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Either way, the floor gets sticky
GW and I had big plans for cookie making today. Plans that only one of us was excited about. The other one of us (guess who) didn’t want to. Didn’t want the mess. Didn’t want the effort. Just wasn’t in the mood.
But a promise is a promise, so we started gathering ingredients. And then, someone (guess who this time) accidentally overturned a canister containing at least three pounds of sugar. All over the floor.
Hello mess.
Hello effort.
Goodbye cookie making today.
Know what? I was secretly glad.
I guess I really wasn’t in the cookie mood.
We have rescheduled for tomorrow. In the meantime, please enjoy this repost from last year. I’m hoping it will help me find my cookie mojo.
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Cookies, Camels and Newborn Kings
GW and I have been making a mess of my kitchen Christmas cookies to deliver to friends and neighbors.
I collect nativity scenes, so I couldn’t pass up this set of cookie cutters. However, I do feel a bit conflicted about eating the baby Jesus. Mmm… sweet salvation.
Yes, my gingerbread boy is a bit pale. It’s because he’s going into shock from his badly broken arm. Perhaps the newborn king can help. GW made that one, and it’s not who you might think it is.
This newborn king is baby Elvis in a manger.
The King? Get it?
Is something wrong with me if I find that uproariously funny? Because I do.
Here he is again, visiting all the other broken cookies. In the fog. Where’s Rudolf when you need him?
Oh well. Perhaps a concert will cheer up those poor broken souls…
I’ll have a bluuuuue Christmas without you,
I’ll be so bluuuuue just thinkin’ about you…
Speaking of blue, have a gander at this little fella:
Nothing says Christmas like a blue camel.
I’ll have a bluuuuue camel…
Here’s hoping your Christmas season is full of baby Elvis’ (Elvi?), blue camels and time with those you love.
But most especially, I hope your heart is filled with the spirit of Christ, whose birth we celebrate this time of year.
Because mine sure is.
With love,
Heidi
In which the turkey was ruined. Twice.
I have cooked Thanksgiving dinner for my family and the occasional friend nearly every year for the last 14 years. There have been only four exceptions: two fun years when we were vacationing over the holiday and two depressing years where I decided that a restaurant might be a nice change. For the record, it was not.
In addition to the 10 Thanksgiving turkeys, I have frequently prepared a Christmas turkey. Over the years, I have honed my technique, from oven roasting to smoking on the grill. Without exception, they have all turned out beautifully. For a woman still in my early thirties I have impressive turkey credentials.
I tell you these things, not to boast, but to prove that I am no turkey rookie; I am experienced.
Which is why yesterday’s disaster is so funny.
This turkey’s story did not begin on Tuesday, but that is the day it came into my life. That is the day when it was lovingly placed into my arms by our local butcher. It was just as I had imagined when I ordered it: Ten to twelve pounds. Natural, no additives. Fresh, not frozen.
I brought the bird home and placed it on its own specially cleared shelf in my refrigerator. Then I got busy preparing a brine. I use a concoction of my own invention (salt, apple-cider, whole allspice, whole peppercorns) placed in a cooler lined with a large browning bag. After immersing the bird in its lovely bath, I tied the bag closed and filled the cooler with ice. Before closing the lid, I taped a thermometer to the interior cooler wall, thus enabling me to monitor the temperature and keep the nasties at bay. No one is getting salmonella on my watch. That’s a promise.
The next day and a half were quiet for the turkey, but busy for me. My lovely assistant, nine year old GW, and I busily prepped all of the recipes in my repertoire and created a lovely edible centerpiece – more on that to come. Meanwhile, my other lovely assistant – my husband, cleaned and prepared the grill.
Finally the big day came. I lifted the turkey from the brine and gently patted it dry. Tenderly, I massaged a mixture of melted butter and olive oil into its skin. Parsley, fresh from my garden and a specially prepared poultry spice rub were then liberally applied. It was ready for the grill.
