, science-project kind of way.

Once all four were in the ice bath, it was time to harvest the meat. This... was a challenge. I mean, it normally is, but especially so for three Chicago kids whose food knowledge lies more in the field of encased meats than in the tools and anatomical know-how involved in the dissection of deep-sea crustaceans. Meaning that we were working with: a pair of kitchen shears, a hammer, a chopstick, and only a faint anecdotal knowledge of What Parts of a Lobster Are Good To Eat as imparted to us on sundry occasions throughout each of our landlocked lives.

Once we revisited our respective nuggets of seafood wisdom, though, in addition to enacting such classic kitchen scenes as: Hey! If You Whack the Claw With the Hammer, The Meat Will Fly Straight Out (And Into Your Eye!); The Tail Meat Is Kind Of Easy to Get At, But Isn't the Tastiest; and the perennial favorite, Lobster Shell Shrapnel and Its Hilarious/Horrifying Vicissitudes, we managed to get quite a respectable amount of meat into the bowl.

After that point, we had simply to add the celery, parsley, and vinaigrette in the recipe, load up some garlic-buttered rolls with the resulting salad, pour some Belgian farmer beer and...



... die of happiness.

You guys. This recipe. Is baller. Nothing unnecessary; the lemon juice & olive oil vinaigrette really lets the delicate lobster flavor sit comfortably at the front & center. I had wondered if the garlic butter on the toasted rolls would be too much, but since ours had had a good long time to soak into the bread and get toasty in the oven, it was all quite nicely balanced.

If it was possible to make this scene any better, I think we managed to do it. Because there was blueberry pie for dessert. Glee!

With our eyes closed, we beamed and stretched our necks and legs with pure joy at the evening's many victories. Maybe it was the hours we had spent worrying about these bugs and the ramifications our actions upon them might have on our eternal souls. Maybe it was the Beach Boys playing in the living room. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was that our plan, hatched back when the season was way more new than it was old, had come into being at the peak of the summer and that, finally, sitting around in saltwater-stained playclothes with tired, happy grins on our faces and sunburns on our collarbones, it all tasted so, so good.