I decided on three hours of smoking with an occasional spritz of apple cider to caramelize the skin. Then I turned up the heat and watched for the meat thermometer to reach exactly 178°. I pulled it out, knowing that the temperature would climb to a safe 180° while the turkey rested.
After resting for 15 minutes, the bird was transferred to its place of glory. Our family gathered around and gave thanks. A hush fell over the room and my husband took up his carving knife.
Reverently, he made the first cut for our daughter – white meat, please. Only…it wasn’t exactly white. It was a sort of translucent pink color. And a bit…jiggly.
The whole family stared first at that bit of meat and then at each other.
Raw.
The turkey is still raw.
Everything else is ready. We’re starving. And the turkey is raw.
This has never happened before.
I shouldn’t be happening now. The thermometer said 178°!
Raw?
What do we do?
I was the first to recover my senses and I instructed my husband to slice off a few small portions. Those would go in the microwave for a few minutes to finish the cooking process. The rest of the turkey was returned to the grill.
We began our meal as I kept an ear out for the microwave ding. Once the turkey was deemed to be fit for human consumption, I passed the plate around. There was enough for each of us to have one small slice, but there were so many side dishes that a small slice really was plenty. And even with the microwaving, the turkey was juicy and flavorful.
We quickly forgot about the meal’s rocky start and settled in to enjoy ourselves. GW had the idea that we go around the table and each person share something he or she is grateful for starting with the letters of the alphabet.
She started with A – apples.
I was next. B – books
And so on…
My husband got T. He did not say turkey. We had forgotten all about it.
I wasn’t until two hours later when I was contemplating all of these…
…that I remembered. I asked my husband, “Honey, where’s the turkey?”
Crap.
And that is the story of how I managed to both under-cook and utterly burn the turkey. In the same year.
All that work, down the drain.
But I didn’t really mind. After all those years of great turkeys, I think I was due for an epic fail.
Besides, I don’t even like turkey all that much.
How Embarrassing!
I’m kind of a freak about holiday decorations. I have strict internal guidelines about how long before the holiday they can be put up and how quickly they must be put away. No Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving or after the first Saturday in January.
No Halloween decorations past the first Saturday in November.
This goes for blog posts too, you know.
But I kind of…sort of…forgot. Sorry.
That Halloween post has been up a loooong time.
I should post something good, but Castle is on…
So, here ya’ go:
And a tip: try adding dried cranberries, sliced green apples, crumbled browned sausage, walnuts, and water chestnuts to your standard stuffing recipe. Yum!
Disclaimer: My freakishness is mine. If you have your tree up now, I won’t judge. But if you are still turning on your Christmas lights in February, I might look at you funny. And if they are still on in March, you will be the subject of conversation at my dinner table.
The Magical Fruit
I had the opportunity to glean a farmer’s bean field yesterday and am now up to my elbows in fresh, green loveliness. I’ll be back Monday.
Sweet
Earlier this week we celebrated W’s birthday. GW and I were torn as to whether we should make him cookies or cupcakes.
So we made both.
I give you the Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-Filled Cupcake.
Recipe found on allrecipes.com.
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 (18.25 ounce) box yellow cake mix
1 1/3 cups water
1/3 cup canola oil
3 eggsDirections
1. Whisk together the flour, baking soda, and sea salt; set aside. Beat the butter, white sugar, and brown sugar with an electric mixer in a large bowl until smooth. Add 1 egg and the vanilla extract and beat until smooth. Mix in the flour mixture until just incorporated. Fold in the chocolate chips; mixing just enough to evenly combine. Form the dough into tablespoon-sized balls; place onto a baking sheet, and freeze until solid, about 2 hours. Very important! If you don’t freeze the cookie dough it will bake too fast and dry out.
2. Preheat an oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Line 24 muffin cups with paper liners.
3. Beat 3 eggs in a large bowl with an electric mixer to break up. Add the cake mix, water, and canola oil; continue beating for 2 minutes on medium speed. Spoon into the prepared cupcake liners, filling each 2/3 full. Place a frozen cookie dough ball on the top center of each cupcake.
4. Bake in the preheated oven until a toothpick inserted into the cake portion of the cupcake (not the cookie dough ball) comes clean, about 16 minutes. Cool in the pans for 10 minutes before removing to cool completely on a wire rack.
Though we made our cookie dough from scratch, you could use pre-made to cut down on time. Just don’t forget to freeze it. We topped our cupcakes with some freshly whipped, sweetened cream and chocolate sprinkles.
The birthday boy was suitably impressed.
Confidential aside to W: Thanks for being born so we could celebrate your day. That was very thoughtful of you. Please do not take the pink candle as an affront to your manliness. It was all we had in the cupboard. We love you so much!
Like Private Island Good…
I have been making homemade yogurt for a few months now and I can’t even describe how lovely it is. It is mild and creamy and just plain wonderful. And when I mix in a spoonful of our strawberry freezer jam…well, you know those yoplait “that good” commercials? This is way better.
One of these days I’ll get around to posting my recipe, but today I thought I’d share something a bit easier. You see, all my yogurt success has inspired me to branch out and try making other dairy products at home.
This week’s experiment?
Sour cream.
I found an easy, albeit a bit confusing, recipe here.
The recipe lists the following for ingredients:
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup sour cream or buttermilk (or even white vinegar will work)
I decided to make two batches side by side, one made with sour cream, the other with vinegar to see how they would compare.
But I was confused by the “even white vinegar will work” part of the recipe. Should I use 1/4 white vinegar or just a few tablespoons? I went with the full 1/4 cup, just to see.
The recipe says to put your ingredients in a jar, cap it, and shake. Then you let it sit at room temperature “for about 24 hours or until it becomes very thick.”
I know, several of you are saying “ewww!” right now, but really, what did you think sour cream was? It is cream that has, um, soured a bit. But not in a make-you-sick sort of way. More of a wow-soured-cream-is-really-good-please-pass-the-enchiladas kind of way.
Anyway, I checked my jars at 24-ish hours. The one made with vinegar was a bit thicker than the one made with sour cream, but neither was anywhere near the right consistency.
I tasted them. The one made with sour cream tasted a bit like sour cream, but bland. The one made with vinegar tasted far too vinegary. I continued to let them sit.
After about 40 hours the vinegar one was set up nicely, but still too vinegary tasting. The sour cream one was still quite soupy and still pretty mild, so I mixed them together and shook the jar for a bit to thicken things up.
Eureka! It worked! Homemade sour cream!
Note to self: Next time just use a few tablespoons of vinegar.
The texture is far more creamy and thick than the store bought variety, more like a dense whipped cream. It still tasted a bit more vinegary that the stuff at the store, but it was subtle. We spooned some over cherry-filled crepes and it was really good.
Shoe shopping good.
I’d like to thank the academy good.
It was that good.
*****
Linked at Tasty Tuesday and Works for me Wednesday.
Unfinished Business
I’m what might be referred to as a “sporadic” blogger. I’m in my first year of homeschooling and spending the bulk of my time figuring out how to do it successfully without hurting anyone. That has left me with less time for blogging than I’d like. Sometimes, something will happen and I’ll have a post all written in my head but I get busy with field trips, reading aloud and carry-the-one. Before I know it, too much time has passed and the post has gone stale. Still, there are some things that one or two of you might be wondering about. This post is for you.
GW loves her chef hat and apron. You know how they say, “The clothes make the man”? In this case, the clothes are making the chef. She is becoming quite the little baker, even learning to make some things without much help from me. [Can I get a whoot-whoot!?]
If you’d like to sew a chef hat, you can find the free pattern on You Can Make This.
Next item of business, some of you have asked about my meat baby ovarian cyst. (Mr. Frantic has politely asked me to stop making him vomit by using that little term of endearment.)
I’m happy to say the crazy-making pills, aka: birth control, worked. On my second pelvic ultrasound, the technician saw this image:
Good-bye Mea- um, Cystie.
Hmm… this is oddly cathartic. What other bits of unfinished business can I tidy up? How about 100 Stories About Me? I have decided to discontinue this feature. Every single post on this site is a story about me. This post here will be number 236. I don’t think I need to say more.
Did I just say I didn’t need to say more? Then why am I still here?
I do need to say more. A lot more. Just not about that.
One of the things that I need to/want to/promised I would say more about is how Mr. Frantic and I met and fell in love. I could just say:
We met at a church dance and were married six months later.
But where’s the fun in that?
You wouldn’t get to hear about the way he stole me from his friend. Or about the way he asked me, ever so sweetly, if I would be his girlfriend and then proposed only three weeks later. And what in tarnation the family dog running around the neighborhood (while wearing pair of my underwear!) had to do with any of this.
That is a story the internet needs to hear, my friends. And it will, Valentine’s week. I commit to you, dear readers (hi Mom!) that I will tell all between February 11-13th.
I’ll try to make it worth the wait.
Whew…I feel so much better. Like a great weigh has been lifted. If I left anything out, just drop a question in the comments. I’ll answer it right away soon sometime.
Cookies, Camels and Newborn Kings
There seems to be a disturbing pattern emerging here at Frantically Simple.
post…post…post…long absence…excuses…post…post… You get the idea.
Well, I’m putting an end to it. You don’t need to hear any more excuses. I’m busy, you’re busy – it’s December, for crying out loud.
In other news, GW and I have been making a mess of my kitchen Christmas cookies to deliver to friends and neighbors.
I collect nativity scenes, so I couldn’t pass up this set of cookie cutters. However, I do feel a bit conflicted about eating the baby Jesus. Mmm… sweet salvation.
Yes, my gingerbread boy is a bit pale. It’s because he’s going into shock from his badly broken arm. Perhaps the newborn king can help. GW made that one, and it’s not who you might think it is.
This newborn king is baby Elvis in a manger.
The King? Get it?
Is something wrong with me if I find that uproariously funny? Because I do.
Here he is again, visiting all the other broken cookies. In the fog. Where’s Rudolf when you need him?
Oh well. Perhaps a concert will cheer up those poor broken souls…
I’ll have a bluuuuue Christmas without you,
I’ll be so bluuuuue just thinkin’ about you…
Speaking of blue, have a gander at this little fella:
Nothing says Christmas like a blue camel.
I’ll have a bluuuuue camel…
Here’s hoping your Christmas season is full of baby Elvis’ (Elvi?), blue camels and time with those you love.
But most especially, I hope your heart is filled with the spirit of Christ, whose birth we celebrate this time of year.
Because mine sure is.
With love,
Mama’s Kitchen
My mom is not a good cook.
Growing up, a typical family meal (or should I say the typical family meal, since it was served at least twice a week?) consisted of a shriveled baked potato, burned-to-a-crisp hamburger patty, canned green beans and white bread with margarine.
Oh yes, and milk gravy for the potato.
Never heard of it? Lucky you. Here’s the recipe. Basically, you add milk and flour to your hamburger grease and boil until thick.
To drink, we had Kool-Aid, usually cherry, in plastic tupperware glasses that always felt a little slick from years of washing in the same sink as the milk-gravy pan.
Good times.
Also included in my mom’s recipe repertoire were such favorites as:
Hamburger Casserole – all the basic ingredients of the typical dinner but with added cream of mushroom soup and cheddar cheese
Hamburger Tomato Soup – home canned tomato soup with hamburger and elbow macaroni
Mock Fried Rice – white Minute Rice with crumbled hamburger, onion and tomato.
Raise your hand if you are sensing a theme.
She also made what she called Tuna Fish Rarebit – creamed tuna on toast. Gag.
(On the other hand, her cinnamon rolls were excellent and I’ve never been able to duplicate her yummy pie crust.)
She did not have The Joy of Cooking. I’m talking about both the cookbook and the emotion. My mom had just had too many years of what-am-I-going-to-make-for-dinner-tonight-with-hardly-any-money-too-many-kids-and-a-meat-and-potatoes-man-to-feed. Cleaning the bathroom was less drudgery to her. But, thanks to her efforts we never went hungry.
Unless we chose to.
Twelve years ago, on my first Thanksgiving as a bonafide grown-up married lady I offered to cook the entire meal. Because I wanted to enjoy eating it.
I hadn’t really learned how to cook at home, but I wasn’t worried. I knew I could follow a recipe and had some natural aptitude.
And everyone’s standards were really low.
The meal turned out pretty well and a new tradition was born. For the next three years, I prepared the feast in our tiny apartment kitchen and transported to either my parent’s or my in-law’s, whichever set of parents we were spending the holiday with. When we bought our first house, we began inviting both sets of parents to eat with us.
My mom was always the most unintentional entertaining guest. One year she wore a blonde wig she had found at a garage sale. She declared that it made her feel bea-u-ti-ful! It might have looked fine if it wasn’t on sideways…
And so our holiday went for the first nine years of our married life. I loved bustling around the kitchen, listening to the parade on tv, and bossing Mr. Frantic around. I love preparing a big meal and sharing it with my family.
But then we moved 3000 miles away. And I felt like Thanksgiving was a bit depressing without extra people to cook for. So for the next three years, I didn’t cook.
One year we went to a hotel restaurant and felt like losers. Most of the people there were with large extended families. They sat at large tables in the center of the dining room. Scattered about the edge of the room were medium sized tables with families of five or six people. Then, wedged in by the kitchen doors or way over by the bathrooms were a few small tables for our family of three and one or two old people dining alone. I was tempted to ask those lone diners to join us and pretend to be our family, but then we’d have to move to a bigger table. And they were all full of happy shiny people.
The other two years we went on vacation. And we ate at restaurants, but we were surrounded by other vacationers, several of whom were probably escaping their extended family gatherings, so our little family didn’t seem so pathetic, pitiable, unloved, unusual. It was actually fun.
This year, we are back home in Oregon and I am really looking forward to cooking the big meal. GW is excited to help; she wants to learn to be a really good “cooker”.
I’m trying to pass on what I know, but she’ll need to ask grandma for help with pie crust.
And milk gravy.
Apples Redux
I thought I was done with all my food preservation this year, but circumstances were out of my hands.
Really.
Take one of the last days of sunshine Oregon is likely to see for the next five months. Add in the irresistible allure of ripe, juicy apples. Season it all with the beautiful phrase “35 cents per pound” and, at no fault of my own, I end up with more apples.
One-hundred-and-one pounds of more apples.
So I donned my lovely apple apron
and got to work.
Today’s apple delicacy?
Dehydrated apple rings!
I love dehydrated apples. They are wonderful on oatmeal or in salads (make a simple olive oil and apple-cider vinegar dressing), if they last that long. We usually end up eating the whole lot before I can do anything else with them.
And just check out that funky-cool dehydrator. Don’t you just love the screens? They look like little window frames.
When I heard that an acquaintance from church was giving this baby away, I jumped in my car and drove right over. I had been searching for a good used dehydrator for awhile.
I tried to borrow my mom’s, but she told me that she had thrown it away. Apparently, she had loaned to someone else and it came back reeking of marijuana. And the smell wouldn’t come out. (Did I mention that we live in Oregon?) She did the right thing; my mom is nutty enough without throwing in some freaky kind of olfactory contact-high.
But back to my dehydrator. It looks old but it works great. And smells pretty good too. And it churns out a gallon-sized ziploc of apples per batch.
Tomorrow I’m making apple sauce and apple pie filling.
I’d ask my mom for canning jars, but…I’m too afraid.
Once upon a time there was a Heidi…
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